14 February 2012
Crossing the border from Bavaria to Austria, I passed through forests so deep in snow that the trees looked like melted candles. Dense growths of icicles hung from the roadside crucifixions, and frosted pine branches had been placed at the bleeding feet of the Christs like offerings to a pagan forest god. It was so cold that after walking half an hour my beard and moustache had frozen into knotted clumps of ice, and the water in my bottle was a solid undrinkable block.
The Alps, I knew, lay somewhere to my right, but for the past three days they'd been hidden behind a white murk. I was starting to think I might never see them, but just as my mind formed that thought, I looked round and there they were. It seemed amazing that things so huge could have appeared silently, and even more amazing that I'd been walking in their shadow all week without being aware of that massive presence. Over the course of the next two days they seemed to merge in and out of existence, sharpening into perfect focus and suddenly disappearing again, as if trying to make up their minds whether or not to establish themselves in solid form. It was like some kind of vanished kingdom, taking and losing shape before my eyes.
I noticed that the people I met who live in or near these mountains have a habit of talking about them in almost human terms. They imbue them with moods and personalities. 'Sometimes we feel that the mountains decide to go away somewhere else for a day, as if they have a secret meeting place,' said the couple I stayed with in Traunstein. And I found myself thinking similar thoughts during the day I spent in Salzburg, where the mountains seem to crowd around the city at different times of day, as if trying to nuzzle their way in.
At this temperature, there is no soft ground. Tarmac has become my friend again – hard and flat being preferable to hard and bumpy. Ploughed fields and frozen molehills are particular perils for the ankles. My body has to work twice as hard crossing open stretches of snow. Step-sink, step-sink, the schoosh schoosh sound of dry powder, a new rhythm to walk to. Trying to avoid a major highway, I took a shortcut through a steep valley where the snow was surfaced with a frozen crust that collapsed when I took too heavy a step, sinking me knee-deep. I could only proceed with tiny bird-steps, concentrating on keeping my body as light as it could possibly be, but whenever my mind began to wander – even starting to hum an old tune – I would crash back through the crust. The task seemed impossible. I was hardly moving at all. Exhausted, I threw myself down in the snow to gnaw at my half-frozen sandwich and drink the last of my mostly-cold coffee. Sometimes giving up is the best strategy – suddenly, out of nowhere, appeared two riders on horses as hairy as dogs. I leapt up from my snow-hole, brushing the crumbs out of my ice-beard, gesticulating at them like some sort of desperate goblin. I asked for directions, and I think that if they had raised their eyebrows or expressed any surprise at that point I might have despaired entirely – but the purple-faced man in the fur hat merely pointed me on my way as if I was doing nothing particularly unusual. Perhaps because Austria is a country of wintery, outdoorsy people, where the mountains are never far away and activities such as mine are not as rare as they might be elsewhere.
From Frankenburg to Ried I walked through a region of deep forest, again going cross country to avoid a highway. I entered the woods up a track of pure ice – a stream must flow down here in the summer – and once the track and the ice had ended, no paths lay ahead. It was the first time on my journey – and I've been going for two months now – that I was walking without the benefit of a road, pavement, footpath, cycle-path, railway-path, hiking trail, track, dike, canal, river, stream, embankment, verge or the border of a field to keep me going straight. There was nothing but rocks and trees, jumbled and disordered.
Trackless forests are not easy going. It's extremely difficult to walk in a straight line – your eyes invent tempting trails to follow, which lead you in all kinds of wrong directions, and your legs automatically take you along the contours that suit them best, no matter how dogmatically your brain tries to keep them straight. I lost my orientation quickly. Everything looked the same.
A very different set of emotions took over in these woods. I felt a deep, fierce thrill to be in the wilderness at last, away from anything remotely human, but there was also an undercurrent of fear at the prospect of genuine aloneness. There was nothing and no-one to help me – all I could do was keep on going, and try to get out before dark.
