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High-vis, great tits and sausage dogs: a ‘Sex Education’ walk along the Wye

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High-vis, great tits and sausage dogs: a ‘Sex Education’ walk along the Wye

Queer eco-poet, Caleb Parkin and his terriers, the Scruffs, explore the beauty of the Wye Valley, the eye-popping background to Netflix’s utopian teenage series, Sex Education

One of the things I enjoyed about the Netflix series Sex Education (2019 – present) is the way it transformed the landscape of the Wye Valley and Forest of Dean. The backdrop for the show’s stories of gender, sexuality and identity is this forested valley idealised and remixed, its river and bridges the locations for snogs, breakups and sassy one-liners.

I suspect, despite the teenage characters, I’m more the show’s demographic — 30s/40s, often queer; of those who recall a schooling without any of these frank, enlightened conversations about the nuts, bolts and emotional nuances of adolescence.

Monche, or Monmouth to Chepstow, on the Slow Ways route map.

Instead, we had Section 28, which only concluded in 2003 (with a much longer shadow). It was an era of censorship, shame and a total lack of ‘sex education’ for anyone deemed “abnormal” or who might have tended towards the “pretended family relationship” of a same-sex partnership (in the words of Section 28 itself).

My intention here is to write something pop culture-infused about both this natural landscape and also how the ‘landscape’ has changed for LGBT+ young people to be “out in nature” (groan)

With no buses out this way and two dogs in the boot, I headed over via the M4 diversion and passed Chepstow racecourse en route. My intention here is to write something pop culture-infused about both this natural landscape and also how the ‘landscape’ has changed for LGBT+ young people to be “out in nature” (groan).

But this morning, I read yet another article evidencing what we humans are doing to our fellow earthlings; human biomass, combined with all our livestock, vastly, literally outweigh all wild mammals. Even the immense whales, in their dwindled numbers, can’t compete with the unstoppable bulk of humankind, our canine companions, our Chepstow racehorses.

Who cares whether we can hold hands in public or if the outdoors is a truly genderful, inclusive space, when we are all just a big lump of humanity, flinging wildlife into space on the planet’s biomass seesaw?

I’m here now though. There are bridges to look at, including the one where Adam got dumped by Eric (rightly so, in my opinion), and I might get lunch at Browns Village Store. Maybe being “out in nature” will help me forget the news for a moment, of how much nature is out; that is, gone entirely. Maybe being out in it, trying to imagine that it could possibly become itself again, is the point?

Wireworks Bridge

Wireworks Bridge is closed for repairs. I wonder how many others have come, as I have, to see this site of many a pithy and dramatic exchange, before characters whizz off on bikes, turning a corner to a location which is, in reality, 20 miles away.

I suspect more tourism isn’t really required at Tintern Abbey but wonder whether the money from all the Sex Education tourists is contributing to the repairs of this industrial heritage. I hope so.

Wireworks Bridge closed for repairs

A while back I read a Granta piece, Shifting Baselines, about biodiversity and abundance or lack thereof, in the perception of each consecutive generation. We don’t know what’s missing if we haven’t grown up with it.

There’s a football match on the playing fields, men and boys in high-vis roaring at each other. More men in high-vis clank across Wireworks Bridge, as they piece it back together.

Sometimes I feel all-too high visibility myself, with some rainbow socks or nail varnish on. What remains visible? Who or what becomes invisible, simply in their abundance?

Brockweir Bridge
Brockweir Bridge up close

Brockweir Bridge

It’s definitely a spring day. On my way to Brockweir Bridge, I’ve been thinking about utopias, non-places. How this valley became one, on-screen.

The thing about utopias is, what gets edited out? Sex Education‘s Wye Valley is transatlantic, post-racial, delightfully queer. There’s no dog poo in gutters, no front lawn flags for ongoing conflicts abroad. Instead, it’s a valley of snappily dressed, glittery beings on charming voyages of discovery.

I’m relieved to find the footpath again after the narrow pavements. I think about how different it is to follow meanders rather than tarmac.

Sex Education‘s Wye Valley is transatlantic, post-racial, delightfully queer

I pause to identify a particular, persistent birdsong. It is a tit, of some sort. The BirdNet app says it’s a great tit, with a background of rooks. How perfect, I think, this Carry On vibe— out in nature searching “great tits” online. How ideal, with that gothy backdrop of rook.

We’re on the other side of the Wye now, then over at Bigsweir, back down via Llandogo and Bargain Wood; all are filming locations.

It’s almost certain I’ll need another ‘nature wee’ on the way (yes, I’ve already done one). Hopefully there’ll be a quiet spot to be “out in nature”, adding more fluid to the riverscape. Hopefully I won’t get caught or caught out, but manage to find an off-path corner (utopias definitely have public toilets, just not AONB riverbanks.)

The Scruffs (as my terriers are known) have a had a Small Dog Conference on our way here, with a surprisingly game sausage dog. They scamper about, wiggling to a soundtrack of bleating sheep over the river. I watch the doglets adoringly, the way we do. I hazard a guess at how much the flock of sheep weighs. The combined mass of all us people, in our sensible outdoor clothes.

Bigsweir Bridge

The journey up the river to Bigsweir is longer than anticipated. It’s 2pm and I am out of snacks.

We meet a man with his two kids, picnicking. One child asks if there are buttercups, but the parent says it’s too early.

Then I spot one, and then another. I let them know. The whole field appears buttercupped then, luminous yellow and seeking chins.

The man says to look out for a collie in high-vis, who’d taken off after a herd of deer earlier. One smaller biomass displacing so many others.

Our older dog, Barney, is thirteen now, and less agile; we’ll soon have to walk him separately. I think about how it isn’t the same landscape, depending on which body you’re in. How different the map is, compared to the actual walk.

Browns Convenience Store, Landed

Browns is also closed. Google Maps has no indicators of a nearby food source and, suburbanite that I am, I fear this means no food at all. Mercifully, The Sloop Inn is open and friendly, a lasagne now on its way.

The women serving at the Sloop say Browns is meant to reopen next year. I imagine the convenience store as featured in the show, its shelves full of unbranded tins, a bounty of product-placement-avoiding goods staged for the cameras. The crew probably went home with it, or it went back to a prop store. There are no empty stores, presumably, in utopias. No ‘food deserts’.

The lasagne is passable. My human battery is back to about 80%.

Sometimes I wonder if I am doing ‘being on a walk’ wrong— stopping to make notes, talking freely with the dogs or even with corvids, flying insects, or anyone else I encounter

Sometimes I wonder if I am doing ‘being on a walk’ wrong— stopping to make notes, talking freely with the dogs or even with corvids, flying insects, or anyone else I encounter. It seems perfectly reasonable for me to talk out loud to other living things, or even rivers. On some level, I believe they receive my communication…which is not the same as understanding what I am saying. On some level, I believe we are part of what Mary Oliver calls, ‘the family of things’.

We set off for Bargain Wood, the woodland through which Otis and Eric cycle to school. Except it isn’t, of course: the geography is all rearranged for the cameras.

Bargain Wood

We walk up, above the small road where, I believe, the cycling-to-school scenes are filmed. Next, we take a tantalising path uphill through the woods.

On the way, we pass three people in high-vis, hefting bags of lager cans, wielding litter-pickers. More high-vis, but this time of practical care.

Barney struggles a bit up the hill. We take a quieter path and there is a moment where the afternoon sunlight is shining perfectly through the branches, just budding. A woodpecker is audible nearby, thwacking away. I sit on a log, listen.

It feels fairly utopian, except there aren’t any other people around. Being sat on this log, eyes closed, listening to a woodpecker, is about the most ‘me’ I can feel, I think. Whatever that means. Can you listen to a woodpecker queerly? (Thwack)

After the sublime, the inevitable ridiculousness; we lose the path, stagger down some very steep, probably-not-public paths, descend toward Tintern and close this loop.

I wonder what the montage of my walk today would be like. Was it a daytime TV feature, or a folk-horror yarn? How would the editing, the angles, tell a certain version of this story?

Walking and being alone outdoors, having access to this Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty less than an hour from home feels utopian enough right now. Even with all its dog poo, its flags, the funny looks and the knowledge of thinning birdsong.

Perhaps that’s the queerest thing of all — to go out into nature, whatever that is, with all its troubles, all the troubles we bring it. To try and be together anyway, mincing through the wreckage, loving it all the same.

🐌

Caleb walked around the Tintern and Llandgo area of the Wye Valley, crossing the Wye’s bridges as he went. If you would like to try walking a Slow Way in the area, there are two Slow Ways routes between Momouth and Chepstow that will travel a similar route: Monche one and Monche two.

Caleb Parkin

Caleb Parkin is a queer eco poet & facilitator, based in Bristol.

He tutors for Poetry Society, Poetry School and First Story and holds an MSc in Creative Writing for Therapeutic Purposes.

