Your Own Gentle Pace
Earlier this year I took part in a project called Day of Access - a series of walks designed to support vulnerable bodies amidst vulnerable ecologies. Alec Finlay, the project’s founder, invited me to lead the walks after a conversation we had about the way in which the practical endeavour of foraging (looking for food and medicine) creates opportunity to slow down and take the world in.
Many of the plants we encounter on our Plant Listening walks are known as vulnerary herbs. Common weeds such as yarrow, plantain, comfrey and ground-ivy. The collective term is taken from the latin for wound vulnera, the root of vulnerable - to show one’s wounds. Most of the participants for these Day of Access walks, people living with chronic illness, did just that, without shame or self-pity. These were not walkers who were familiar (or particularly interested!) in foraging, and at best the idea was met with resigned bemusement. Regardless, the invitation to take part was the same. Whoever you are and whatever ails you, come and walk gently amongst the trees. No aim, no timeframe - just a time of moving with awareness through this healing, wounded world.
Meandering with a foraging gaze doesn’t require a lot of physical energy, in a sense the opposite - an ability to walk very slowly. Walking in this way is something that those of us who are used to an easy physicality often find hard to do. Our world runs at speed, we are impressed by scale, and so the walks for Day of Access allowed me (the ostensible guide) to be tutored in a different way of walking by participants who have learned that a short walk can still be a great adventure. It was a lesson I sorely needed. Shortly after these walks I began wading through a post-viral malaise that made life’s basic tasks feel monumental. It has been helpful to shift the value of a walk from distance to depth.
Alec and I developed a rhythm for each walk. With the help of his xylotheque walking sticks, the various groups or individuals held a piece of the surrounding highland or lowland woods in their hands, inviting contact with the trees - a practical reminder of the way they support us. Alec selected each of the places we visited, exploring their topography through maps and thoughtful translations of their Gaelic place names. I was then invited to lead the group into that place, looking closely at the vital, verdant details that fill it with life.
Each place, known and named by long-gone people whose bodies are now part of the ground, had its own charm and richness, just as each group did. We walked the tree-covered slopes of Taynish with a group of young people suffering with chronic anxiety. Dripping lichens and rare orchids gave way to a sunny bluebell-covered hilltop, the remnants of felled rainforest, giving pause to reflect on how change and loss can reveal life in new, illuminating ways. Moving from these lush but depleted forests and across the majestic, heather-scorched hills of Braemar was to observe both health and frailty. A picture like the one heading this piece looks impressive, but on closer inspection tells a story of a burnt-out place in need of rest.
Alison, a blind woman who I walked with in Braemar, drew my attention away from the forlorn surroundings and towards the sound of peewits, curlews and Greylag geese she was noticing as we made our tentative way across Glen Feardar. ‘I can hear them all,’ she smiled, ‘so much life!’ Another participant, Brian, listening to the sound of rifle practice rolling off the sea at Tentsmuir in Fife - rolled his ninth cigarette and recalled a rough past life in the army, before gamely eating some sea rocket and declaring it 'not as nice as a roll.' Another participant, June, struggling at the emotion that was emerging from moving through Kirkcaldy Park at a slow, reflective pace, told me that she hadn’t had any feelings for over 30 years, and didn’t intend to start now. A moment spent meditating on the beauty of a common daisy (another vulnerary plant) in St Andrew’s Botanical Garden, led to a rousing rendition of ‘Daisy Bell’. 'I thought I'd forgotten that' said Angela who lives with Alzheimers, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.
Tamara and walkers in the pine woods at Nethy Bridge
As I’ve reflected on these walks over my own recent strange, energy-zapped months, I’ve thought a lot about the struggle we face in allowing ourselves to slow down and simply be where we are. Why is it so hard to do? ‘When I became blind I lost many friends.’ Allison told me. ‘People didn’t know how to walk beside someone who couldn’t see. They either tried to lead me or left me behind at a loss. It’s rare to find someone who can walk beside you at a faltering pace.’
And yet doesn’t the earth, life made manifest, invite us to do just that? Beneath the culture of speed that has us all running, and perhaps the deeper evolutionary need for quick agility in finding food and evading prey, is a world of presence that encourages rest. Threaded through all my experiences of tracking animals who live in close, reciprocal contact with the land, is evidence of this. Whether predator or prey, all wild creatures understand the balance of stillness and hurried movement. Tracking moves at a varied pace, and along the trail we find beds, forms and dens that speak of rest. Time taken, when needed, to sleep, ruminate or lick one’s wounds.
Foraging and tracking both teach us about the wonder of the local, all that we already have. Slowing down - with an eye on the ground and a hand on a supportive stick, allows us to go at a saner, quieter pace. These walks for Day of Access inspired a deep appreciation of the often-overlooked people and plants who live on the margins and, going deeper, the neglected parts of ourselves we tend to neglect. For a moment we stop thinking about the world as a series of abstractions - and our life as a collection of achievements - and simply put one faltering foot in front of the other. As David Polmadie says, ‘there are different paths, they don’t all reach the summit.’