After a couple of hours the trees thinned. Ahead was a clearing and telephone poles, half a dozen farmhouses scattered down a white hillside. I felt immediate relief at the sight of habitation – 'there are people there who speak a language!' – but also, with equal force, regret and disappointment. Suddenly the adventure had ended. Now I couldn't go wrong if I tried. The whole forest walk felt short-lived, its wildness just an illusion – it seemed totally absurd that I'd felt anything remotely like fear, with civilisation just over the next rise.
Most of our adventures, perhaps, are like this. Flirting with the wilderness but knowing you can't be part of it. Wanting to lose yourself inside it like you lost yourself in childhood stories, in imaginary realms – yet always fearing to go too far in, so far you might not get back.
But walking, I think, brings adventure closer. And in this winter, walking alone through a snow-covered landscape still seems like the greatest happiness I could know.
This article can also be seen on the blog for the Dark Mountain Project – a cultural movement for an age of global disruption.
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4 February 2012
All my long way down the Rhine Valley and through the hills of Baden-Württemburg, with the slow drumroll of the Alps approaching, I heard stories from other Germans about the Bavarians I would meet ahead. 'Bavarians are... different,' they said. 'They drink beer for breakfast,' they told me with expressions of disgust, 'and squeeze white sausages out of their skins like toothpaste.' Most of Germany, I heard, was happy enough with the German Red Cross – in Bavaria, they insisted on the Bavarian Red Cross. In the city of Ulm, where the Danube forms the dividing line between the two states, people jokingly referred to the rest of Germany as South Sweden – over the river lay North Italy.
My introduction to Bavaria came in a farmer's inn near Ulm. Gone were the dainty 0.1 litre beer glasses of Köln and Düsseldorf, gone were the green-stemmed wine glasses of the Mosel. Here I found handled china mugs, enthusiastically clumped together every five or ten minutes to mighty roars of 'prost!' The toasts occurred with increasing frequency and for no apparent reason, starting with a couple of people and spreading infectiously down the long table, with people elbowing past their neighbours to make sure no-one was missed. With regular beer, I was told, glasses can be clinked at the top – but wheat beer, for true Bavarians, must be clinked at the bottom. 'Weißbier und Frauen stößt man unten an,' the saying goes – roughly translated as 'wheat beer and women one bangs below.' Even the women seemed to find this funny.
Bavaria is the stereotype most foreigners have of Germany – lederhosen and oompah bands, woodcock-feathered Alpine hats, buxom barmaids with white breasts bulging over beer mugs. All this was to be found in Munich's Hofbräuhaus, a kind of temple to Bavarian drinking culture. When Paddy came here in 1934 he downed beer and schnapps until he lost consciousness, and was wheelbarrowed home by an obliging carpenter who put him to bed in his workshop. I'd been considering an experiment, guinea-pigging myself by knocking back drinks until I passed out, just to see what would happen – but the place is full of tourists now, and the staff seem a bit more jaded, unimpressed by the predictable drunkenness of American exchange students. I felt I'd come across less like an artist seeking the ghost of a journey, and more like just another Brit abroad, unable to hold my drink.
Nevertheless, I did get drunk. It was impossible not to. The beer is served in glasses almost as long as my forearm, as thick as my leg. And it was delivered straight to my seat, so I didn't even have to move. I sat at a long empty table, thinking I could slip out quietly, but it rapidly filled up with drinkers who squashed me down to the furthest end, half-curtained by hanging coats, with no possibility of escape. All I could do was order beer and watch my companions shovelling down slabs of meat and dripping lumps of knödel while the oompah band played on – a clumping, heavy, ponderous music, geared less towards dancing than digestion.