From 2020 – 2022, he was the third Bristol City Poet. His book, The Fruiting Body, was longlisted for the Laurel Prize.

Website

Rediscovering London in 360°

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Rediscovering London in 360°

Lifelong Londoner and photographer Michael Shilling sets out to walk six Slow Ways chosen entirely by an ambitious Twitter poll

In January 2020, I embarked on a personal photography project. The goal was to explore as much of London as possible and take 360° pictures along the way. I had realised that despite living in London most of my life, I barely visited many of the boroughs and in fact knew very little about most. 

I had walked along the Gatun locks in Panama,
but had never passed by the Grand Union Canal

I had spent four glorious summers in the natural wonder that is Alaska,
but had never been to the Walthamstow Wetlands.

I failed to realise what was on my own doorstep 

To begin with, I mostly wandered around and posted my daily adventures on Instagram. Soon, fellow photographer Christopher Hope-Fitch and I entered into a friendly wager. Whilst we were initially motivated by the spoils (an evening’s drinks paid for at Croydon’s finest ale establishment, The Royal Standard), what transpired throughout the pandemic was an abundance of mental wealth for both of us.  

Christopher began his project photographing Brutalist architecture at night with his unique style. Slowly we began forming a system where Christopher would find something interesting he wanted to photograph at night, and I would suggest a route to take us there in the day.  

I used the Capital Ring, London Loop and Thames walks as routes, before I discovered Slow Ways.  

Sutcou (to Sutton)
Sutmit (to Mitcham)
Mitstr (to Streatham)
Strbri (to Brixton)
Batbri (to Battersea)
Batvic (to Victoria)

Our walks became mini middle-aged adventures exploring London. With pubs, theatres and my own business closed we amused ourselves by scaling the heights of the infamous Beckton Alp, climbing inside World War II pill boxes on closed airfields and storming across Swanscombe Marshes, desperate to catch the last train home.  

In November 2021, I started making films of my walks. This was a form of self accountability and a way to simply get better at filmmaking. If I committed to publishing one film a week, then I would have to:

1. do one big walk a week

2. figure out a way to make these films quickly and easily

My desire to create interesting and unique videos and photos needed to be balanced with portability and comfort, so I took full advantage of the technical evolution in small and portable cameras. My basic kit consists of a 360° camera, a pocket video camera, a tiny action camera, a good stills camera and a small drone. 

The equipment I’m using to records these adventures is best described in this video. 

.

But I’ve preambled like a recipe blogger…

When I saw the news about the swarm I had to get involved. My initial idea was to walk across London. This idea was powered by Slow Ways’ founder Dan Raven-Ellison’s off-the-cuff comment that “you can easily walk across London in a day”. Some googling revealed that Dan’s interpretation of “easy” was in fact an 18-hour, 56km jaunt across London: 

Time Out: An urban wanderer walked all the way across London. Here’s what he discovered

It’s important to know your own limits. In a pair of Jordans and with a chronic illness, 56km is probably beyond mine. Thus, I asked the Slow Ways community to vote with Twitter polls to determine the route I would take. 

I decided upon Coulsdon as my start point, as it was the best southerly central-London point on the Slow Ways network for me to travel to. Over the space of a week people voted on a route that took me to Sutton, Mitcham, Streatham, Brixton and Battersea before finishing at Victoria Station. The waylist included six unverified routes with the potential to snail at least one. Here’s the waylist I made.

I made a short video of my trip and created a Twitter thread for real-time updates during the day. Reviewing each section as I went along gave me a welcome breather.  

Despite walking alone, having real-time encouragement from the Slow Ways community on Twitter was a wonderful experience. Here’s a quick overview of each section with some of my signature 360° images.

Coulsdon Town to Sutton

Slow Ways route Sutcou

The route begins with a nice uphill section of the London Loop to start with lovely views. Passing through Oaks Park is a treat with the daffodils in full bloom. Heading into Carshalton got a bit hilly but the suburban walk into Sutton was very pleasant.

Sutton to Mitcham 

Slow Ways route Sutmit

Although the route avoids the main roads, it was pretty much all suburban streets until it skimmed the edge of the St Helier Open Space. I was treated to a nice view of the ever-rising Croydon skyline. The routes gives a teaser of the Wandle Trail before heading back onto a main road into Mitcham.

Mitcham to Streatham  

Slow Ways route Mitstr

This was main road all the way passing a little bit of green space in the form of Figges Marsh. There’s very little else to add other than it was mainly flat till about halfway along Mitcham Lane where there is a slight hill. When I arrived in Streatham I became very aware that the sun was slowly turning me a bright shade of pink. 

I spent the best part of 20 minutes unsuccessfully searching Tesco for suncream before investing in a pair of baseball caps… because obviously hats are only sold in pairs. 

Streatham to Brixton

Slow Ways route Strbri

This was an alternative route provided by Dan Raven-Ellison at just after midnight the night before the swarm. It turned out to be my favourite section of the day. 

The route starts off straight away by taking you off a busy road down a nice footpath. It goes residential after that with a nice section along the railway line on Leigham Vale.  

It was lovely walking down Trinity Rise to Brockwell Park, with absolutely amazing views of the City skyline. After that it was straight on to Brixton. 

Brixton to Battersea  

Slow Ways route Batbri

After leaving the hustle and bustle of Brixton, the route takes you down a lovely residential street towards Clapham. I took a few shots of Lionel Stanhope’s Brixton station mural. 

Once Clapham High Street is negotiated, it’s back onto quieter side streets. Heathbrook Park adds some welcome green space, and the tap rooms in the adjacent viaducts may prove irresistible. 

The remaining route twists and winds its way under bridges and archways through to Battersea. 

Battersea to Victoria Station

Slow Ways route Batvic

The route heads into the wonderful Battersea Park and skims around its edge along beautifully kept footpaths. You’re then treated to a stroll across Chelsea bridge before a simple but functional jaunt towards Victoria station. 

With 15 minutes to go, there were texts from my wife enquiring about my arrival time back home. With a promised takeaway in mind, I powered through the last section and hopped on the next train home.

Glossary

  • Swarm: An organised weekend where we get the community doing as much walking, preferably on unconfirmed routes
  • Mental wealth: a term borrowed from mental health campaigner Lee Townsend
  • Waylist: a list of walks to undertake on Slow Ways
  • Snail: the badge of verification for a route. To get the snail you are the third person to positively review a route

Inspired to go on your own Slow Ways urban wander? Discover new routes in different cities across the UK! Sign up to walk and review Slow Ways. Follow us on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook. 

Walking together: life lessons from the Slow Ways community

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Walking together: life lessons from the Slow Ways community

Ingrina Shieh joins Slow Ways super-volunteers for a walk from Henley-in-Arden to Stratford-upon-Avon

On the train from Marylebone to Henley-in-Arden, via Banbury and Leamington Spa

I am on my fourth train by the time the sky fades to blue, then purple to pink to orange.

It’s an uncommonly early Saturday start, but I’ve been getting used to this. Slow Ways walkers choose all sorts of routes throughout Great Britain to expand the network, and anywhere within reach of main train stations is fair game. Sometimes it’s a short jaunt across the Thames; other times, it’s like this morning – a four-hour, six-train journey through the British countryside.

Though this kind of transport gymnastics used to seem tedious, each stop adds to my mental map of the train network. Paddington to the west and southwest, Clapham Junction or Victoria for the south and southeast, Euston or Kings Cross to the midlands and everywhere north.

Today, we will walk Henstr 3, Henley-in-Arden to Stratford-upon-Avon, neither to which I’ve been, so I am on the edge of my seat anticipating the adventures ahead.

As I daydream of streets lined with thatched roofs and Elizabethan facades, rail disruptions are causing chaos on this morning’s travel and staggering our arrival times. Though we are all confident solo walkers, a group walk means no one is left behind and we agree to split, some starting at 10am and others at 11am, and meet in Stratford-upon-Avon.

Despite a cancelled connection at Leamington Spa, I meet David, Hugh, Sumaiya, Ken and John at 10am near a bench across from the medieval Church of St John the Baptist. After a few introductions we set off to pioneer Ken’s new route, Hugh taking the lead, with Mary and Saira to follow in our footsteps at 11.

The route takes us across the town and past a small farm before opening up into a series of fields. From the train, they were a blur of white sheets; up close, you could see all the tufts of grass poking out beneath the frost, the longer stalks covered with sparkling crystals: hoar frost.

Hoar frost: meaning aged, venerable, grey in old English and used for the climate phenomena that makes frost look feathery, like white hair or a beard

Frozen blades crunch beneath my boots as I drift in and out of conversation, stopping occasionally to take photos (everything is gorgeous). While I love walking alone, I realise that going solo can limit appreciation of a landscape in its entirety. With others I can see how paths and horizons stretch and expand in relation to a human figure, how phases of daylight change the colour of someone’s eyes, how boots spread mud to leave a trail of fresh prints.

