Felt a bit strange today. Woke up early in a lovely dream state and lay in bed listening to nothing but the low hum of the wind and the infrequent clicking of rain drops blown against the window panes.
So excited to escape the city even if it’s just to the perimeter. There’s something dystopian about it all. And these are dream days. Days to dream when there’s nothing else to do.
I park at the Shell garage on the A38 and as always smile at the return to the point that I left at last weekend.
The path leaves the road and starts heading straight up the slopes towards Dundry, every step the man made noise and images retreating. It’s really muddy. Slop. Slop. Gurgling, rushing sounds each time I put my foot down.
Immediately I’m lost in the moment. Thoughts expanding, the surroundings a backdrop to my inner voice much louder going over events, messages, decisions, some things weighing heavy on me but I knowing it’s my own voice, own mind that assumes stuff that is probably wrong. Think of nothing. It works.
Walking uphill is a great way to focus the mind. Get into the groove and focus on steps and breaths. Water is everywhere. Trickling, bubbling, overflowing – little streams running everywhere following the rules of gravity.
What is it that’s so soothing about running water? There’s so something so playful about it it’s almost by design.
I reach Dundry quickly. It easily has the best views of Bristol and I sit on top of the cairn and eat sandwiches feeling smug as I look at Clifton, my home, the bridge, observatory, then move slowly left to the Severn Bridge, from here just next to its smaller more beautiful counterpart, then the steam coming from Avonmouth and dramatically the channel and the hills of Wales in the background.
The ridge seems simple. I climbed up. I’m on it looking along it for a few minutes. Then I’m coming down the other side, a whole new landscape appearing. The city had disappeared and the Mendips are laid out before me with the 2 big lakes of Chew Valley Lake and Blagdon Lake, sitting mid distance my view looking left to right as I head South.
A young farmer belts past me in an Isuzu 4×4 opening the gate and then shouting at me
‘you all right to shut that?!’
I raise a gloved thumb and thank him. Good to have some communication. As quickly as I came up I come down to Winford. More stiles, rain-soaked ground and slish sloshing and slipping along until I reach a strange structure. Is it a water pipe? It’s clearly old, judging by the brickwork holding it up.
Across one meadow and I reach Winford church, like many churches enlivened by an ever rotating crowd of jackdaws noisily fuss around the time, flying, circling, landing and constantly chattering.
This is where I leave the path for now..
The Slow Walker 