Until I Walk Off the Edge of the Earth

There are certainly more alarming things to be addicted to than walking.

Some days, I feel like I can keep walking until I fall off the edge of the Earth. I'm not a Flat Earther, but you get the gist.

For years, one of my biggest fears has been being left alone with my own thoughts. I have always described my brain as a highway, and its many lanes and rows of cars behave just well enough that I too can function well.

However, when rush hour traffic chokes up every lane or some reckless driver decides the speed limit is merely a suggestion, I feel no stronger urge than that of retreating to a dark room and staying put until everything doesn't feel so loud.

When I walk, for hours at a time – sometimes to a pub, and sometimes to a nice view – I am no longer dressed in bright orange in the highway patrol car. In fact, I've left the neon vest strewn in the road, knowing that it can handle itself for now goddamnit.

The other day, I thought I knew my route. The trails were familiar enough, and the first of this year's Spring-ish sun was beating down on the back of my neck. I hadn't spotted another soul for hours, and I had only one instruction to heed: follow the river.

And so I did, as it wound round marshy tracks and overgrown shrubs. And so I did, as it led me through thick and viscous mud that crept up my legs, testing every bit of my waterproofs they could.

The mud, in all its sheer awfulness, seemed to last for what at the time felt like forever. The sun was relentless, a sweat had started at my brows, and every attempt to shake dirt off my boots landed with another step into a brown, unforgiving soup.

Cursing myself, the Earth itself, and Google Maps for not leading me round the other side of the river where an actual footpath stretched out into the distance, I questioned why I even had this stupid hobby in the first place. The highway had a massive pile up started by an enormous tow-truck, and I couldn't be more covered in mud if I tried.

After another half an hour of sinking with every step and scaring some wild horses because I couldn't not cry, I fell into a heap of myself atop a small hill in a farmer's field where the ground was solid and a breeze danced through the grass. The view was beautiful. And it was only mud after all.

By the time I dragged myself home, much drier and ten lifetimes older, the highway had cleared. Peachy weather had drawn everyone to the coast, and there they would stay for the weekend, tootling back to work late Sunday afternoon before work.

I haven't seen many of the vast valleys of distant countries, and I've only ever hiked in the Lake District once. There is so much more for me to see – so much more for me to do – but even if I can scale the paths between my town and the next, I'll be content. For that's so much better than not working this restless body at all.

And when the cars have reached a standstill, with sirens blaring just a bit further than you can see, I might just walk until I reach the end of the Earth. From there? Who knows. But I've heard the view is beautiful on the way down. There might even be a pub.