We cross a gate onto a path along the Stratford-upon-Avon canal, which we will take all the way to Stratford-upon-Avon. The path is mostly generous in width and terrain. Muddy sections have frozen over so we can walk on the ridges without slipping and sinking, and we can walk comfortably in pairs and rotate partners. Each person points out different things; a confused moorhen walking on the frozen water, the abandoned boathouse covered with fallen leaves, branches that take off hats if you’re tall enough (I’m not), and the impressive Edstone Aqueduct — which I would later find out is the longest canal aqueduct in England.

And of course, we talk ‘walking’, weaving life stories between steps. I learn of where people grew up and live through their walking destinations and knowledge. A conversation about walking to calm anxiety leads to finding out what we do in our day jobs. We talk braving Scotland’s fells and temperamental weather to be rewarded with magical cloud inversions on the summits. I am always surprised at how walking becomes a gentle conduit between people – whether friends, acquaintances, or strangers – to wile away the miles.

The path gets busier as we approach Stratford-upon-Avon. After departing the canal into the town centre, we pick through the weekend crowds to the finishing point — another bench, this time by a visitor information centre. The town is full of Christmas, lights hanging across the shops and above market stalls, rides and carols accompany the chatter. We head for warmth and a drink, but we didn’t book a table in advance, so we have to pop into a few pubs (an interesting way to discover various haunts, albeit brief!) before settling into The One Elm, where Saira and Mary meet us after their walk.

On the multi-train journey home, I realise that this is my last Slow Ways walk of 2022. It is a stark contrast to my first ever Slow Ways journey back in March, when I’d set out on my own to get to Midhurst over three days, marching to my own pace with podcasts for company. I hadn’t known then that people were walking Slow Ways webs around their area or gradually lengthening their waylists across Great Britain. I hadn’t conversed with anyone about noticing when the logos on bins changed or the differences between gates and stiles. I hadn’t debated about walking for scenery, pleasure, exercise, transport, or all of the above.

I remember a moment after we stopped for a snack break. Ken asked, “How do you like the route so far?”

“Quite a lot of canal, but really nice!” I answered.

“Is that a criticism?” John asked. I mulled it over a bit.

“It is what it is, isn’t it?” Sure, it’s a non-committal answer, but if the Slow Ways community has taught me anything, it’s that you never assume anything about a route. Routes are mere lines on a map until people bring them to life by walking and wheeling them, feeling the landscapes through their senses, and interpreting their own experiences of walking to share with others.

In walking with others, I am learning more about what walking is and can be in a way I never could alone. We walk to get from one place to another, maybe to get lost, maybe both. We follow coastlines to hear the crashing waves because the sea feels like home. We clamber up mountains to be above the clouds. Or to temporarily exhaust ourselves out of despair. We wander fields and valleys for the joy of seeing flora and fauna change with the seasons. We trace the ancient footsteps and roads to absorb history. We walk to forage — for food and for peace of mind. We walk to test what is possible, pushing not only land boundaries but our own.

It is humbling and inspiring, and I can’t wait to grab my boots and head off to the next one.

Read Ingrina’s tips for making the best of multi-day hiking, followed by Saira’s account of her first walk with the super-volunteers. Want to go on a journey starting from Henley-in-Arden or Stratford-upon-Avon? Explore the routes, and sign up to walk and review Slow Ways. Follow us on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook. 

Ingrina Shieh

Ingrina Shieh is a volunteer London National Park City Ranger and passionate active traveller who loves exploring places and connections on foot. Ingrina has walked in many different parts of the UK on established trails in between cities or towns. Her recent solo journey took her on 15 routes over three days from London to its closest national park, South Downs. She particularly loves multi-day hiking and camping and is now working towards a UK Mountain Leader Award.

Ingrina’s Instagram

Dartmoor and you: land access rights around the UK

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Dartmoor and you: land access rights around the UK

The right to wild camp has been lost on Dartmoor, or rather, the High Court has decreed, we never had it in the first place.

Previously known as the only part of England where wild camping was allowed, on 13th January it was decreed that the 1985 Dartmoor Commons act only allowed users to pass through, not stay overnight in, Devon’s largest National Park.

The story so far

Alexander Darwall bought land in Dartmoor in 2011, becoming the sixth largest landowner on the moor. The Darwalls’ High Court case concluded on 13 January 2023, when judge Sir Julian Flaux decreed that the Dartmoor Commons Act, which passed in 1985 and includes the phrase “right to open air recreation,” does not include overnight stays on the moor. 

The landowners involved have agreed with the National Park Authority to allow wild camping in certain areas (seen on the map linked below), but campaign groups including Right to Roam are displeased, as this means the landowners can revoke this permission at any time; there is no universal right to camp. The decision led to a protest on 21 January, as Right to Roam led hundreds of outdoor enthusiasts in a march across Dartmoor. Larger protests are planned as the weather improves. 

This is a very England (and Wales) specific problem, as in Scotland, and many other European countries such as Norway, citizens already enjoy a right to wild camp in remote areas. 

The 1932 Kinder Trespass saw hundreds of Mancunian factory workers defiantly hike into the privately owned Peak District. The ringleaders were arrested, but the “right to roam” movement had begun. This led to the creation of the first national parks, through the National Parks and Access to the Countryside Act 1949, an act which also required all public rights of way to be mapped. Public access was extended by New Labour with the Countryside and Rights of Way Act 2000 (the CROW Act), which enshrined the public’s “on foot” right of access to “open country”, defined as mountains (600 metres above sea level), moor, heath and down, or registered common land. However, neither of these laws included the right to wild camp: Dartmoor was previously thought to be the only exception in England and Wales.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/nampara/4569260152/
Dartmoor rocks, CC 2.0 Jonathan Camp on Flickr

Labour Party MPs have now declared their support for extending current rights of access into rights of recreation. This means not only would Brits (and tourists) have the right to pass through a wild area, but also to camp, climb and more. 

Update (6 April): The Dartmoor National Park Authority has won the right to appeal the ban, in the court of appeals. The judge in the court of appeals, Lady Justice Asplin, decided that the previous judge misconstrued the meaning of the term “open air recreation,” which could perhaps include wild camping. Lawyers for the park argue that the ban fails to take into account the historical interpretation of the law.

What exactly is wild camping?

Wild camping refers to any camping done outside of designated campsites. A wild camping spot can be reached by any lawful means; on foot, by bike (bikepacking), horse or vehicle. In the case of Dartmoor, this mostly refers to backpack-only wild camping, where campers approach on foot, make camp with only what they can carry in their backpack, then pack up at sunrise to continue their walk, most importantly making sure to leave no trace.

Campervan owners tend to call a similar practice “stealth camping”, where a van or car is parked up in a lay-by and slept in overnight.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/christdphotography/37243289496/
Dartmoor wild camping view of the stars CC 2.0 Chris TD on Flickr

The Darwalls’ objection to free-for-all camping is based on a claimed increase in “fly camping” which derives from “fly tipping,” where people dump rubbish on-the-fly at roadsides. Fly camping refers to people setting up camp, perhaps having a messy party, and leaving rubbish including cans, cigarette ends and human waste behind.

Campaigners, in response, pointed out that fly tipping, killing animals and lighting fires are forbidden under the 1985 act, and that anyone doing such forbidden activities as a part of wild camping would probably still camp if camping was also forbidden.

Wild camping in Scotland

Wild camping in Scotland goes back to bothies. Historically, masses of land in Scotland has been carved up by a small cadre of landowners. Despite this there is a long standing tradition of the commoners having access to the land. The Trespass (Scotland) Act 1865 tried to make it illegal to set up tents or campfires without the owner’s permission, but most people just ignored this legislation, preferring to risk the fine. This was superseded by the Land Reform (Scotland) act 2003, which among other things gave Scots and visitors the right to responsible recreation which adheres to the Scottish Outdoor Access Code.

Wild camping is permitted under this code. Campers are advised not to camp in enclosed fields and keep away from roads and buildings. That sounds exhaustive, but remember that the Act allows people unfettered access to huge tracts of uncultivated land across Scotland which wouldn’t come under that list.

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Dartmoor photo CC 2.0 shrdlu- on flickr

Of course, the Code stipulates that campers must leave no trace. In 2017, in response to increased amounts of litter being left around Loch Lomond, the National Park authority there introduced bylaws restricting camping around its lochs. Campers must now only stay in designated areas within the park, with a permit.

It’s this 2003 act and resulting access code which Labour politicians are now promising to replicate in England and Wales if they are elected.

Wild camping in Scandinavia

Norway is perhaps the number one destination people think about when the term “wild camping” is on their lips. Sweden, too, has some comparatively permissive laws around wild camping.  Both Norwegian and Swedish have words for the “freedom to roam”; allemansrätten in Sweden and allemannsrett in Norway. As you might guess, these both translate as “all men’s rights to roam”.