White-bearded men appeared in green Alpine hats adorned with feathers. Pretzel girls in checkered dresses posed resignedly for cameras. Americans boomed at each other down the aisles, while Japanese tourists sipped coffee rather nervously and smiled politely at the drunks. My first impression of the Hofbräuhaus was that it was just a tourist trap – the glasses all had HB logos, and there was even a gift shop. It seemed stage-managed, artificial. I found myself drunkenly mulling the question of authenticity. It suddenly seemed very important to pinpoint what this meant. All travellers seek the authentic – a real, original 'experience,' unadulterated and unspoiled – but what on earth does that mean? The closest definition must be 'innocence,' a lack of self-awareness. Once a place becomes self-aware (or the culture of that place), once it learns to see itself from an outside perspective, different from other places in the world, it learns to sell itself. It plays up to its quirks. Its oddness becomes a selling point. Branding and marketing follow. It's exactly the fault of travellers like me, or even of Paddy all those years ago, fuelling a market for the authentic, for an 'experience' you can write, record or take photos of. And the more people come searching for this, the more places like the Hofbräuhaus are obliged to provide that experience in a guaranteed supply – hence the hired oompah band, the bulging-breasted waitresses, the t-shirts in the gift shop.
I thought I was on to something. The more drunk I got, however, the more authentic it all began to feel. I tried to leave at one point, and a sinister black-bearded character motioned me back with a steak knife. 'Trink, Nick, trink!' he scowled, ordered me another huge beer, and went back to tucking into his shapeless pile of meat. Three old men commenced playing cards with an unfamiliar deck, tossing the cards down at amazing speeds and scooping small change into their laps. I learned from the man sitting next to me that they were here to commemorate a friend who died on this day last year, setting off a clanking round of 'prosts' and hefty handshakes. And when I looked again at the old guys in their feathered hats, leather trousers and green waistcoats adorned with assorted medallions and trinkets – their tables laden with china mugs, tubs of ham and pickles brought from home – I realised they weren't dressing up for the tourists. They were doing this from pride. Pride, tradition and separateness – the things that Bavaria is known for.
My drunken theory of innocence felt increasingly irrelevant and silly. This was self-awareness all right, but it didn't seem such a bad thing. A real folk culture still exists here, underneath the marketing. It just took a few drinks to track it down. It's true, Bavarians are different. And yes, they do squeeze white sausages out of their skins like toothpaste.
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29 January 2012
Over the past couple of weeks, I've become more and more aware of other journeys crisscrossing my own. I'm following the route of a man who walked this way in 1934, tracing his path from the words in his books, but increasingly I find that his are not the only footsteps. The people I'm staying with bear testimony to the journeys of previous guests: 'someone stayed here for a few days last year who was walking from Germany to Morocco,' or 'riding a Vespa over the Alps,' or 'cycling from the Baltic Sea to the Mediterranean...' I am starting to glimpse a continent bisected by wanderers on strange, lonely quests, striking out on unknowable missions. Sometimes they leave traces.
My energy was low on the Rhine near the village of Rolandseck. It was a damp, dispiriting day and my steps were getting heavier – I still had a long way to walk before I had a place to sleep. At that point I came across a long metal plaque zigzagged into the paving stones, engraved with English words: 'a 2838 kilometre coast to coast walking journey on roads pavements tracks and bicycle paths from bilbao to rotterdam starting at the river nervion continuing to an alpine origin of the river rhine and following its course to the north sea ending at the hook of holland spain france switzerland germany the netherlands.' Nearby was a sign with further explanation, but actually I didn't want to know more. It was enough that someone had been here, that someone had walked this same path, and this evidence of a previous walker lightened my steps until nightfall.
Walking slightly drunk one afternoon (I was decanting whiskey into my hip-flask and the whiskey didn't all fit), acted as a weird charm – out of a sudden squall of rain appeared a wild-eyed, grinning man with broken teeth and an enormous, demonic-looking grey dog. 'Come, come, you must stay dry here,' he said, motioning me into the shelter of someone else's garage, and then embarked on a strange monologue: 'My name is Harry. Like your youngest prince! But I am not a royalist, never! I am free. I hate hierarchy! Do you know that this class system, this system of kings and earls and counts, was brought here by the Romans? Before the Romans came to this land the Germans were free, we were all equal, no one was better or worse than any other. We must still overthrow this Roman mentality, so we can be free again...'
