Three thousand miles later

According to my Fitbit I’ve managed to walk over three thousand miles this year. It works out at about ten miles a day at my purposeful mince, with one day of rest each week, which was my goal. I’m delighted with myself.

It’s the only New Year’s resolution I’ve ever managed to keep up until the renewal date. I managed it in rain, in snow, in a succession of diabolical trainers. I managed it hungover. I managed it when we were barely allowed to leave the house by going up and down my own stairs hundreds of times. I managed it with a burst blister the size of the flaming Eye of Sauron on my sole by sticking a panty liner on my foot. I managed it when my dad was in hospital. I managed it when the world’s lack of care, curiosity and compassion would have flung me horizontal at any other time.

I managed it when the sun was shining and everyone else was in the pub. I managed to tempt some people out of the pub to walk the Wandle Trail and the Medway Valley and the Calder Valley and across the Brontës’ moors with me. And back to the pub. I walked (most of) the London Loop. I walked around some parks I’d never even heard of before – Beckenham Place Park, Kelsey Park, Valentines Park. I walked around some parks over and over again and saw them bloom and grow and change – Avery Hill Park, Eltham Park, Greenwich Park. I kept getting a bit lost in Oxleas Woods and rewarded myself with bacon at the café every single time I found it, stumbling over branches, panting and desperate like I’d just escaped the Blair Witch.

Sometimes I walked with friends and sometimes with my parents – slowly before dad’s surgery, even slower afterwards, then virtually running as he got back on his bike one day and chased me into a hedge. I walked with my eighty-year-old great aunt, who lives with dementia, past sites that dredged up ancient memories and sights that seemed to confuse her more than ever – thank you, dog yoga.

Mostly I walked by myself, around and around the same old streets where I live. Puppies grew into dogs, babies grew into toddlers, none of them seemed to get any more obedient. Someone took their garden in hand, someone else let theirs go. The McFaddens built a horrible extension, their shouty neighbour settled for new curtains (also horrible). Amazon delivery vans were everywhere. I liked to pretend they were an undercover police unit following me and took evasive manoeuvres.

I listened to a lot of podcasts. I’ve become insufferably over-informed. Mostly about the strange foods celebrities eat, but still.

When I started commuting back to the office one day a week, I got a really early train to London Bridge to avoid people, then I’d skirt around Borough Market in the dark, turning the corner so that the rigging of the Golden Hinde emerged against the sky just as it was getting light. There would only be me and a few runners along the South Bank as St Paul’s peeked over Southwark Bridge. I’d pass Shakespeare’s Globe, the Tate Modern, the trees strung with lights approaching the National. I’d cross Hungerford Bridge on the west side and emerge outside the Playhouse Theatre – transformed into the KitKat Club for its production of Cabaret. I’d go up to Trafalgar Square, pass the galleries, then along Charing Cross Road and all those other theatres - Garrick, Wyndham’s, Palace, Phoenix - not forgetting the Hippodrome, outside of which I once heard two women wondering whether they were in the right place to see ‘Magic Mike Goes Wrong’ and I laugh about that every single time I see a poster for either Magic Mike Live or Magic Goes Wrong.

After the Dominion Theatre I would turn down Great Russell Street to pass the British Museum and Bloomsbury Square. When this hits Southampton Row there’s a very handy Greggs that never has anyone in it if you need an emergency cup of tea. And a sausage roll. I’d then turn onto Theobalds Road and head to Clerkenwell, waving at the giant UMBRELLAS sign over James Smith & Sons and the Italian Church along the way. By the time I got to the office I always felt grateful to be able to walk and work and live so close to these things. Even closed, the history of it all felt reassuring. As though, if it has all survived numerous wars and governments and trends and whims and economic, ethical and environmental revolutions, surely there’s a future worth something.

Anyway, I’m not suggesting you commit to walking three thousand miles, but if you’re in London and have an hour, give that route a go. Or just have a little stroll. Happy New Year!