Walking c/o : Ally Chisholm

It’s only after an hour I begin to get tired and that my thoughts turn to day dreams. I watch them, my thoughts, turn to dreams in a state of waking clinging tiredness. Although being here was never my intent, it’s how I like it. I wish I had intentions. I don’t. I have excuses. My excuse, my reason for walking this country lane in the dark is that my train came to a standstill an hour or so ago and in defiance or perhaps for no particular reason, instead of waiting at the platform for the problem to get fixed I strolled off in the general direction of the next town where I have no guarantees everything will be fine. That’s not really a sensible solution and if my intent was to get to where I was heading then I should have stayed put. The announcement had let us know, in rather uncertain terms, that the train was held up because someone on a train ahead had fallen ill. It’s probably code for a passenger falling on the track but I’ll never get to find out.
An hour into my trek the reasons are useless and I don’t want to know them. I walked past intention, purpose, reason and meaning when I walked through that last town. Not stopping made no sense. The last town was my excuse for this walk and seeing as I didn’t stop to catch a train I am heading to the next town where I might be inclined to stop. Until then, after an hour or more of walking, my thoughts go beyond the aches in my back and legs. A slight nagging pulls at me and asks why I’m here but I agree to ignore the question. On this long country lane, lit only by the cars going by on mass, tonnes of metal flashing by, I feel like a tourist, an alien, the only small flesh based anything in a metallic world, a pipeline, a vein, with vessels carried with more intention than me. To either side there are green walls of trees standing in the dark and I hear the wind blow through them and then nothing beyond them. It’s weird for a city boy to see. I’m so used to the people moving fast and the cars crawling. In my world the asphalt is surrounded by concrete and wrapped in glass and brick and occasionally jotted with the green of window sill potted plants.
This is where I am an hour into my journey and to this backdrop I’d want to be dreamy if I had a choice. But I don’t. Dreamy pointless strolls in the dark, the type that gets people worried, the ones with no man made reason, are what I want. At what point do I lose purpose and meaning? When is it okay to stroll for no reason?

Drunkenness.
Oh good grief. My head fills with every drunken walk I’ve ever had. This is all excusable. Rational reasoning does not come into play. There are no reasons here in this part of your brain. There is a where and a vague why, a direction with badly chosen means and no compass and a lot of hope, but although you cling to your original intention to get home the method is plainly dumb.
My drunken id wants to run wild but it needs to talk to my rational self for ideas but my rational self has turned his back and is having a sulk.
You’re on your own pal.
In response the id monster that I have become picks up a road cone and dares me to walk home with it. The cone itself seems monstrous, three feet high and filled with sand at the base. I wonder if the sand will leak as I walk and leave a trail and incriminate me in any way.
I don’t need to walk too far before the reaction to the sight of the two of us is apparent. There is a level of respectability between drunkards and the cone carriers of the world are pretty much the untouchables. This is no longer about having fun on a night out. Something somewhere has turned serious and you cannot explain where you are, neither in state of mind or on the global positioning system.
I am propositioned at one point but I try my best to politely explain to the fine young lady that I’m not capable.
“Twenty pounds darling, for anything you like.”
“Strangely, I’m on a mission. I’ve promised myself I will not let go of this cone.”
And the world moves on.
In memory people give the cone and I a wide berth. This happens so often that I find myself asking in perfect English, “Why does everyone seem to fear the cone?”
“I rather like your cone.”
Years removed I can’t see the face anymore of the girl who appeared next to me that night. I remember she was Scandinavian and I remember how she walked me to where I wanted to be and how we sat on a bench outside of a pub that I’ve subsequently never been to. I remember how she signed her name on the cone and how we stayed in touch for a little while until contact faded and that brief spark of friendship that existed through the randomness of life eventually faded too.
Is that what I’m doing tonight? Is this walk an act of randomness? Do I need more randomness? Have all my walks been like this? How many times have I done this? Am I a serial walker, forever wandering, not taking the quickest route but the one fraught with the most misadventure?
“Get in the taxi!”
I see myself not getting in the taxi despite my well wishing friends having my best interests at heart. That taxi represents an end, a swift ride and the day is done. Within seconds I’m running.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m happier running home.”