He went on in this vein until the rain stopped, at which point I walked on. It was only later that afternoon that I came across a little sign – a centurion's helmet and the word limes – and realised I was inadvertently tracing the old boundary of the Roman Empire from Holland to the Black Sea. The Romans controlled the west bank of the Rhine but never conquered the wild tribes to the east. How amazing, a thousand years later, to meet a man enthusiastically babbling an ancient communal memory of tribal freedoms versus imperial oppression – however vague and inaccurate – through a mouthful of crooked teeth, on the line of that frontier.
Another route I constantly cross, follow for a while, lose again, and pick up a few days later, is the Pilgerweg – the pilgrim's way – that spreads through all the countries of Europe until it becomes the Camino de Santiago. Until now I hadn't realised that these paths were connected, branching and dividing and merging again like the map of a nervous system, until they converge, after thousands of miles, on that dusty little town in the north of Spain. I am heading east, not west, but I'm still tracing the same pathways. So far I haven't met another walker, but sometimes I get the notion that someone might be shadowing my journey, or I might be shadowing theirs – they might be half a mile behind me or half a mile ahead of me, perhaps even stopping when I stop, crossing the road where I cross the road, having a rest on the same low wall, sneaking off for a surreptitious piss behind the same tangle of trees.
For two days this week I found myself following a series of little brown and white signs showing the silhouette of a woman driving an antiquated vehicle, with the words 'Bertha Benz Memorial Route.' These signs didn't strike me as particularly exciting, but, I later found out, mark a journey of almost unimaginable significance – something that led, around the world, to cultural and environmental changes so profound that they seem better understood as a shift in consciousness. In 1888, Bertha Benz, wife of engineer Karl Benz, test-drove her husband's prototype automobile on this road from Bruchsal to Pforzheim. This seemingly unassuming jaunt was the maiden voyage of the world's first car – the car from which every other car, from the Model T Ford to the SUV, can trace its lineage. Even Karl Benz had his doubts about it, but by driving this route between the two cities, his wife proved that the automobile was a viable form of transport. Just how viable, she couldn't have imagined. Only fifty years later, Germany gave that first car's descendants the world's first autobahns, ensuring their dominion over the landscape. Perhaps a walker following this route is like a Carib Indian – if there were any of them left – retracing the voyage that Columbus took with the Niña, the Pinta and the Santa Maria. Sketching the outline of a journey that led to the destruction of a world.
Looking at Europe's map today, the logical consequence of that journey can be seen in the webwork of red and yellow lines that divide and subdivide the continent, autobahns and their tributary roads that split the formless wilderness into abstract geometrical partitions – another branching nervous system like that of the Camino de Santiago, but one that has no end to arrive at, no destination. Walking alongside these roads, which I often find unavoidable, I see and hear and smell and feel that consequence every day. And yet, as I'm starting to discover, it's not the only map. There are roads between the roads, from the limes to the pilgrim's way, the cycle-tracks, the borders of fields, the Wanderweg – the wander way – the corridors of connected woodland left behind from carved-up forests, as well as the rivers and the streams that were Europe's first thoroughfares. This is the map I am starting to glimpse, tracked by the ghosts of travellers past. Sometimes they leave traces.
This article can also be seen on the blog for the Dark Mountain Project – a cultural movement for an age of global disruption.Read and comment
22 January 2012
For the past two weeks I’ve been laid up in Ulm, on the outskirts of Bavaria, suffering from Achilles tendon strain. It dates from the sudden steep hills of Baden, when I pigheadedly continued walking despite a nagging pain in my ankle, which increased in jolts and jumps until I was practically hobbling. Luckily I found refuge with exceptionally lovely people who didn’t mind me sitting around rubbing ice on my feet all day, necking ibuprofen, growing my beard and generally feeling sorry for myself.
It’s been an anxious, frustrating time, but at last I’ve reached the point of no pain, and I’m setting out again tomorrow. The German healthcare system is amazing — I’ve been given free ultrasound therapy and acupuncture, and have been fitted with an ankle support and custom-made insoles for my boots. The most important thing, of course, was simply resting up. And it taught me a lesson I needed to learn: pain is a message — don’t ignore it!
