Winter is tiring. The footpath is a gully of slop, and each step forwards is a little slip backwards. The north-facing slope was OK – the frost hadn’t been thawed by the sun, and crunchy ground is better than slippy ground. But the rest of Gloucestershire has turned into slurry.
It’s just as well that I enjoy it; I do this every week. For the last seven years I’ve been going out on a Friday, taking some combination of buses and trains to wherever the previous walk ended, and continuing. My Friday walk is a single tangly line stretching from Birmingham to Dorset, and the Malverns to the M25, and I go whatever the weather.
Today’s weather is mud. My boots are caked in it; it’s weighing me down. When I get home, I’ll have to scrub them and dry them and give them a new coat of wax. I’ll get cold, muddy fingers, and balancing them on the radiator will be a pain. I could’ve bought modern synthetic boots – a quick wipe down and they’re done – but something about the drudgery of trying to keep the leather alive appeals to me. It feels meaningful. Then again, perhaps I’ll just scrape them along the verge and be done with it.
It’s getting gloomy as I slog up another steep slope on the western edge of the Cotswolds. From the exposed hilltop, there’s an incredible, if monochrome, view across the Severn vale. The wind hurts my ears as I stop to admire the silvery river slithering along the horizon.
It occurs to me that the winter solstice, Christmas and New Year’s Eve all celebrate the light and try to banish the darkness. But these grim winter months are part of the richness of the human experience, and we shouldn’t wish them away.
That said, I’ve had enough wind and sludge for one day. Dursley is just down the hill. As I step on to a stile, my foot slips on a slimy, mossy board. I just about save myself by embracing the thorny hedge. Down the lane, I see the soft yellow glow of pub windows. I can’t wait to get into the warm, and sit down with a pint of something brown and wet.