Occasionally it was better planned. It was still for no particular reason in a society that begged for reasons. But have I got society wrong here? Didn’t people used to go for walks for no particular reason? I can walk if I want to and in no particular direction.
On a pointless day with no plans, living alone, I decided one cloudy morning to go for a walk in the heath. Cloudy morning turned to wet afternoon and by the time I heard the first crack of thunder logic dictated that I stay at home, watch something, read something, do something, create something, cook it, eat it or buy it and don’t ask why.
I tried to sit down for a little while and stared through the TV. Daytime TV is why people get jobs. I get up out of the chair and ponder being outside. I ponder staying inside, outside, halfway in and out, stuck in my doorway. I have an urge. It almost feels like a calling, as though I’m supposed to go out. Why? I don’t know why. I promised myself. Is that enough of a reason? Will I go looking for reasons? I laid myself on the carpet and listened to some music and contemplated how the floor needs to meet the hoover more often. It was either time to hoover or to go walking, between raindrops, if possible. A lot of raindrops as it turned out.
I edge out onto my porch and almost question this choice. But it’s not a choice. The rain is a strong drizzle and doesn’t bother me. My reasons, purpose, destination or method don’t worry me. The walk is not a struggle. I don’t seem to fight the conditions but feel buoyed along by it. I might be Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, taken for a ride. I enter the Heath at the bottom of the hill and I hear cries of teenage whooping as soon as I do but I see no teenagers. An expanse of field stretches to the top of the hill and the open space makes me more aware of the occasional crack of thunder and lightning, the source of excitement that has created the whoops I hear. I don’t feel bold enough to march straight through the rough and up the middle of the hill. The rain has driven everyone but the two invisible teenagers away. I still hear but don’t see them. Being open to the elements holds an imaginary feeling of danger that I don’t feel drawn to. As I walk up the paved tree lined route that runs along the side of the hill the rain falls heavier and pounds against the leaves and the route, the walk, everything in a rain storm seems severe. I march with haste and purpose to the very top of the hill. Well, it’s a purpose of sorts, to no end, pointlessness with a great view.
There is a path that cuts across the peak of the hill, the view is almost as spectacular but it isn’t the peak. I ignore the turn off and veer towards the summit. The path rises steeply to it. My teenage screams have gone quiet. At the top the tree line covers what is immediately below. The cut through path and much of the expanse of field below is obscured. What can be seen is the city stretching beyond this leafy burb, a downpour of rain and the lightning occasionally streaking the sky. It feels like voices lead me to this place, even if it was my own. I don’t know why. Are there better days to take impulsive walks? How many people are struck by a purposeless calling?
I have one last desire, one last calling, a pointless purpose before I go. How dangerous does it seem? Statistics will tell you the answer. It seems dangerous to be called to this spot and raise your arms in a thunder storm. Where do you think you are being called to? The chance of being struck by lightning are so slim but when you try and think how you got here it somehow seems possible. To stumble here by chance seems safer. To make a choice to be here seems dangerous. I look out at the city below me and I nag myself to do it. Go on. Both arms in the air. Do it.
But I don’t. I snap out of it and stop hearing my own silly voice. I walk over the top of the hill and through the rough and right through the heart of where I am and that in itself feels good enough. As I hear the whooping again I turn around and stand in the middle of the field and see one skinny kid in jeans with his shirt stripped off, standing on the cut through path, a little under the summit and he’s raising his arms to the skies and whooping a long whoop of excitement and I wonder if he chose to be here.
Memories like this stop you in your tracks, in your muddy countryside tracks. God, I must be mental. And the fun of this march is that I’ve picked a route which you can’t turn back from. It’s miles between towns and there are no buses, so you can’t give up on this, you can only keep going. I look for a full moon to explain the last few hours but the moon I see is a thin sliver and I wonder if it’s new. I never know if the moon is new or not or almost new because I imagine that it can always get thinner. Could it ever be a fine line in the sky? If I found it in me I could go home and Google it and look online and see what a new moon looks like. But pictures don’t interest me. Only wrapped in this moment with this moon, inexplicably here, do I care and I’m glad I’m here because I don’t know where else to be at this moment and no rational thought would have brought me to this place and all I ever need is a prod, an excuse and absolutely no reason.