There’s a walk that I’ve found, only about ten minutes drive from here.
It’s one of those handy walks that you can make longer if you want to but works just as well as a short one, ideal for those times when you haven’t got long but just need to get outside at the end of the day, to connect back to the seasons, to breath in sky, fields, hedgerows, birdsong.
The first part of the walk runs along the road. I try and avoid roads normally but this one is as minor as can be, you might only see one car in half an hour or so, and there’s something about this quiet country road, running through the landscape, that adds to the effect.
I love the totality of the landscape here: the gates and ditches, field patterns, fence posts, the cows leaning over the hedges, the swallows darting overhead, the starlings looming on the darker nights, I love the field patterns and the signs of the crops, of work, of farming, of life.
I love the way everything bends, and curves.
I know that this landscape reminds me of the road I used to walk in Galloway, outside my previous house. And I know for that reason that this landscape reminds me of home.
Yet I also remember when I first went to Galloway, a place previously unknown to me, having the strangest, strongest feeling, the sense that this landscape, another lush and curving landscape, this landscape was reminding me, evoking memories of another place, although it wasn’t a place I (consciously) knew.
Rather it was the memory of a landscape that I’d dreamt about, or imagined, or read in the pages of a story, or found in the words of a poem.