So how do the Scandis deal with campers behaving badly? The answer is that the Scandis are better behaved in the first place: it comes down to cultural differences. The concept of “friluftsliv” is central to the Scandi way of getting out in nature. It translates as “open air living”, and it means you have to treat your outdoor environment as if it was your living room. That means a minimum of damage, so no fires in particular.

The privileges afforded to active wild travellers are not afforded to motor vehicles. Stealth camping in a van remains heavily restricted.

Wild camping in other European countries

In France, you can wild camp, but you must travel light. Bivouacking (the technical term for bivvy-bagging) is allowed between 7pm and 9am in France’s National Parks: that means you can sleep wild, but you can’t pitch a tent. However: an issue that often comes to light in our current wild camping debacle is how England and Wales’ National Parks only cover 8% of the countryside. So spare a thought for the French, whose parks are fewer and smaller than ours.

Meanwhile, in the Baltics, wild camping is allowed anywhere except National Parks.

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Nick Bramhall: wild camping above Loch Avon in Scotland’s Caingorms National Park. CC 2.0 photo from flickr

Wild camping worldwide

Wild camping is a popular pastime in the USA, Canada and many South American countries. In the US, you can camp wild on public lands, such as in the US National Parks, as long as it’s not on private property, ecologically sensitive, or near a road or water source. It’s similar in Canada where, of course, you have to be on the lookout for genuine grizzly bears rather than irate English landowners. In Argentina, wild camping is allowed anywhere apart from the Peninsula Valdez, a UNESCO world heritage site. Thankfully, despite the exclusion of that picturesque 8900 square km, there is still over 2 million square km of Argentina to pitch a tent on.

In New Zealand, wild camping is known as freedom camping and is legal but with a number of rules attached to it, which differ based on local authorities. Meanwhile in Australia, wild camping is illegal. Much like in Israel, you can set up a tent at a designated free camping spot, but that’s as good as it gets. This doesn’t mean that people don’t wild camp there (Australia is a big place, after all) but that they have to do so knowing they’re in trouble if they get caught. The rules are there to deter backpackers from littering the popular surf spots of Australia’s cities; it seems unlikely that anyone would fault you for camping in the Outback, that great expanse of wilderness that makes up most of Australia’s landmass. It is interesting that wild camping is illegal in the whole of Australia for similar reasons it has been limited here on Dartmoor.

Why is wild camping important?

There are many walks that can’t be easily done without a few overnight stays. For example, there is the Devon coast-to-coast, which takes around five days and therefore four nights sleeping on Dartmoor.

Camping has many benefits. In Scandinavia, they call getting outdoors “friluftsliv“. The phrase evokes a sense not just of getting out into the wild, but embracing the outdoors as if it were our own living room; taking time to make peace with the fact that this is our natural envionment and that we should feel as at home here as we do on a busy street or alone in our own bedroom.

Wild camping in particular harkens back to earlier times, before common land was enclosed and the common man became a serf of a feudal lord. Our ancestors would have camped as they roamed the forests of Britain, before eventually settling down from the nomadic lifestyle. Thankfully, unlike our ancestors, we have some very good lightweight waterproof materials these days so camping can be very cosy indeed.

Wistman's Wood, Dartmoor cc-by-sa/2.0 - © Alan Hunt - geograph.org.uk/p/4801748
Featured image, here and above: Wistman’s Wood, Dartmoor. CC-by-sa/2.0 © Alan Hunt

In medieval Wales, the tradition (or, some might say, legend) of Tŷ unnos (a one-night house) was similar to the modern concept of “squatter’s rights”. If a small cottage similar to a modern bothy could be built overnight on a remote corner of an estate, complete with a lit hearth when morning came, the builder now had the freehold of that small patch of land. This, much like the presumed right to wild camp on Dartmoor, had no actual standing in the law.

Are you planning a multi-day walking trip? Have a read of Ingrina Shieh’s guide to overnight walking. Follow Slow Ways on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook and share your wildcamping adventures. Sign up to walk and review Slow Ways.

A freeing wheeling journey in West Yorkshire

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A freeing wheeling journey in West Yorkshire

Lucy Keyworth’s rough but relaxing canalside ramble, as seen from a lever-propelled off-road wheelchair

I spent a chilly Wednesday morning wheeling the Slow Way route from Slaithwaite to Marsden. This was a fun 4.3km route following the canal towpath. As a wheelchair user, this walk would have been difficult in a standard wheelchair, due to the uneven and rough terrain found next to the canal.

Outdoor spaces are often difficult for disabled people to access. This could be due to man-made barriers like stiles or simply not having access to the right equipment such as off-road wheels. Thankfully, I was able to use a Mountain Trike to allow me to tackle the rough terrain and successfully complete my Slow Ways journey.

Mountain Trikes are off-road wheelchairs propelled forward using two drive levers. The suspension and wheels make it easy to cruise over rough terrain and the added electric assist really helps get you up steep hills.

Marsla one – the route from Slaithwaite to Marsden

The route was reasonably flat overall with the occasional bridge to push over. As it was a cold January morning, the paths were a bit muddy, but it was an enjoyable route nevertheless. I love the outdoors, the sense of freedom and escapism you get when outside surrounded by green hills or woodland. This route allowed me to switch off, relax and enjoy the mental benefits of being outdoors.

Check out Experience Community’s TikTok below to follow Lucy’s journey!

@experiencecommunity

Slow ways Slaithwaite to Marsden 🌳#wheelchair #outdoor #disability #mountaintrike #huddersfield

♬ Heartbeats – Jose Gonzalez

About Experience Community

Experience Community is a not-for-profit Community Interest Company that provides films and information about walks and other leisure activities for disabled people and the wider community. Because different people have varying abilities we don’t say what is or isn’t accessible, we simply provide information so that you can decide if the activity is suitable for your needs.

We hope that through providing the videos you can see exactly what the walk or activity has to offer. In addition to this, we also provide written information, maps, photos and links to other websites so that you can really get a grasp of what to expect.

We can provide specialist equipment such as these Mountain Trikes and off-road hand cycles and organise rambles across the North and beyond. We also offer advice and consultancy to make recreational services more suitable for disabled people. Do get in touch!

For more information this is the Experience Community website! Do you have a Slow Ways wheeling story? We’d love to hear it!

Lucy Keyworth

Lucy Keyworth is founder of Leeds Paraclimbing Club. She is also the delivery officer at Experience Community, whose offices are right next to this Slow Way at Slaithwaite (incidentally pronounced ‘Slawit’!).

Lucy’s own Instagram

10 reasons why I love walking Slow Ways

Saira Niazi
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10 reasons why I love walking Slow Ways

When community stories lead, Saira, walked her first route she found herself hooked by hidden paths that fed her curiosity for stories, people and places

Since starting at Slow Ways last year, I’ve walked a lot of routes. Some I’ve walked with colleagues and friends, others with strangers, but mostly I’ve walked alone. Early last year I embarked on very my first Slow Ways journey; largely unplanned, it took me from Canvey Island to Southend-on-Sea in Essex.

I walked across beaches, country parks, muddy marshes and through busy high streets. I stayed a night at Metal, an alternative Art School on the edge of the estuary. I met a local councillor named Peter, a wild swimming instructor in recovery, a sweet elderly couple, a farmer from Basildon and a basket weaver. I collected stories, took photographs and within the space of a few days, I was hooked!

My Slow Ways adventures have since taken me to so many different places — from Bradford to Bedfordshire and Newcastle to the Norfolk Broads. Every walk has been a revelation; I’ve discovered parts of the UK I wouldn’t have otherwise known about. On my journeys, I’ve connected with wondrous people, discovered incredible stories, traversed varied landscapes, and stumbled upon hidden gems. It’s been nothing short of magical! And, while I could easily list a HUNDRED reasons why I love walking Slow Ways, here are my top ten.

1. Community

The Slow Ways community is very special! It’s made up of a magical mix of storytellers, change-makers, dreamers, doers, wanderers, wayfarers, walkers and, of course, a growing number of intrepid volunteers.

It feels nice to be part of a walking community. As a solo walker, I love being able to follow the journeys of other solo walkers through their reviews and posts on social media. It feels great to be connected through the act of sharing our findings, our photographs, a map, a drawing, some words — a story.  

