I’ve been thinking a lot about walking slowly over the summer. I was walking the Monarch’s way. I was walking in the Pindos mountains in Northern Greece (to the bottom of the Vikos Gorge, the steepest gorge in the world) and just walking daily around Dorset, Somerset, Bristol or Suffolk.
On one of these walks it occurred to me how this ambling around observing, thinking, poking my nose in places or talking to strangers has been a sort of subconscious escape from the stressors that seem to get in the way of me being the calm, happy person I once was. And now I realise it is more than that: it is a way of making myself better.
Thinking back, as a child I was always slow; always told to keep up: either lagging behind the group or daydreaming. As I’ve said before I used to infuriate teachers because I was so often absent – mentally – preoccupied with important stuff like how light changes the appearance of leaves whilst I was supposed to learning about Pi or pronouncing ‘comment allez vous’.
And now I realise that when I was teaching – for the last fifteen years – I was always trying to keep up. There is always something to do next in teaching. When one thing is completed three more will spring up that need doing like now or in the near future. Any teacher can you tell this. And there are so many unknowns because you’re working with a group of teenagers who may or may not want to be in the room with you and have a huge variety of different characters and skills or needs. And of course this is what makes it one of the best jobs in the world but also stressful if – like me – you’re just a bit slow.
So I’ve been buzzing for years like a broken motor that won’t switch off. High on adrenaline most of the time, the fight or flight response kicking in regularly at work but then also regularly when not too.
So I’ve left teaching and I started a sleep improvement programme on September 7th. I can’t drink alcohol. I must do yoga and regular breathing exercises twice a day. I have to be strict with what I eat and not eat too late. I go to bed at the same time every night.
And I feel great. I feel normal. But normal is wonderful because now I realise I haven’t been feeling normal for years. I need to take it slowly. And the walking? Well it helps me slow down. It helps me not think ‘What next?’ ‘What about that thing I’ve got to remember to do?’ What have I forgotten?’ I’m not sure about the word mindful – it doesn’t seem to convey the right meaning for me – but that is what many people would say I m doing with my slow walking around the coast of south west England or along the paths where Charles II once fled or just wandering through woods or gazing up at the carved roofs or the vividly coloured windows of churches. Or being in the sea. It’s a form of waking dreaming and it’s helping me get the old me back again.
I have gone round St Ives Head and walking past the beach bar near Bamaluz Point I hear a man on a microphone say in a rousing voice “ladies and gentlemen please be upstanding for the bride and groom” and see them walking in from the outside into the function room above the day glow rugby balls and footballs and ice cream ads while the applause echoes within.
I turn into a little lane and realise I’m in Downalong. Cobbled streets wind between old grey stone buildings which appear like they have stood unchanged for years. This is where many of the oldest houses in St Ives are.
I imagine how it would have been after the war when Robert used to stay here or before that when Alfred Wallis painted his flat houses and boats at Porthmeor.
St Ives is still buzzing even though the summer holidays have ended. A family make sand castles on the beach. Dogs frolick in the sand. The pubs and seafood bars are full. Bunting and the black and white flag Kernow flap in front of the beach restaurant
I pass through the bustle of holidaymakers enjoying the feeling of people around me but also looking forward to the solitude that I know will return soon once I leave the town.
I’m following the road that hugs the coast as St Ives creeps around the cliff edge. A half light appears over Smeaton’s Pier which catches the jade of the sea beyond the sea wall. I pass the vast expanse of sand that is Porthminster Beach and see one family bouncing up and down in the shallow water, screaming and whooping.
It’s approaching 8pm and it’s getting dark but I’m unphazed. I started a bit late and then helped Robert find his way home but time doesn’t matter – I have a sense that I could just carry on walking until my head starts to nod. In the twilight, as my senses adjust to the dark blanket being lowered over everything, there is a greater sense of being part of the near world as sight doesn’t become the primary sense being used. It seems to induce a sense of calm in me and for almost an hour I am walking without expectation or a sense of what lies ahead – only intent on putting one foot in front of the other.
The winding coast path is followed by the railway here that snakes its way around the coat like a toy train hooting and flashing cheerfully as it passes me by.
At about 8.45 I start descending the path into Carbis Bay which seems to be one big resort of various rather cosy looking chalets or that is how it appears from the path.
After the Carbis Bay resort the path gets lower and lower and I can make out the reflection of wet sand on the beach. I can hear water dripping from the cliffs onto the beach. Is this somewhere I could sleep? I’ve learnt there are two main factors for me to consider when sleeping out. A flat surface and being sheltered from the wind. Carbis Bay beach tonight seems to have both. I can see the lights of St Ives harbour reaching round to Bamaluz Point just west of due north where I passed the wedding earlier. If I sailed due north from here I would pass St David’s Head to the east visible from my little bark and end up in Wicklow south of Dublin.
I am cosy in my sleeping bag and out of the wind and as I drift off into the mini voyage of night time reverie I am aware of an ancient repetitive voice like an elongated out breath. It is the sea hushing me to sleep.
The Slow Walker 