In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks. ~ John Muir

“I’ve come up to ask you to go for one of our old-time rambles…” L.M. Montgomery

We are walkers, my husband and I. There are few things we’d rather do on a free weekend than throw a picnic lunch in a rucksack and strike out on foot through forest and field. You might say that makes us both a cheap date. Be that as it may, the times we spend together walking in both companionable silence and deep conversation have been some of the happiest we’ve spent together.

Although most of our dating years were spent separated by thousands of miles, during those times we spent together my most vivid memories are of the walks we took.  I wanted to share with him some of my favourite places, wild, scenic places beloved since childhood. And so together we hiked to the top of Cape Perpetua on the Oregon Coast. The trail was springy with pine and fir needles and climbed up, up, up until we emerged at the highest point on the entire coast. The view was spectacular and we sat peacefully on a bench in the sunshine, munching our snacks and talking. On another visit we hiked through Silver Falls State Park and stood in a recess behind a waterfall. The power of all that water thundering down from above us, the mist spraying on our faces, was awe inspiring. We grinned at each other and laughed in joy and amazement at the wonder of it. And I’m afraid my future husband heard me say a word I ought not have said the time we were hiking up Badger Mountain and I nearly stepped on a snake.

Ah yes, these are the things that memories are made of.

Now that I’m finally living in the UK it has been my husband’s turn to share with me some of his favourite walks and to see again with fresh eyes the beauty of this island nation we call home.

Walking in the UK – and by walking I mean getting off the pavement and striking out across open countryside – is much easier than it is back in the US. Over here we have public footpaths which give us right of way even through private property. There are 117,000 miles of rights of way in England, and another 20,000 miles in Wales. That’s a lot of walking trails – and no bears to worry about.

These trails are mapped out in incredible detail in Ordnance Survey maps, which take sections of the country down to a scale of 2 ½ inches to the mile or less. They show every pathway, every bridleway, every copse, every fence line, and every rise in elevation, every farmhouse and outbuilding, and every stream. The exactness of these maps is fascinating. My husband has an entire shelf on one of our bookcases devoted to these maps, which come with a laminated orange cover and are all numbered to correspond to a grid map of the country.

Every time we begin to make plans to take a walk my husband gets out the Ordnance Survey map for that area and studies it carefully, choosing the best route to take and estimating the amount of time we’ll need to cover as much distance as possible. I also think he tries to figure out how to make the walk uphill both directions, but he’d never admit to that.

While he is muttering to himself over the map I’ll take myself off to the kitchen and begin preparing our picnic. My ancestors came across the plains from Nebraska to Oregon in a covered wagon, and so if there is one thing we know how to do well in my family it’s plan food for a journey. Sandwiches, cookies, sliced apples, nuts; all get sealed into handy little baggies and stowed away in my husband’s rucksack. A thermos of hot tea and our bottles of water complete the necessary provisions.

(We would call it a backpack in the States, but over here it’s called a rucksack. At least, that’s what my husband calls it. Perhaps that’s just him.)

Sometimes we will stay close to home, walking from our front door in the village and down the road to where the footpath begins. Other times we will drive to a trail head to explore farther afield. Either way, we are always rewarded by a beautiful ramble and a chance to decompress from the stresses of modern life. To strike out on foot, leaving electronic devices behind, and to listen to the birds calling, the wind rustling the trees, the sheep bleating, is to reconnect with each other and with our thoughts in a way we cannot with all the distractions that so easily overwhelm us. Walking slows us down. It opens our eyes to things we would never see when speeding by in a car.

This past summer in the UK was a great one for butterflies and moths. They seemed to be everywhere you looked.  There is something about a butterfly pausing in its dancing flight to perch on a flower that makes you pause as well. Holding your breath, you stand perfectly still, trying so hard not to disturb it. For that moment you are a child again, feeling the innocence and wonder at nature’s beauty as if for the first time. When it does flutter away you feel as if you’ve been given a gift.

Other delights beckon on the pathways, hidden away from view to all except travelers on foot. The blackberries were late coming on due to a cold spring, but when they finally did they were bountiful. One day in late summer we stumbled across a huge berry patch in a high, overgrown pasture. They were the biggest, juiciest blackberries I’ve ever tasted, warmed by the sun and bursting in our mouths. It was like discovering a lost treasure, and we’ve since kept the location of those best-ever berries a closely guarded secret. Next blackberry season we shall return, loaded with buckets and pails for a picking spree.

There are dangers, too, lest you think it’s all just tippy-toeing through the daisies. We don’t have to worry about bears here, but I’d almost rather worry about an unseen bear than come across a sign on a fence that says, “Bull in Field”. Invariably it is a field we have to cross or face miles and miles of back tracking and circling around. My husband will eye the field, gauge how far away the cows are, gauge how far away the bull is, and if he decides that the bull looks happy and content we’ll make our careful way through, keeping close to the fence line in case of a sudden change in the bull’s outlook on life and interlopers in his pasture. I’m not sure if my husband is aware of the fact that I always keep him between me and the bull, but I figure it’s the manly thing for him to sacrifice himself for me, isn’t it?

One of my favourite things about the public pathways is stiles. A stile, by simple definition, is an arrangement of steps to allow people but not animals to climb over a fence or wall. For one thing I just love climbing on stuff, so something designed for the purpose is naturally going to appeal. For another, they come in such a vast variety as to be endlessly interesting – at least to my easily amused mind.

There are plain wooden stiles with a cross plank at the bottom to allow you to hike your leg over a fence. There are fancy stone ones. There are even stiles with doggie doors built in. One especially mean stile had a length of barbed wire stretched across the top. On well-maintained paths they are solid and sturdy. On the paths less traveled upon they can be broken down and wobbly, with blackberry brambles overgrowing them and snagging your skin and clothes when you try to cross. Whatever variety they might be, I always find myself thinking, “Oh goodie, we get to cross a stile” whenever I see one intersecting the path we are taking.

Yes, I’m very easily entertained.

Another thing about walking in the UK is that most walks here seem to end at a pub, or happen upon one at the halfway point. I’m not sure if that is planning on my husband’s part, or if it’s just that you’re never very far from a pub over here. After walking four or five miles it’s always nice to be able to sit down for a “medicinal” beverage, as my husband calls it. Many of the pubs will allow you to bring your dog inside with you as long as he sits quietly underneath your table. It’s interesting to sit and listen to the locals drinking and chatting with each other and the barkeeper. In some of the smaller villages they will eye us, strangers, like visitors from a faraway land rather than just down the road.

One hot day last summer my husband and I rested in a small, ancient pub in the village of Clyffe Pypard. At an adjacent table sat an elderly gentleman wearing, of all things, a tweed jacket. He kept leaning over and asking us random, but friendly questions. Were we out walking today? Were we going to take a look at the white horse? It was a hot day, wasn’t it? I felt as though I’d stepped into a scene from All Creatures Great and Small. It was utterly charming.

Yes, sometimes the mud is incredibly slippery and deep, and yes, sometimes it’s cold and wet, or hot and muggy, but hurtling down the motorway and stopping at the Costa Coffee at the roadside services never gives you this up close and personal look at the people and scenery that make up this wonderful country.

My husband and I are planning a trip to Wales later in the year. Already he has bought the Ordnance Survey map for Snowdon and the Conwy Valley and planned out several long walks for us to take. I’m thinking some nice chunks of Cheddar, some crisp juicy apples, some turkey sandwiches, and a thermos of Chai tea will be just the ticket.

I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read and all the friends I want to see. ~ John Burroughs