The pioneering Slow Ways volunteers I’ve met and connected with are incredibly kind, knowledgable, and adventurous. I love following their journeys on Twitter; David’s Brighton to New Brighton voyage, Mary’s ever growing photo library of stiles, tiles and bridges, Tony’s hand-drawn labyrinth of primary, secondary & tertiary routes he’s walked from his hometown of Edgware. Then there’s Mike’s ‘unhinged transit adventures’, Ingrina’s long distance multi-day treks through wild National Parks and Jane’s wondrous and spread out walks using paths seldom trodden.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Michael’s super cool 360° videos, Smith’s daring wild camping journeys, Anna’s upbeat South Downs jaunts and Helen’s wholesome wanderings with her dog. I love Hugh’s attentiveness, filling in key gaps in the network. Neil’s wondrous Welsh waterfalls, Tim’s epic mountainous meanderings, Zahra and Marlon’s joyous community group walks, Lynn’s magical illustrated journal logs chronicling her walks, Derick’s out-of-London green hikes, Liz’s solo urban and country meanderings… the list goes on and on and on. There are so many people on the Slow Ways social feeds whose journeys inspire me and propel me to walk more often, further and for more purposes. It’s a community that I feel very happy to be part of!

The occasions in which I’ve walked with some of our volunteers (now friends) have been so much fun. One of my most memorable Slow Ways walk to date, was organised by David Sanderson and attended by a band of us. It was a 15 mile (in part, stop and start) journey that started and ended in my hometown of Tooting.

The Slow Ways community is wonderful, welcoming and supportive — as it continues to grow, and attract more and more people from all walks of life, I’m hopeful this sense of solidarity and openness too will grow.

Photo: Mary Austin
Photo: Mike Tormey

2. Purpose

It’s nice to know I’m contributing to a National Walking Network that will help people get from A to B, with confidence and (hopefully) ease. It’s even better to know that with every mile walked and kilometre scribed, someone will read my review and be encouraged to add their own. Together these will create an incredible mosaic of experiences and insights.

It’s nice to know that these routes will be walked again and again. That they’ll connect people and places, far and wide. That every journey is a story and that every story is a world unto itself

It’s great knowing that I’m pitching in to create something practical, something momentous and extraordinary. That this network will be used for future generations for an endless number of reasons. It’s nice to know that these routes will be walked again and again. That they’ll connect people and places, far and wide. That every journey is a story and that every story is a world unto itself.

3. It’s always an adventure!

Every route I’ve walked so far has been an adventure — from Sunderland to Stratford-upon-Avon! I’ve seen castles, cutural centres, ruins, derelict factories, mills and museums. I’ve walked under motorways, over hills, through colourful and dank underpasses and alongside rivers and canals. I’ve slogged through mud and shingle, in heavy rain and sunshine. I’ve walked during the days and at night, in cities and in the countryside. Every walk has been an adventure that has left me feeling excited about planning the next journey.

It’s opened up the country to me in a whole new way…

As someone who doesn’t drive (and has no intention to learn), the fact that most routes start and end at a place where you can get public transport is enormously valuable. It’s opened up the country to me in a whole new way, enabling me to explore ‘remote’ areas, knowing that I’ll (eventually) be able to find my way back.

On my walks, I’ll meet all sorts of awesome people; I’ve met community artists and climate activists, photographers and foragers. I’ve met youth workers, up-cyclers and musicians. Walking Slow Ways has enabled me to explore parts of the UK, and to get to know the people, places and stories that make them special.

4. New discoveries

Walking Slow Ways allows you to discover new routes both near your home and further afield. On my walk with other Slow Wayers that started in Tooting, I discovered a part of the River Wandle that I never knew was accessible by foot, and got to pass through the incredible arches of the Henry Prince Estate. As a local tour guide and someone who felt they knew every inch of their local area, I was STUNNED!

Slow Ways often takes in paths less travelled, and in traversing these paths, you discover SO MUCH that you wouldn’t have otherwise. On recent wanderings, I’ve discovered the National Glass Centre, a fossilised tree from Aleppo, a hidden garden, a local cemetery, a secret beach. You never know quite what to expect while walking Slow Ways — and that’s part of the fun. Which brings me to another reason why I love walking Slow Ways…

5. It’s FUN

Checking Slow Ways routes is fun! It’s fun not knowing what to expect. There’s an element of surprise with each route walked, even routes that have been reviewed and verified. It’s fun getting a foot ferry across a river, thinking on your feet and taking a mile long detour to avoid a motorway crossing… it’s even fun getting lost in the dark and trying to find your way back to civilisation (if a bit scary).

I love the sense of relief and achievement you get at the end of every walk when you finally arrive at a settlement, and when you’re waiting for the train or bus, reflecting on all the things that you’ve seen, heard and learnt that day. You also learn a lot on Slow Ways walks from bits of local language, local culture, heritage to history. In a perfect world, my work would solely consist of walking, reviewing and writing about Slow Ways routes.

6. Stories, Stories, Stories

Illustration: Kohenoor Kamal
Illustration: Lynn Jackson
Photo: Finn Hopson
Artwork:Ranya Abdulateef
Photo: Jasmine Pasha
Artwork: Rosie Wainwright

Checking Slow Ways inspires me to write, share and commission all sorts of ‘out-there’ stories. I come up with my best ideas while walking; it’s also the only time I’m able to really reflect on my work. Being in the world allows you to fully experience and participate in it. It keeps you grounded and connected; I often wonder what issues we could draw light upon using Slow Ways as a starting point. What problems could we collectively be working to solve?

What problems could we collectively be working to solve?

I come up with a hundred ideas relating to health, climate, music, sports, food, heritage and psychiatry. I dream up alternative Slow Ways travel guides created by communities, interviews with local legends, art reviews, zany podcasts, niche films, comics, drawings, soundscapes! I dream up musical playlists for specific walks and impromptu performance art. Sadly, at the end of the walk, I’ll go away and maybe action one of the hundred ideas I had — but it’s nice to still have them, and to be able to store them away till you can pull them out again. Nothing is really lost.

Equally, I love discovering Slow Ways routes through the eyes of our incredible story contributors. From young artists in Leeds, Bradford and Wakefield embarking on local walks and creating textiles, videos and collages in response, to inspiring individuals like Ben the ‘wheelchair fitness guy’ vlogging a wheeling journey from Bournemouth, passing by the spot where he had the accident that changed his life forever. I love seeing gallery owner and sea swimmer Finn Hopson capture a Slow Ways route from the sea through his otherworldly photographs. I love discovering hometowns through the eyes of writers like Anita Sethi, Magid Magid and Kate Monson.

Beautiful Three painterly photographic drawings made using cyanotype photographic chemical Indian ink, graphite stick, collected sand and North Sea water (420 x 594 mm) produced by Story Contributor Genevieve Rudd

7. It makes me feel well

Walking makes me feel well, physically, mentally and spiritually. It helps me to regulate my emotions and to think more clearly. So much has been written and shared about the health benefits associated with walking. I feel those benefits — viscerally, feel them.

Sometimes, when I’m stuck in my head, and everything feels bleak, I download a Slow Ways route on my phone and head out into the world. Following a set route requires you to be mindful, to focus and to be present. With every step walked, you begin to feel lighter. Your heart and mind opens up, like the skies above you and the horizons before you. You feel free.

I especially love walking in nature and being mindful of the creatures we share this planet with: the birds, the cows, the worms, the trees; walking makes me feel more connected to the world, and to those that inhabit it. In the words of Explosions in the Sky, everything is alive! It puts things in perspective, reminding me how small I am and how big the world is.

8. It’s ADDICTIVE

I find I’m spending more and more of my free time getting lost in maps, tracing routes with my finger, reading reviews, and dreaming up journeys. The possibilities are endless! I love adding new routes to my weird and whimsical waylists, planning long distance journeys that I’ll probably never go on and living vicariously through others’ adventures. Someone once said that Slow Ways is like a gateway drug, and that you need to walk three routes to truly become addicted. I definitely think that’s true. Despite everything I’ve said about the joys of checking routes, proceed with caution!

9. I can be alone and I can be quiet…

…equally I can get to know someone very well. Many Slow Ways routes are off road, and take in paths seldom used. As an introvert, I love using Slow Ways routes knowing that they won’t be very busy (at least not until the network is verified). On our diminishing island, with its busy, noisy cities, it’s easy to forget that there’s so much SPACE; so much LAND, so much SKY and so much SEA. One of the last walks I went on was from Sunderland to Seaham in County Durham; I didn’t come across a single person for the first five miles. It was great! I always return to civilisation at the end of a walk like this feeling happier and restored.

Alternatively, going for a walk with someone is a great way to get to know them. One my favourite walks so far was with Dima, a Syrian refugee, amputee, runner and interior designer. We went on a Slow Ways journey from her home in Flitwick to Ampthill. On the way we shared stories, memories, thoughts, ideas and reflections. By the end of the walk, I felt like I’d known Dima forever. We’d become friends! Walking enables us to have more honest conversations – the openess of our surroundings makes it easier for us to open up.

10. It’s one of the best parts of my job

Working at Slow Ways is a dream for so many reasons. I get to do all of the things I most love; I’m able to walk, write, and spend time with and learn from incredible people. I work in a team made up of visionary individuals, help bring people together, share the coolest stories, support people in sharing their ideas, contribute to creating an incredible walking network and basically feel inspired every single day.