Pain is almost entirely absent in Paddy’s account of his journey. Now and then he mentions being tired or sore, but that seems to be the extent of his suffering. Either he was uncannily fit (and I’m not forgetting that he was 12 years younger than me when he did this — that’s 12 years of bad habits he had yet to accumulate), or, as I’m starting to suspect, with a time-lag of several decades, his memory edited out the bad parts and retained the happier ones… the rolling in haystacks with peasant girls and smoking cigars with counts. This is the kind trick that memory plays, mechanically rose-tinting the past. I’m sure when I look back on this, it will be the same.
It seems appropriate, at least, that I commenced to lame myself while inadvertently following the Bertha Benz Memorial Route from Bruchsal to Prorzheim… the route that marks the maiden voyage of the world's first car. In the birthplace of the automobile, a healthy walker is a fitting sacrifice. More to come on this topic soon, in another article for Dark Mountain… until then, I’ll be walking on, and listening to and learning from any pain.Read and comment
13 January 2012
It takes a week of following the Rhine upstream into Germany before I know I have truly left the Low Countries behind. After the port city of Koblenz, where the Rhine and the Mosel converge, the banks either side of the river begin to rise into folded foothills, jagged peaks and escarpments dotted with gothic ruins. During the next few days, castle after castle appears with almost frantic regularity: Stolzenfels, Rheinfels, Gutenfels, Furstenberg... in this valley, I have entered the realm of German Romanticism.
My introduction to fairytale country is the nightmarishly-named Burg Drachenfels, a tapering stump of weathered stone perched above the river. In the book I'm using as my road-map, Paddy mentions 'the Siegfried-haunted Drachenfels,' and I ask about this with my hosts that night in the village of Sinzig. Siegfried, I discover, was a mythical hero who showered himself in the blood of a dragon (drachen) to gain immortality – of course, myths being what they are, a leaf landed on his shoulder during the immortalising process, leaving that spot unprotected. Later he was betrayed by a friend, who skewered him with a spear. 'You can look it up on Wikipedia,' my hosts assure me, waving at the laptop, but stories like this don't need to be confirmed. It feels much better to hear it from them – this legend of the Teutonic Achilles – in a cosy, wood-smoke-smelling room with the rain beating down outside.
They also talk of a connected legend: the treasure horde of the Nibelungs, who were either – depending on what you choose to believe – the royal house of the Burgundians, or a race of dwarves. I choose dwarves. It seems no less unlikely. The fabled stash of gold and jewels is reputed to be buried in Worms, but later, when I reach that city with vague fantasies of stumbling across it – glinting, perhaps, at the bottom of a drain or at the border of a municipal flowerbed – the only evidence I can find is a signpost that says 'Nibelungenring.' It is sad, but not surprising, that the best the modern world can do with the legend of a dwarfish treasure horde is covert it into the name of a ring-road.
If Siegfried was the Teutonic Achilles, my walk also brings me to the lair of the Teutonic Siren. The towering Rock of Lorelei marks the narrowest point of the Rhine, and the river bends sharply to create treacherous shipping conditions. In these waters dwells the Lorelei, a golden-haired water maiden who lures sailors to their death. Over the years, Romantic poets have rendered the legend thoroughly twee, but the Lorelei has not lost her teeth: only last year, she capsized a barge carrying 2,400 tonnes of sulphuric acid.
(That statistic came from Wikipedia. But hopefully, in a few hundred years, travellers will hear the story – in a suitably distorted version – sitting in a cosy, wood-smoke-smelling room with the rain beating down outside. Meanwhile, reconstruction work on the Worms outer-city ring-road will have uncovered caverns of gold, and armies of furious dwarves.)
So far I've escaped the Lorelei's clutches, and haven't yet been skewered with a spear. I am, however – in a vague nod to at least one of these legends – having problems with my Achilles tendon. Myths are there to teach us things. I'll use more dragons' blood.
