Things are looking brighter now. Spring is here. Lilac is in flower. We have moved house. There are polished floors, central heating and a dishwasher. My specialist speaks of 'cure'. And I even have a new publication in lit-mag Island.
|Cover of the latest issue of Island, |
featuring sketch by Max Angus
The Life on Foot was written with a tired heart, on the cusp of being diagnosed, and edited with a foggy brain and a resting pulse of 130. It's about my love of walking, but also about doing the things you value while you still can.
We will leave no footprints on these hard suburban paths. No rambling, slogging tracks, kids lagging behind to pick dandelions. For all the years of trekking, I do not know what my footfalls look like. The flat, grey concrete is equally indifferent to heavy pregnant feet, rain-induced scampering, and the brisk march through fog on three-degree mornings. To walk is to let go of easy symbols of permanence. Instead, walking has left its subtle marks elsewhere: most obviously, on my body, in clicking knees and tricky hips, traces left in memory, and in my mind as a stoic, allweather walker.