Robert Macfarlane takes us walking across a
variety of landscapes (even seascapes) following some ancient ways, which for
him are windows on the past with the personal history of all who use them
trodden into the fabric of the route.
He also makes a close connection between
walking and thinking, with the rhythm of the steps providing a stimulus for the
mind to explore the inner self as the body treads new or familiar pathways.
More food for thought comes from people he
shares part of his walks with, who too find meaning in meandering; and though
most are living he also walks with the dead, reviewing the works of earlier
writers who he feels offer insights into the paths he follows, the places he
passes and the truths he seeks. Prime among these is war poet Edward Thomas,
and a short poignant sketch of his final months is slipped in.
All these strands are layered on top of, or
below, the physical landscapes described with an appreciative and knowing eye,
where character, not beauty, is most valued.
The prose is both spare and poetic, in
places mystical, in others prosaic, but always sumptuously readable. It may
sound a bit of an oddity but it does work, and in it I found reassuringly
complex reasons why I find such enjoyment in such a seemingly simple activity
as walking.
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