This piece, and the others to come, can be downloaded on the Ether Books app, available for free from the iTunes Store.
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9 January 2012
This post is a little retrospective -- from my first couple of days on the walk. It appeared on The Times online just before Christmas, and I forgot to put it on this blog. I'm in Ulm now, resting up for a few days, and I have time to remember these things. So: from the top.
I was woken soon after dawn by 'Don't Worry, Be Happy' emanating from hidden speakers in the ceiling. My ferry – the hulking Stena Hollandica, less of a ship than a shopping mall – was just docking in the Hook of Holland. After a perfunctory passport check I watched the other passengers head for the train, then stubbornly turned inland to walk the 20 miles to Rotterdam. Hail rattled off my hat and tinkled musically in the bare branches, but the sky soon cleared. The countryside unfolded into a scene so Dutch it felt quite surreal – dikes and polders, cycle-ways, old windmills and modern wind turbines, with the occasional cargo ship slicing its way through the fields.
Almost nothing is left of the Rotterdam Paddy wrote about in 1933. The Nazi bombardment of May 1940 literally flattened the medieval city, leaving nothing but the town hall, the damaged belfry of the great church, and a bronze statue of Erasmus turning the page of a book. Paddy's 'beetling storeys' and 'hump-backed bridges' have long since been replaced by glass-fronted insurance buildings and expressionless office blocks, high streets crammed with corporate stores competing for trans-national blandness. The house in which I stayed that night, in a street of red brick and plasterwork with a faintly gingerbread feel, only survived because it stood 500m beyond the 'fire line,' the point at which the annihilation ended.
The following day I attempted to find the same route Paddy walked out of the city – 'a wonderful flat geometry of canals and polders and willows' – but found myself trudging instead through a dreary sprawl of suburbs and ring roads. The coffee in my flask had gone, the wind was blowing colder, and just as my spirits were starting to ebb a woman pulled up in a car: 'My husband and I saw you walking, and thought you might like to come in for a cup of coffee and some cake.' Their home was only a minute away, so I bent my no-lifts rule, and was soon ushered into a house of chirruping budgies and children. Much may have vanished since Paddy walked this route, but it seems the essential goodness of people still remains intact.
After coffee, the husband took me outside for a tour of his honk – 'a honk means just a cosy place' – a kind of garden shed he built to double as a spare room. He invited me to stay the night, but Dordrecht was just a few miles away, and I knew its wharves and cobbled streets had been spared the same destruction as Rotterdam – hopefully, traces of that older world might be more apparent. So I thanked them and re-hefted my bag. I had to be getting on.
... and on I got. And, hopefully, will continue getting.Read and comment
5 January 2012
Between the towns of Koblenz and Mainz, the Rhine Valley is rotten with castles -- gothic ruin after gothic ruin, crumbling romantically on forested crags, looming from dramatic outcrops of rock, so many I almost stopped seeing them. Late December was unseasonally mild, so I ended up sleeping in two abandoned castles perched above the river.
My first stay was in Burg Rheinfels, above the town of St. Goar. The main part of the castle was impregnable — impregnability, of course, being a castle’s primary function — but its makers luckily saw fit to constructing a dry, discreet tunnel in the lower wall. Above this section was a four-star hotel, so I had a glass of Riesling with the other guests and retired after dark to my hole. I had a lovely view over the town and the ferries shuttling over the river.
The next night I slept in Burg Gutenfels, perched above the town of Kaub. It’s the very image of a haunted castle and was a little intimidating as I approached it through the vineyards, its walls lit up by a strangely greenish moonlight. But I had a very comfortable sleep in this sheltered archway, curtained with vines. If there were ghosts — and of course there were ghosts — they seemed happy to put me up.
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2 January 2012
I've been walking for over two weeks, and it's only just starting to occur to me that travelling this way is so much slower – indescribably so much slower – than any other form of transport. Apart from walking backwards, perhaps, or crawling on my belly. It's an interesting adjustment. Bicycles pass me with speed and grace that I envy, but at least recognise as just a faster version of what I'm doing – making my way from one place to another – while cars, to my pedestrian eye, travel so incomprehensibly fast I have already started to think of them as something quite alien, engaged in an activity entirely different to my own. I'm wondering if the same is felt by geese when an aeroplane thunders in the distance.
