Tag: walking

Walking the Salterns Way

One Saturday a few weeks back, I walked from the centre of Chichester to West Wittering Beach, along a canal tow path and the Salterns Way.  Alone and in control of my own pace, I found myself documenting my journey as I walked, through voice recordings and ‘Doodles’ that evolved as the day unfolded.

This is a narrative – primarily a transcription – of that very special day.

Flint

Flint.  So many different patterns and ways of working with flint.  In neat rows.  In mortar.  In old walls and new walls.  Gaps plugged with tiny shreds and shards.  I wonder if the walls are original?  And then I wonder what I mean by that … How old does ‘original’ have to be?  100 years? 200 years?  1000?  I guess ‘original’ means that flint was used because it was available.  Used for a pragmatic purpose and quality driven reason, rather than a kind of nostalgia, drawing on the past with the heritage consciousness that we have now.  I guess that’s what I mean by ‘original’.

And then the canal basin.  Remote controlled boats chasing each other round. 
Then kayaks with children balanced precariously on top.
Then walkers with dogs.
Walkers without dogs.
A runner. 

And finally, almost no-one.

Sedge

The elation of walking at my own pace.  Of walking a distance.  Of a destination – hazy, optional, but driving me forward.  Resisting the temptation to stop and speak to every plant or bird, to identify the unfamiliar. 

The surprising vibrancy of Purple Loosestrife against the greens and greys of this flat weather day.
Eating Haws as I go.
The glossy glow of Honeysuckle berries.
And – is it Stinking Iris?  Bursting out in its triads, from below. 

I wondered if I could twist cord as I walk.  I picked some Sedge, to see if I could twist it fresh. 

I can’t.

So … perhaps I could plait it.

I could.

And I love the seeds of this season, so I began to insert into my braid the story of my day, the things I see, the things I spot.  The Hogweed seeds which are just so beautiful and so iconic, though we hate it so much, earlier in the year.

A Heron.
And a Kingfisher.
Reeds – I had to look them up.  Common Reed: I loathe the word ‘common’.  Australis.  I’m curious about how the words ‘Australis’ and ‘Australia’ are related when it seems to mean ‘common’ in plantlore.

Willow Trees, Bulrushes, Bedstraws.
Ragwort.

Moorhens, and Coots. 
And the water, at first mysteriously, bluey green, now completely transparent. 

Could I weave my whole story as I walk.  But why, and what would I do with it? 

And then I realise … it’s a kind of walking Doodle.  I’ve never done that before, to Doodle as I move … I wonder how that would work.

Bindweed

Chichester Marina: A sea of concrete and more boats than I have ever seen in one place.

I turned to three strands of Bindweed gathered by the canal and plaited them, ready for part two.  Fiddly, plaiting with Bindweed, leaves getting in the way. 

More Reeds, more Hawthorn. 

Less confidence in my orientation, a kind of slight unease – a road that took me away from the water and down lanes between houses.  Houses so big, so perfect, it makes me uncomfortable, the kind of – it’s not even flamboyance – the comfort of wealth. 

Did the most un-wild wee ever and lost my Oak leaf with its Spangle Galls.  Part of the story.
Flowers, country lanes. 
A purple meadow flower, I don’t know what it is – maybe Chicory?
Teasels, all having lost their heads.  The curl of the leaves on Teasel reminds me of William Morris – an elegant, paisley curve.  Adding those into my story gave me a real structural satisfaction.

I’m slower now.  My hips feel the ache and I have a consciousness of time.  I’m going too slowly – distracted: I can’t keep the focus for that long, as I add to the growing danglies hanging from my belt.  And then suddenly I found a tree with an abundance of Silk and Spangle Galls … so excited!

And it’s time for lunch.

Field Mushrooms.  Well, I looked them up:  Field or Horse Mushrooms, or Yellow Stainers.  Though I don’t think they’re that cos I tried the colour test.
Hedge Agrimony, which I love.  Finally, some blackberries still good to eat.  Adrienne talked about Devil’s Spit and she’s not wrong – the flavour is gone.  Still, Autumn is here, still.
Some kind of Wort, I don’t know what it was.
And a purple-tinged Daisy.  I think I’ve seen things like that in gardens too – New York Asters, maybe.
And the vibrant copper of Dock.  I’ll add that to my walking story.

Grass

Leaving Itchenor through the village.  I tried to plait together some Cocks Foot grasses, but they were having none of it, snap snap snap, so I turned to other grasses, and wove myself something that became a fragile wreath, a spiral. 

It felt apt to be using grass, walking along by field after field, agriculture all tired at this time of year.  But also, paths splitting field from hedgerow. 

Continuous nibbling of Haws. 

Already the sense of accomplishment that I will complete this journey.

The last, flat lands through the village towards the beach.  Everything here is manicured and curated:  Perfect lawns,  draping Willows.  Walnut trees.  Not a blade of grass out of place beneath them.  It’s a strange world, balancing artifice and nature.

But at last, I’m here.  Sand and dunes, sand and dunes.  And the sun came out.

Flint

And here again – it’s flint, amidst the sand.  Flint!

I came from flint; finished with flint.  I think I’ll never look at flint in the same way again. 

I wrapped my Doodles onto a piece of wood on the beach, completing the journey.  A kind of relief to let go of these things that I’d been carrying all the way. 

And now I drift my way along the beach to the very end, and round. 

Scallop shells. 
And the flattest sea with the deepest, deep reflections.  Clouds mirrored far beneath the surface. 
Sanderlings, or Dunlins – I had to look them up.
Hag stones.  I added one, and a whelk, to the top of my Doodle. 

And now, my walking is sooo slow.

Ah, it’s so beautiful.