The Wild Rover_ A Blistering Journey Along Britain_s Footpaths - Mike Parker [71]
Perhaps though, it only leads to another kind of madness, one in which the perfection of nature only sharpens in relief the dreary mess that we tend to make of it. All I can tell you is the answer that came as I put flowers on John Clare’s grave in Helpston churchyard. They were a gorgeous bunch of pungent Sweet Williams, a pound in the honesty box – well, honesty Asda bag – at the farm opposite his birthplace. It seemed thrillingly appropriate, for William was the name of his penultimate son; William Parker, in fact, for Parker was John’s father’s first name and grandfather’s surname. I smiled at a small link cemented, for William Parker was my grandfather’s name too, a man I knew only briefly. Another twinge of loss fluttered by.
Clare’s grave is a low slab of local stone, with his details on one side and a defiant motto on the other. Only, the final letter of the sentence, an ‘E’, temporarily disappeared from my sight – and indeed, lichen seems to be doing its best quietly to obliterate it.
‘A POET IS BORN NOT MAD,’ it said.
Chapter 6
. . . NOW WALK THE WALK
The calm before the storm: Wainwright’s Coast to Coast path, at Ennerdale Water, Cumbria
Stuff. More Stuff than can possibly be good for you. Do I really need quite so much Stuff just to go for a walk? And does that Stuff really need to be quite so hi-tech, streamlined, lightweight, ergonomic, as-tested-by-NASA and so witheringly expensive? Ah yes, sir, you could compromise your safety, your health, your comfort and quite possibly YOUR LIFE by using some old crap from the Army & Navy store, but is it really worth the risk? Gosh, I never knew that a pair of socks could make that much difference.
But I fall for it, hook, line and very costly sinker. Of course I do. I’ll sit through an advert break on the television and shout abuse at the stupid bints who are prepared to pay 60 quid for a tub of cream because it’s rammed full of made-up science as demonstrated by jiggly graphics, but now I’m standing in the outdoor shop, wallet prised open ready to be raped, and I’m willing myself to believe the exact same guff about rucksacks, bivvy bags, waterproofs, tents, camping mats, cookers, fleeces, trousers, T-shirts, boots and whatever other exorbitantly priced nonsense they can persuade me to buy in the next hour.
Before setting out to walk the Ridgeway, I had an image of myself as a gentleman stroller of the old school, and that I was going to remain entirely aloof from the marketing mania that has now eaten the walking industry alive. There I’d be, soaking up the oldest path in the country in dubbined leather boots, cotton, linen, silk and tweed, a direct descendant, both spiritually and sartorially, of the tribes and travellers who had gone before. I’d sniff haughtily at the Gore-Tex-clad masses as they crinkled past, sounding like a thousand crisp packets being opened.
With some glee, I stumbled online across the manifesto of the Band of Historical Hillwalkers, which ‘advocates the exploration of the great outdoors wearing attire made by underpaid adult craftsmen in the United Kingdom, as opposed to fashion-wear made by underpaid children in the Pacific Rim’. My people! I was almost ready to sign up.
Tweed, wool and leather boots are worn in preference to inferior man-made materials. The BHHW considers velcro, gortex [sic] and other such imposters objectionable and the wearing thereof is politely discouraged.
Our mandate is to get outside, breath the air and engage with the world for a few moments. Along the way we make pinhole photographs or draw and paint the scenes before us, taking time to be present and amazed by the world. Whether hiking 15 miles or just strolling a few hundred yards onto a salt marsh the Historical Hillwalker pauses and interprets