Some limits
My planned time in the wilderness has come to a close. The actual plan came to a close on the morning of the third day. When I told my Dad, as we were still in high spirits that first day, that I was interested in finding out what my body was capable of, I didn’t expect to meet its limits quite so soon. The surprising thing is that where I found one edge – a hard limit on the miles my legs (and shoulders) could walk with the weight of a beginners pack in very hot conditions and poor water availability – I soon came to know how small a fraction that represented of the capacities of my body. I glimpsed other edges, though did not come so close to them. Some of our internal horizons are vast indeed.
The limit with sheep.
The Pennine Way, and much of Yorkshire, Northumberland and Derbyshire, is strewn with sheep. The range of their bleetings is incredible – a veritable grab-bag of sheep dialects, some of which sound like the precursor to a hurl, but thankfully I didn’t witness that. Sheep are such a feature of the Pennine Way that following the trail feels like an exercise in shit-walking or shit-dodging according to your preference and/or alertness. Sheep are largely tolerable. They tend not to come too close, though in the final outing, a couple of sheep got pretty friendly with a fellow walker and had a good sniff over him as he was sitting eating lunch. They don’t, however, have ‘off’ hours, so far as I can discern, and their stares, especially when erecting a tent, can be utterly unnerving. One morning I fell out of sleep to an approaching series of bleetings, followed by hoofs hitting stone, and as I was mulling over, in my befuddled state, how and what sheep can see, and whether guy ropes might trip them, I heard a bleet right by my ear and bolted out of the tent so fast that the band of marauders (sheep) started belting off up the stepped wall to reach the plateau of the hillock and continue their morning constitutional. They were not happy with me, but nor was I happy with them and the fear of being sheep-trampled really brought me to the edge of my delight with these strange creatures. That was all before 5am. The saving grace? Even in my sleepy state I was so riled that going back to sleep wasn’t an option and so instead, I got to watch the sun rise over Stoodley Pike.
The limit with people.
It will be no surprise to anyone that knows me well that I love walking on my own. In all those moments of being the solitary human visible for miles, the fact that I was alone didn’t occur to me. It was only as I crossed paths with other people – the vast majority of whom were accompanied – that I realised I was walking solo. The appetite for walking at my own pace, stopping when I like, communing with the birds and beasts, and trusting to my legs continues to be a deep well I can’t imagine the bottom of.
Though I quickly came to terms with the three week journey looking very different to what I had planned, I had a little trepidation about accounting for myself to other people. I needn’t have had any. Every person I met that I spoke to about being unable to through-hike to plan was kind, understanding and helpful – the more experienced they themselves were, the greater the normality of things not going to plan or being too heavy, too dry, too wet, too boggy, too far, too hot, poorly signed or otherwise eventful. Learning, it seemed, was the perpetual prize of trying. And many stories about mishaps were accompanied by a twinkle in the eye.
In one of my later walks – a spontaneous afternoon out to Gaddings Dam, the highest beach in England – I did, however, find some limit with people. It was a glorious day, perfect for the beach. It was not an arduous walk (I, however, did not realise there was a short way, and walked the long way in up some killer hills and through overgrown footpaths). The sky was tremendous. So, who can blame anyone for staying there until sunset? And really, was my not bringing a puffy because I thought I’d be cosily nestled in my sleeping bag by the time the temperature dropped their fault? I suffered that same chagrin of many people who have ‘a great idea’ and find that many other people also had the great idea. I know how it sounds and it’s true: I wanted that beach to myself.
The limit with beauty.
Spoiler alert: I found no limits here. What I found is a richness, an abundance of vitality and moments of such sublime beauty that as I experience them, I think they cannot be surpassed.
What is it about this trip that has delivered these moments so thick and fast?
The landscape itself has countless turns that are picturesque, but as a mountain range, the Pennines don’t win many awards for good looks – they are low and squat, and at times their ridges seem to dissect the sky like they were made with a ruler. The hilltops more often resemble the ocean horizon than they proffer undulating curves or jagged peaks. The time of year, too, is not the prettiest – my Mum dislikes painting in the summer because of the dominance of green. My favourite painting is Long Grass with Butterflies by van Gogh, so I’m not unmoved by green, and the variety of hues are simply extraordinary. We can safely say, though, that the beauty of the summer greens of England are a matter of scale. It pays to get in and up there and root around a bit.
I don’t think beauty is an inherent characteristic of the Pennine landscape, at least not in the sense of what is photogenic (and yet, I have over 700 photos to wade through). Besides, the feeling, when it arises, can scarcely be contained by vision. There is something deeper at work here.
The aesthetic that has beguiled me whilst out walking is a full body experience, one with emotional resonance. It reminds me of Lisa Hannigan’s words: “Your heart sings like a kettle and your words boil away like steam”. I’ve described the event of my final camping morning, as I zipped my tent into my rucksack, to many people and the words seem so pale. I can’t help but keep trying.
It is past 5am and I can’t light my stove in the stiff morning breeze, so I crunch on some dry granola and decide to get packed up. Amidst the sound of the bound-beating sheep and the incessant chirping of hungry chicks – both parties having had a nibble of my flattened tent to check its food-like qualities – I thought I heard human voices. A hangover from yet another dream of packing up my tent with another? No mirage, three figures crested the ridge and came down to the beach. The young man, Oscar, snuggled on a yoga mat under blankets to wrest back some of the sleep he had foregone to come on the adventure. His mother and her friend chatted amiably, making sure Oscar was comfortable. They undressed, reminding Oscar that they would be swimming for an hour. And then, as the friend started putting on her swimming costume, Oscar’s Mum waded out into the water. The sun hadn’t yet crested the ridge and the sky behind solemn windmills was rising pink to blue. The woman was in up to her knees, as still as the mills, concentric circles rippling out from her legs. She turned as I hoisted my pack and flashed a smile of the deepest knowing. She wished me a lovely day.
As I walked away, I thought of all the people I knew, trying to find a moment like that. How many of us are so comfortable and present in our bodies that we would be unabashed when unclothed in front of a stranger? That smiling and open self assurance laid atop that serene backdrop is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I wish that feeling upon everyone.
In this extraordinary moment, at the edge of my trip, I recognise my people. Not those for whom a slog up a hill in the heat to find a beautiful spot is a novelty, but those for whom it is a path. May we all gift ourselves a naked swim in the dawn light.