Checking Slow Ways routes reminds me of my values, and some of the things that I most appreciate in life; things I want to share with others — magic, wonder, synchronicity, community, places, nature, dreams — the extraordinary details that make up every day.

In essence, walking Slow Ways enables me to meaningfully (I hope) connect people and places, through two of the things I love most – storytelling and walking.

What do you enjoy about walking Slow Ways? Share your reasons for walking using the hashtag #myslowways. Sign up to walk and review Slow Ways. Follow us on Instagram, Twitter and Facebook. 

They’ll keep a rifle in the hillside: going for a stupid walk for my stupid mental health

Thomas Morris
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They’ll keep a rifle in the hillside: going for a stupid walk for my stupid mental health

Slow Ways’ stories editor, Tom, ventures out for a not-so-meditative walk from Ystrad Mynach to Caerphilly

I’ve been editing Slow Ways stories throughout winter this year. Despite this, I have barely been out myself. I dug myself a great big hole and jumped right in, a pit of despair, if you will. I resolved to at least try something new this week, and finally about two years after I first heard of the concept — got off my arse and walked a Slow Way! I picked Ystcae one, as I currently reside in Ystrad Mynach (I hesitate to say “live”), and Caerphilly has great bus and train connections back, even on a Sunday. Seven miles? Even at a leisurely pace I thought I’d be home in two hours. How wrong I was!

1:30pm: setting out

I must admit that I didn’t begin the walk at the specified start of the route, as I’ve seen that part of the village plenty of times before. To give you a summary of what you’d see there: walk from the railway station either right around on the road as suggested or simply take the small, dingy pedestrian tunnel linking the Tredomen estate and the station. Walk past maybe one or two streets of Tredomen, you’ll then be able to follow a track through the trees, recently designated a right of way but fought over bitterly for twenty years prior. 

The track will lead you to the ridge at the mountain top, apparently used in days gone by as a path to push prisoners along between Brecon Assizes and Cardiff Prison (some 40 miles). Of course, many of the prisoners were hanged long before they reached the modern-day capital.

Instead, I hoped to connect to the route by heading straight up the hill from Twyn Road. I was using my Beeline, a small compass-looking gadget that’s really meant for bike handlebars, rather than a walker’s pocket, but it was the best way I had of utilising the GPX file provided by Slow Ways.

I read recently about spending 20 minutes at the start of a walk not thinking about anything except that which you can see, hear or smell. It’s a meditative practice, which I decided to try at the start of this walk. Unfortunately I also had to navigate, as I’d made things a lot harder for myself. If you’re thinking about skipping the first part of a Slow Way: don’t! They’re drawn as they are for a reason!

Just a few minutes later, I was back fiddling with the Recorder dictation app, because I just couldn’t stop… thinking about things! I kept thinking about what shape this article would take, and I kept thinking about how I shouldn’t be thinking. It was brisk, so my nose was running; I couldn’t smell anything, and I wished I’d packed a handkerchief. The main thing I felt was uncomfortable, both too hot and too cold in my sub-standard outfit. I was sweating heading uphill, while getting buffeted by the wind. I tried 15 minutes instead, using the alarm clock app. But I couldn’t even manage that.

2pm: hesitations

I stopped for a sip of coffee by a tree. I was still overthinking things, and was still nowhere near the route. I did admire a holloway at the top of a field, though, where someone has left a mug out in the grass. As I was trespassing through a farm, I was a bit anxious there might be complaints from the human or, worse, animal inhabitants. Compounding these fears was my need to take an asthma pump hit. God, how did I get so unfit recently?

Just fifteen minutes later I stopped for a coffee again, next to a mobile phone tower and gave thanks to it, naming it Poster’s God, enabling us prolific internet addicts to send each other “He’s just like me for real” hundreds of times every day under photos of macho dudes. 

Loud cracks were suddenly audible, ringing out and rippling over the hillside: not the welcome you expected? To my far left were coal heaps which look like miniature mountains. Under them a few cars were parked, mostly black Range Rovers, with a large red flag flying among each cluster of cars. On top of the coal tips, there was also an unidentifiable floating thing, possibly more flags. 

I was now worried that they might be shooting in my direction. And I still wasn’t on the path. This made me consider turning back, which I would have hated: I once set out to cycle to Bristol; I don’t think I even made it past Blackwood. The memory of that shameful day rang in my head. Just another thing for me to screw-up, along with everything else. Time to phone a friend?

Looking out from Poster’s God at the coal heaps from which guns roar.

3pm: getting on track

I phoned my uncle, the authority on all things walking (he once did the Three Peaks of Scotland, England and Wales just because he couldn’t sleep that night). He said I was right to be concerned about the red flag; it’s a private shooting club. But, he said, I shouldn’t worry as they were some distance away (location sharing came in useful). He advised me to continue across the field in front of me. 

I’ve since Googled the club, and it’s all very legitimate. There was a shooting range there in the 1980s (probably when the coal heaps were still “growing”!) and recently a Llandbradach businessman decided to open a new one in the same place. Several prominent local people, it turns out, are members. 

When I realised the field in front of me contained sheep as well as a massive phone mast, I felt much safer; it probably wasn’t on the firing range. After getting over a large barbed wire fence, I celebrated by enjoying my Creme Egg. 

Creme egg time, and relax.
The path, at last

Finally, I was on Ystcae one, literally on track. A few rally bikes passed me, engines ticking over as they sluiced through muddy patches. First I could see the red flags up close and I soon passed the actual shooting range. After passing the riflemen, their guns were still in earshot, and would be for some time thereafter. 

It turns out I had nothing to worry about. The rifle owners stand across the valley from the spoil heap and shoot towards it, so the projectiles are nowhere near where I was. I then met three guys on mountain bikes who were disappointed to see the shooting, as they had planned to go have MTB fun on the coal heaps. 

Over the wall at last
Dirt bikes after the rifle range
Poster’s God, from safety

3.20pm: on the straight and hollow

I should have been finished by this time of day had I done things right. I was now walking on a very straight, sunken holloway, gravel, sand. Stone walls, hacked into the grass, well used by vehicles. Looking at how straight it is, it seemed dull, so I once again tried to only think about what I could see, hear or smell for the next 15 minutes. I’ve tried all sorts of meditation over the years: recently my friend practised EMDR on me, and he said to go to a safe place. I replied that a totally safe place is a totally secure place, which is neither accessible or realistic. And I can’t go there if it’s not real. So getting any mental health intervention through to an overthinker like me is impossible. I tried for another 15 minutes.

The smells of a farmyard interested me, but they weren’t the usual smells of cows. Peeking through the fence, there are huge piles of stuff in there. What is it? Clothes? I think about those “charity bags” my mam puts out on the kerb. Do they all end up here? As for sight; little metal canisters on the ground: a sure sign of locals coming up here to sample laughing gas.

Prisoners Path
Straight and narrow
Downhill

3:35pm: meditation is not for me

The 15 minutes were done and I felt like I failed again. I did notice a lot of smells and sounds, but then I was thinking about what they meant. Combined with miscellaneous song snippets, I’m always having this constant blather. I did take antidepressants last year and they did stop me thinking like this, but they also seemed to make me stop thinking at all. I felt completely dumb. So I stopped taking them recently, and now the anxious, constant low level thinking has returned.

The downhill descent was quite steep. I came out on a pavement by a road, on the edge of Caerphilly. In the streets, the Beeline wants me to diverge slightly from the Slow Ways GPX file. Hoping to wrap up in the next half hour, I followed the shorter Slow Ways route.

Passed a few nice houses. A jeep passed me going up the hill and honked at me as if to say hello. Didn’t see who it was, why do people do this? No doubt some ne’erdowell I associate with. This walk was a test of my new insoles, cheap ones – at this point the ball of my foot was a bit painful. I approached a cross roads, and needed to check the map for the first time in a while. On Court Road, I passed through an old school modal filter. 

I then found out why Beeline wanted me to go around. A lovely green pedestrian bridge over the road. Difficult to get through on a bike – one side has a slalom of fences and the other a series of steps.

The modal filter
The pedestrian bridge

4pm: past the allotted time

Ystcae provided a slight detour towards Energlyn and Churchill Park railway station. I considered getting the train home but it being a Sunday there was a half-hour wait. So I kept walking in the direction of Aber and Caerphilly stations- they’re very close together in this neck of the woods. I wasn’t worried about getting back, as it was still early in the day and I had many options. 

Approaching the park I passed the community allotments. “Everyone welcome,” says the children’s sign, but underneath it on the same planter lies a stern council warning that “access to the allotments is only permitted for supervised signed up volunteers”. 

At quarter past I arrived in Morgan Jones park. A dog went straight for me. The dog’s owner says “no, don’t jump on people with white trousers!” A game ensued of me darting behind the owner as they tried to wrangle the excited dog. 