My perceptions of distance have altered quickly. In a car, or even on a bike, you see a landmark on the horizon – a church tower, say, or a tall tree on a hill – and you spend ten minutes watching it steadily growing bigger and bigger and then suddenly you're there, adjusted to its scale. Walking, you barely notice it change. It stays the same size and it stays the same size, and it stays the same size and it stays the same size, and then you watch the ground for a while and when you look up it's fractionally bigger – or maybe that's just a trick of the eye. It can be agonising – the trick is to stop caring. After all, if I was in a hurry I wouldn't be walking in the first place. I've been thinking of those fairytales about castles that never draw closer, no matter how long a traveller walks, always teasingly keeping their place on the edge of the horizon. I know where those stories come from now, and imagine the way they were dreamed up by walkers, one step after another.
Walking has also made me consider the urban landscape differently. There's a huge difference, I've discovered, between walking on soft grass or mud and walking on a high-impact surface like tarmac or on pavements. Hard surfaces jar the bones of the legs, sending regular shock waves through the body, and caused agony in my shins in the first few days. For this reason I've become obsessed with finding low-impact passageways through towns, clinging to any grassy verge, strip of mud or municipal lawn, doing everything I can to avoid the harder ground. Pavements are more obstructions than aids. This marks me out as a different type of walker to the strollers in the streets. I am not walking in town, I am walking through town, and these narrow corridors of soil are my connection back out to the countryside, a tenuous but traceable thread that strings one green space to the next.
The environment I'm in, I've noticed, determines people's perceptions of me. Along the river path on the bank of the Rhine, people see my muddy boots and rucksack and sleeping bag and two-week beard and recognise me as a walker – one of their own, doing the same thing as them, only going a longer distance. When I'm in a city centre, eating bread and cheese on the steps of the cathedral, I morph suddenly into a tourist – what else could I be? But in the spaces in-between – nowhere lands like industrial zones or urban sprawl or outer suburbs, flanked by highways and motorway bridges and factories and out-of-town car showrooms, far from beauty either rural or urban – then I don't belong in any category at all. People stare from passing cars, shooting me baffled and suspicious glances, as if I must be lost or desperate or doing something vaguely illegal. This isn't a walking-designated zone, there is no clear reason for me to be here – I am out of place. Between country and city, in these no-mans-lands, I can only be perceived as a vagrant.
This article can also be seen on the blog for the Dark Mountain Project -- a cultural movement for an age of global disruption.Read and comment
28 December 2011
Suffering agonies in my shins, I manage to limp to the door of the big house and peer uncertainly in. In a dim, wood-panelled hallway rows of coat hooks gleam on the walls. In the murky light I see two children dressed in creepy, Puritan-style clothing, standing absolutely still and staring at each other.
I don't like the look of this at all. This can't be the place I'm looking for. So despite the stabbing bolts of pain that shoot up my legs at every step, I hobble on down the road. Darkness has fallen, and I've been walking for almost ten hours. I started at first light, tracing the bank of the River Waal, the great grey river that runs westwards through the Low Countries towards the North Sea, back where my journey started. I followed the dike for most of the way, past windmills flanked by osiers, alongside polders full of geese, under a swollen sky. Rain swept in from the river at midday, driving diagonally up the dike to soak the right side of my body, and the wind heaved at my back, pushing my legs onwards.
It was about four o'clock that I realised I'd been far too cocky in trying to walk from Gorinchem to Tiel comfortably in a day. The light was already starting to fade, sort of folding itself away across the landscape, and I still had twenty kilometres to go. I noticed a dull pressure in my shins, and tried to ignore it when it became a steady, repetitive ache, but before long the pain became sharper with every step. Around this point the dike path ended and I found myself walking beside a road, trying to stick to the sloped grass verge – the high impact surface of the tarmac jarred my legs too much – and tried to take my mind off the pain by guessing the colours of the cars as they thundered past me. It was a game – I got one point for a correct colour, and minus if I was wrong. At minus seventeen I gave up, finding it too depressing.