Mixed messaging
Site of the dog dance

4:25pm: bus stop

After exiting the park, I broke Ystcae once again in order to catch a bus. The rest of the walk loops around Caerphilly Castle, which I’ve done plenty of times. If you’re not from around here, it’s a terrific building, which is well worth a good look round. If you’re a local, though, it’s just part of the furniture. The bus shows up around 4.30, so I’m back home again by around 4.45. It’s nice to sit down in the warm! 

I got back, wrote a short review and rating here and started planning another one for next week. But lesson learned, go to the designated start point, or at least link up with a decent road or path you know well. 

Have you been on a Slow Ways walk yet?

“Baba, what does this mean?”

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“Baba, what does this mean?”

Muslim Hikers team leader, The North Face Ambassador, influencer and adventurer, Zahra Rose, shares her journey growing up in a lonely fisherman’s town and her lifelong curiosity for all things wild…

I sit here at twenty-nine years old, the winter sunset warming my face and the waves crashing against this pebbled beach I have grown to love so much. The wind occasionally carries the splashes in my direction; some make contact with my skin. I begin to reflect on how little I’ve touched these waters and yet how many souls make the treacherous journey across this very ocean every day for a better life.

Growing up in a seaside town has its perks: you’re surrounded by outstanding beauty, lots of greenery, cliffs, fresh sea salt air, seafood, and of course the crashing waves. The downside is that we aren’t English – there weren’t many of us around, we were a minority in a lonely little fisherman’s town.  

Despite being born in England, this very town in fact, I was raised speaking my mother tongue, Arabic, at home. I didn’t speak English until I began pre-school, and so many of my learning experiences happened within the classroom. I recall much of my time, especially in summer, was spent in the school library with my plaid summer dress sweaty against my skin, the maroon leather chairs beneath me sticky from the humidity.

Missing out on the joys of ‘messy play’

I would hear screeches of joy seeping in through the windows from other children. While I learned vowels and how to construct sentences, they found worm holes and constructed dens. I recall the sadness I felt from missing out on the joys of experiencing ‘wilderness and nature’ classes and ‘messy play’ as I sat surrounded by the musky smell of neglected books. 

The boot room would be freshly matted with mud, and during lunchtimes I would overhear children speaking about ‘building hives’ and ‘catching tadpoles’ and ‘newts’ along with other words and phrases I wasn’t so familiar with. I would skip to my father at home-time, forcing my bookbag into his huge hands while I regurgitated everything I had overheard. “Baba what does this mean?” would be an everyday question. On the way home, while I climbed walls or raced my sisters, I would listen attentively as he would explain to me in Arabic. Occasionally he would pull out the Oxford dictionary in his office drawers when we got home, if there were words he too did not recognise.

I would run to him after supper to see his enlarged features behind the magnifying glass, sitting patiently waiting for me, so that together we could make sense of the world. I remember of all the words, the ones linked to nature were the ones that evoked the most curiosity in me: the words never stopped at their meanings. There was always more to learn, and these learnings would only strengthen my yearning to be in those outside classes instead of the library.

I would spend hours watching nature documentaries with my family after supper, the BBC’s Expedition Borneo being one I remember as such a pivotal point in my curiosity with hiking summits, rope work and adventure. I would often ask my parents about hiking, but it was unfamiliar and inaccessible territory to them. Walking for ‘fun’ or without purpose wasn’t really an ‘immigrant’ thing.

Walking for ‘fun’ or without purpose wasn’t really an ‘immigrant’ thing

It would be many years before I was able to experience nature outside of our large, long downhill sloping back garden, but with my family, it was always an adventure. The garden had concrete stairs trailing down the centre, with tall trees and plants hugging you either side, from the lavender and daffodils at your ankles and calves, all the way up to the four sky-high protected pine trees and a large oak tree which sat in the middle of the garden, dividing the upper half and the lower half. Although far from the Mediterranean, in summer it didn’t feel like it. My parents adorned the garden with fruitful tress, plums, cherries, vine leaves, fig, apples, pears… you name it, we had it.  

Discovering nature in the garden

Summertime weekends, along with spring and autumn were spent out in the garden from morning until bed and bath time, even then we protested that the sun was still out! My sisters and I would find joy in pretending to present wildlife documentaries using the family camcorder, David Attenborough style of course. We would make ‘perfumes’ from my mother’s bay leaf tree and rose and jasmine bushes by crushing the petals using her beloved Greek pestle and mortar. We would secretly collect unripened fruits and veggies and create our own ‘dishes’ in a makeshift garden kitchen for the visiting animals. We would dig up bird and rodent skeletons using garden tools and paintbrushes like true excavation specialists. We’d catch frogs, toads and slow worms, and sometimes even make tiny ponds using plastic bags to line the basin and attract wildlife.

Once inside, we were in our element, part of the furniture, talking to the proud farmers about their stock, asking inquisitive questions, screaming at my parents to look at how ‘cute’ the tiny lambs and fluffy bunnies were

The garden backed onto a protected wildlife area; we would often pinch my father’s battered binoculars, which had worn the stain on the window ledge they perched on. We would crowd and snatch from each other to catch glimpses of goldhawks, owls and sometimes escapee tropical birds. Our combined love for bird watching led to us building a giant aviary one summer with my parents.

We would often end up at farm or bird shows at seven in the morning on a weekend. My sisters and I would be singing and dancing to Arabic music in the back of the grey Toyota Carrera as we pulled into these quiet village affairs, getting all those curious looks that we had grown accustomed to. Once inside, we were in our element, part of the furniture, talking to the proud farmers about their stock, asking inquisitive questions, screaming at my parents to look at how ‘cute’ the tiny lambs and fluffy bunnies were. Eventually one weekend we ended up leaving the village hall with a faded vintage yolk-yellow incubator, with capacity for forty eggs. 

Chickens in socks

We spent the journey home prodding my parents about how baby birds were made. After much hesitation we settled for “you buy an egg, put it in an incubator and after twenty-one days a featherless chick breaks through the shell.” We could barely contain our excitement at this point; despite our age we were very knowledgeable on the varieties of chicken breeds and could not wait to fill it. I spent my pocket money on the most adorable looking chickens: the ones ‘with socks’, Brahmas and Silkie Bantams. My sisters and father added Sussex lite, speckled Sussex, redcaps and many more.

My parents encouraged us to add some supermarket eggs into the mix as an experiment. Sure enough, after twenty-one days, on my sister’s birthday, we ended up with eighteen little varied fluffy yellow chicks. Some needed a hand breaking out of their shells, while others bulldozed through; all the while we sat around consuming our daily meals while peering through the little window at the top in awe, admiring God’s creation.

From the mountains to the seaside

That was the moment I truly fell in love with nature, despite not yet seeing or experiencing very much of it outside of our garden and TV. Something about seeing the start of life happen in front of me forged a connection and desire for more of it. A lot more. My adventures took me to Mount Everest, K2, Kilimanjaro, Ben Nevis, the Peaks and Wales. This was before I explored the precious seaside town I was born and raised in.

Like most full-circle moments, during lockdown I ended up walking a lot more. I found myself retracing my childhood at local parks, the marina, our garden and beach, often slowly discovering places I had never been despite calling this place ‘home’ for almost thirty years. One afternoon, I ventured beyond the usual routes and found myself perched on a coastal cliff, watching the waves calmly bouncing against the yellow rock beneath me. I looked at the path behind me and realised that walking is perhaps life’s greatest adventure. What’s more, I found people like me out here too.  

You can join Zahra’s 40,000 followers on her popular instagram chronicling her adventures

Slow Ways were really pleased that Zahra led a walk for us during the Leicester swarm in autumn 2022. We’ve got more led walks coming up during our Summer Waycheck in June this year – see here for more and to sign up.

Zahra leading one of the walks at our Leicester swarm

Zahra Rose

I’m an avid hiker and lover of the outdoors, sometimes an adrenaline junkie. I’m a member of the @Muslim.Hikers team. I have trekked Everest, K2 and Broad Peak base camps and summited Kilimanjaro. I have just signed up to my first half and full marathons this year with many more adventures to come.

Zahra’s instagram

Going home seven times

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Going home seven times

Antony Butcher has lived in Edgware, London, for years, but walking home along the seven-pointed star of Slow Ways widened his sense of belonging

Apparently, it was Thomas Wolfe who said ‘You can never go home again’. I thought it was Hemingway; another thing I was wrong about.

A silly statement I thought, I’d been coming home to my North London suburb for decades. A standard metropolitan residential area, population 77,000. Without any big attractions or famous export, it doesn’t stand out. Many people think it’s near Edgware Road tube station, when it isn’t. I thought I knew my neighbourhood well – going to the shops, commuting to work, taxiing the kids to-and-fro, walking around local open spaces – generally the same routes and usually on a bike, in a car or on the tube.

And always returning home.

Every compass point

It came to my attention that my home town was a node on Slow Ways. It appears on the site as a seven-pointed star with routes going to places I knew well, but along routes I didn’t know at all. It offered not just new walks, but walks with a purpose.

Edgware on the Slow Ways network

I set off to walk those seven routes.

Writing up reviews on the Slow Ways website made me pay attention to my surroundings during the walk, looking for interesting sights as well as stiles and gates. I began to discover new parks, alleyways, churches, pubs, statues, shopping areas, independent shops not on Google, and blue plaques on houses that looked like my house.

Inspired, I continued with the whole web.

A highlight of Busedg two from Derick Rethans

To the north! A steep rise to stunning views, London clay but with areas of flinty sand. Streams, brooks and rivers flowing southwards, downwards, lots of pavements. Gardens, parks, open spaces, youngsters making documentaries.

Place names became familiar towns with welcoming cafes and pubs

I wasn’t passing by; I was passing through. With my feet on the ground, I was present, listening, looking, learning. I was walking but I was also stopping, talking, interacting with the places and the people, taking time to be in places I’d previously only seen flashing past through a window. Place names became familiar towns with welcoming cafes and pubs. My mental map of the area increased in size and detail.

Widening the web

Hooked on exploring, over time, I completed the web. Then I completed the webs of the towns at the edge of the web. After that, I tackled the webs of the towns on the edges of those webs, completing the tertiary ring of all the Slow Ways around my home town. From Gerrards Cross in the west to Loughton to the east, and from Hatfield in the north to Ealing down south. That’s about 800km of paths, taken slowly and without deadlines to absorb it all, to enjoy both the journey and the destination.

Some routes I pioneered were not navigable and some creative thinking was needed to work out a new path. This was sometimes frustrating, but always a satisfying challenge. Not every route was five-star but every walk added variety and interest. Using routes made by other people took me to places I would not normally have gone and would never have seen otherwise.

Current and former railways, A roads, B roads, motorways. Winding country lanes and roughshod Roman roads. Canals, paper mills, evidence of industries, tunnels, RAF bases and old airfields. Old holloways with coal posts, ancient woods and 800-year-old churches. Vibrant, exciting communities, temples and mosques. Battlefields and riot ground memorials, places of peace and the UK’s first ATM.

Places I once thought remote have now become local and familiar. They must be local if I’d walked there

Houses of the rich and famous from Spike Milligan to JMW Turner. I met many kind people who offered food, conversation and good wishes. Tranquil village ponds, maddening six-lane trunk roads. So many open spaces, farms, bluebell woods and natural beauty spots. There’s the new national Wembley stadium and also where the old stadium is buried. Places I once thought remote have now become local and familiar. They must be local if I’d walked there. The journey has been truly mind-expanding. I cannot get lost for long, I know this place.

Edgware, now zoomed out, with unverified Slow Ways routes in green, and verified (or snailed) Slow Ways routes in purple

That’s Edgware in the centre of the map. I live there. It is an amazing place, set in the middle of cosmopolitan communities, dotted with steep hills and greenspaces, large and small, threaded with rivers and canals. I know where there are kingfishers and nature reserves. It’s full of history and modern creativity. And people, lots of lovely people. It’s a vibrant interesting place and it’s my home.

I look forward to my next Slow Ways walk, knowing that as I leave home I will be adding to my sense of place, my sense of belonging. It will change my mental perception of where I am, and to some extent my own place within it. When I return, I will not be returning to the same place.

Thomas Wolfe was right. In a way, once you’ve tried a Slow Ways walk, you may never go home!

Cover image from a walk on Busedg two by Derick Rethans

Antony Butcher

Antony is a radiographer based in Edgware, London.
He is passionate about walking and the environment.

Antony’s twitter

Byddwch yn rhan o’r Ŵyl Gwirio’r Llwybrau Ganol Haf!

Slow Ways
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Byddwch yn rhan o’r Ŵyl Gwirio’r Llwybrau Ganol Haf!

Cymraeg/Welsh: Ymunwch â ni am draddodiad cenedlaethol newydd: gwirio ac ailwirio Slow Ways trwy gydol wythnos canol haf

Read this in English here / Darllenwch yn Saesneg yma

Galw ar bawb sydd wrth eu bodd yn cerdded, rhedeg ac olwyno!

Rydym yn brysur yn creu rhwydwaith cerdded cenedlaethol mentrus sy’n ymuno â phob tref a dinas ym Mhrydain Fawr.

Os yw hyn yn swnio’n dda i chi, derbyniwch ein gwahoddiad i’n Gŵyl Gwirio’r Llwybrau dros ganol yr haf a chanol y gaeaf. Byddem wrth ein bodd â’ch cwmni!

Rydyn ni eisiau gwneud yn siŵr bod Slow Ways ar draws Prydain Fawr yn agored ac yn barod i gael eu mwynhau… ac rydyn ni’n chwilio am filoedd o bobl i ymuno a gwirio rhan o’r wlad.

Curo terfynau’r plwyf

Rydyn ni’n cael ein hysbrydoli gan yr hen draddodiad o guro terfynau’r plwyf, lle byddai pobl yn cerdded ffiniau eu plwyf unwaith y flwyddyn, gyda’r bobl hŷn yn arwain y bobl ifanc, gan ddeall eu tirwedd gam wrth gam.

Wrth i’r rhwydwaith Llwybrau Araf ymsefydlu (ac mae’n digwydd! Mae un ym mhob wyth Slow Way wedi’i chadarnhau bellach, a llwybrau dibynadwy eisoes wedi’i gysylltu o Fanceinion i Ledbury a Chaerdydd i Brighton) rydym yn edrych ymlaen at adeg pan fydd y wlad gyfan wedi’i rhwydweithio.

Wedyn, pob blwyddyn, fydd angen ei sbïo drosti i sicrhau ei fod yn ddibynadwy. Croeso felly i’r Ŵyl Gwirio’r Llwybrau! Traddodiad yn y dyfodol, gan ddechrau nawr.

Allech chi addo i fod yno am yr un cyntaf?

Mae’n fudiad sy’n bwysig

Byddwch yn helpu i greu rhwydwaith nid yn unig ar gyfer cerdded ac olwyno, ond ar gyfer llawenydd, iechyd, cariad, syniadau, creadigrwydd, perthnasoedd, cymunedau, helpu creu datrysiadau i’r argyfwng hinsawdd, cysylltu â natur a mwy.

Bydd yn hwyl hefyd. Bydd rhai yn cerdded llwybrau ar eu pen eu hunain, bydd eraill yn ffurfio timau i wirio holl lwybrau eu tref mewn un diwrnod cyn cael cyfarfod dathlu.

I fod yn rhan o’r gwiriad haf teithiwch a gwiriwch gynifer o Slow Ways ag y gallwch rhwng Mehefin 16eg a 25ain.

Y rhwydwaith hyd yn hyn, gan ddangos llwybrau sydd wedi’u cadarnhau yn borffor. Digon dal i’w wneud!

Gallwch gymryd rhan ar eich pen eich hun, mewn grŵp, gyda sefydliad, fel cymuned neu fel rhan o daith gerdded ddwysedig. Gallwch gerdded, rhedeg, olwyno, trampio neu grwydro – mae’r cyfan yn cyfrif.

Barod amdani? Cofrestrwch isod a byddwn yn rhoi’r wybodaeth ddiweddaraf i chi ac yn anfon mwy o fanylion, pecyn cymorth, a’r amserlen o deithiau cerdded tywysedig atoch.

Slow Ways hyd yn hyn

Menter ar lawr gwlad yw Slow Ways i greu rhwydwaith cenedlaethol o lwybrau cerdded. Mae’r llwybrau yn cysylltu pob un o drefi a dinasoedd Prydain â’i gilydd, sy’n ei gwneud yn haws i bobl ddychmygu, cynllunio a mwynhau mynd o le i le ar droed ac ar olwynion.

Mor belled, mae 8,000 o lwybrau cerdded wedi’u hawgrymu gan wirfoddolwyr. Yr her i ni ar hyn o bryd yw eu harchwilio i gyd – 120,000 cilomedr o lwybrau! Mae’n her enfawr ond yn un y mae modd ei chyflawni â digon o bobl.

Gallwch gerdded ac adolygu unrhyw bryd, ond bydd yr Ŵyl Gwirio’r Llwybrau yn ymgyrch amlwg, a fydd yn llawn egni a bwrlwm.

Caiff menter Slow Ways ei chefnogi gan Gronfa Gymunedol y Loteri Genedlaethol.

Map gan Urban Good

Cofrestrwch

Cofrestrwch eich diddordeb trwy’r ffurflen yma, er mwyn i ni anfon y wybodaeth ddiweddaraf i chi.
Os gwnaethoch gofrestru ar gyfer y Pythefnos Prysur gyntaf nid oes angen cofrestru eto.
Mae croeso i chi adael unrhyw adrannau nad ydych chi’n gwybod yr ateb iddynt eto.

Cofrestrwch yma
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