Around five o'clock I found a service station and bought a bottle of Coke, mixing it up in my thermos flask with half a bottle of whiskey. I thought perhaps this would help with the pain. It didn't work – I was still in pain, only now I was drunk as well. Darkness rolled over the landscape, and in the distance I could see the glimmering lights of the town I was heading for, inching closer step by step with agonising slowness. I counted down the last ten kilometres like a prayer.
And now, searching for the address of the place I'm staying in tonight, all I can find is the big stone house with the weird frozen children. I hobble up and down the street, almost gasping with pain. At last I return to the door – it's the only possible choice. And then lights blink on in the hall, a figure waves from the window, beckoning me in.
I stay in this refuge for three days while my shins recover. The damage isn't serious – ice-packs, arnica gel, ibuprofen and rest are all I really need. I put up my feet in the high-ceiling room, read books and drink coffee. The rain falls ceaselessly, the bells of the nearby church elaborately toll every quarter hour, and the interior of the rooms are submerged in a grey, dreamlike twilight.
My host, an ex-rock guitarist with a face like a friendly conquistador, rents this enormous building cheap to keep out squatters. It used to be an orphanage. The children, of course, are just statues. Two smaller statues flank the door, crumbled stone effigies of a boy and girl with distressed goblin features, covered in a slimy layer of green.
After it was a home for lost children, it was a hospital for the disabled.
Both of these incarnations, it seems, are appropriate to my condition.
This was my unhappy condition two weeks ago. Since these days of rest my shins have recovered greatly, and I'm now in the town of Bingen, most of my way down the Rhine.
This piece, and the others to come, can be downloaded on the Ether Books app, available for free from the iTunes Store.Read and comment
15 December 2011
When Paddy caught the ferry to Holland in December 1933, he was the only passenger aboard the Stadhouder Willem, a little steam-ship with 'the Dutch tricolour beating damply from her poop,' floating 'in a mewing circus of gulls.' Seventy-eight years later the experience couldn't be more different – boarding a vessel the size of a small town and stumbling past shops, restaurants, bars, internet stations and cinemas, I eventually locate my cabin (number 10303) in a seemingly endless corridor of glittering lights and doors. This is the Stena Hollandica, but it seems to me that a ship so massive may as well not have a name.
Through trial and error in a strange labyrinth of duty free shops and safety signs, I manage to make my way out on deck to wave goodbye to my girlfriend. She's there, the height of a towerblock down, a tiny conical shape waving in a sodium-lit wasteland of car-parks and cranes. We say our last words by mobile phone as the engine starts to churn. Just as I'm pulling out of port, a fishing boat full of whooping lads comes chopping and bouncing over the waves, their shouts apparently directed at me, though I must be invisible up here on deck: 'You crazy bastard! You crazy son of a bitch!'
… and then silence.
It seems these words, and not my girlfriend's words of love, will be my parting shot.
9 December 2011
I'm catching the 11.15pm ferry tonight, and will be arriving at the Hook of Holland early tomorrow morning. The weather forecast for the ferry crossing is 'rough to very rough,' so my journey may well begin on a nauseating note.
Expect dispatches on Ether Books, The Times online, the Dark Mountain blog, on postcards for those of you who supported me through We Did This... and, of course, on this very blog. Enough said. Boots laced. Ready to go.Read and comment
5 December 2011
The best quote I've come across recently is from the early 20th century mystic, author and psychogeographer Arthur Machen, who lived near Gray's Inn Road in London:
And it is utterly true that he who cannot find wonder, mystery, awe, the sense of a new world and an undiscovered realm in the places by the Gray's Inn Road will never find those places elsewhere, not in the heart of Africa, not in the fabled hidden cities of Tibet.
Useful words to have in mind at the start of any journey...Read and comment