On the how, and the where

I talked a bit about “why walking”. But now, what about How? And Where? They go together, and are, of course, intimately connected with Why?

Regarding how: a fundamental consideration is that I don’t want to turn my recreational walking into bushwalking. I don’t want to carry all the camping paraphernalia — tent, sleeping bag, cooking gear, several days worth of food. I’m lazy. I want someone else to look after those things, so I can focus on the walking bit, rather than spend time putting up tents.

Now, all this doesn’t happen without some effort and preparation. The decision to free myself of carrying kit means walking from place to place where I can find accommodation. It doesn’t have to be particularly high standard. I’m not a 5-star princess, but it does mean making landfall by night somewhere where I can find a roof, a wash, and a meal.

Walking the Camino — the mediaeval pilgrimage route from Paris to Santiago de Compostella in northwestern Spain, has become a popular pastime. I’ve not done it, but I know a few people who have done bits. The model seems to be one of moving on each day, walking for some hours, and gaining relatively simple and cheap lodging in a village each night. Somewhat like in mediaeval times, when the pilgrimage was the thing to do, establishments have again appeared along the route, providing modern-day pilgrims with accommodation.

Now, one day I might do some of the Camino. But that takes some funds, and I’m skint right now. Certainly, a few weeks walking in France and Spain, appealing as that sounds, is not in my budget. I started to cast my eye around local possibilities. The requirements seem simple on paper: a region where pubs or other cheap accommodation are available in settlements a day’s walk apart. Preferably somewhere scenic and appealing, with a good road network, so I’m not stuck on highways all day.

So — the thing about Australia is that its big. BIG! About as big as Europe, or the contiguous United States. But much less densely settled, so towns are a greater distance apart. It doesn’t take much map-gazing to realise that the southeastern crescent, roughly from a bit north of Brisbane to a bit west of Melbourne, is the area of operations. Anywhere else is too sparsely settled, with towns more than a reasonable day’s walk apart. As a rule of thumb, I am using 20 km as a distance for scoping walks. An option is to stay in one place that I like and make daily loop walks. I mean, it’s not like a I have some actual religious imperative to get to a particular spot.

Another problem is access. In the UK and Europe, there appears to be a long-standing, if not always legally codified, right to walk along public footpaths that traverse private property, as long as the walker obeys certain provisions such as not bothering stock, not lighting fires, and sticking to paths. Such a network of paths across private properly is lacking in Australia. I suspect this comes from the development, early in the European settlement, of the practices of free selection, where certain individuals were given total rights to hold property. And they often wanted to set up a “Bunyip aristocracy”, negating the concepts of public access to their land. Whatever the cause, it is difficult to just walk along a fence line or creek, without incurring the wrath of a landowner. The end result for a walker is that minor public roads become the most-accessible way to move around.

As well, changes in the patterns of settlement have an effect. The bush has had the economic shit kicked out of it over the last 50 years, with steady depopulation of rural towns, and a loss of services. Small towns that once had a pub have disappeared, or lost services. The options for somewhere to stay have reduced. Along with this has been the gentrification of the “bed and breakfast” market. Once, bed and breakfast accommodation establishments were just that — a place for cheap and simple accommodation in someone’s spare room. Now, they mainly seem to cater to the “dirty weekend” demographic. This has been accompanied by substantially increased prices, minimum stay periods, and death by twee. I don’t really need a crocheted dolly toilet roll cover, thanks very much.

Anyway, all this reflection – largely achieved over a few longer walks, has led to a fantasy conception of the ideal accommodation. It was envisaged by Almost John Buchan:

“Two hours before sunset I crested the ridge, and looked down into the long glen before me. The dusty road behind had been a long and lonely walk from breakfast at Muirtown markets. When I had alighted from the train in the dawn light, I’d looked carefully through the market crowd and my few fellow travelers. I saw no one I recognised, and no one seemed interested in me. I appeared to have outrun my followers of the last two days. It was hard to believe that only three nights before, I had returned from my club to the Mayfair flat and found Sofia dead — pinned to the parquetry floor, a long knife skewered through her heart, a look of terror frozen on her face — and the Karamanlis letter gone from my desk drawer.

The road ran down into the glen through some slow bends. About two miles ahead a stone bridge crossed the burn, and beyond lay a single croft, a thin drift of blue-grey smoke rising from the chimney. Beyond the croft, the burn emptied into a loch. A few rowboats were pulled up on the beach.

Far to my left, sun glinted off the sea, silvering it. The landward sides of the islands were already purple with shade. I sat on the heather with my back against a boulder and carefully scanned the glen with my field glasses. There was nothing moving below me. The glen had no cover — not a copse or a stand of pine in the whole place. I was relieved. Nothing could move in the glen without me knowing about it.

Carefully I crept the few yards back to the crest, and with my glasses surveyed the way I had come. There was very little traffic on the coast road, and none on my side road. There seemed to be no pursuit.

Not long after, I was crossing the burn on the bridge. I walked up to the croft. An elderly woman with grey hair and a worn face was tending a vegetable garden, a basket of beans and potatoes beside her. She bid me good evening. When I asked about lodging for the night, she gave a drawn smile. “I’ll show you what we have.” In a lean-to on the side of the croft was a small bedroom — spare, but neat and clean. “ You’re welcome to this” she said. “It was our son’s room. He ne’er came back fra’ France”. She pointed me to a well and stone tubs behind the croft, and offered to make tea whilst I washed.

Before the tea she gave me a bowl of creamy milk and fresh-baked bread. I sat in the gloaming watching the glen. There was neither man nor beast abroad, as far as I could see. For a few hours, it seemed I had escaped detection.

After dark, her man came home, carrying a creel with a salmon from the loch nestled in bracken. He was a tall, whip-thin, wind-burned man, a little grey starting to appear in his brick-red hair. We ate slabs of the salmon that she cooked in butter in a skillet, with beans and potatoes.

After the meal, he and I sat in front of the fire with our pipes and drams from my hip flask The conversation was halting, with long periods of silence as we stared into the coals. The talk was of stalking in the district. It was poor, as so many keepers and ghillies had left for the front. I ventured a few comments on the fishing and the game, and circumspectly asked about neighbours. All were old, established families, who had lived here since Noah. I was relieve to hear that no one new had come to the valley for years. When I cautiously expressed support for the new Labour government’s plan to use demobbed men in land and game restoration projects, he came to life.

“I ken fine the idea, and it’s a braw one. But our local member is a Tory and a high laird, and he’ll no be supporting it. I hold no time for either side, syne the war that took the best of us away, and left no benefit to ordinary wee folk. I’ll thank ye not to be a’ talking of the politics in this house. It upsets her too much, syne our lad died”. At this he fell into a brooding silence until our drams were finished and it was time for bed.

Between crisp sheets, the visions of Sofia and her terror mask, and of my escape from the Red Door gang, slipped away quickly. For the first time in days I slept a deep and dreamless sleep.

In the morning she served me ham and eggs with more strong tea. As I was taking my leave, I held out one of my sovereigns. They looked affronted. He said “There’ll be no need for that”, and she walked to the kitchen dresser, took out two baps, wrapped then in paper and held them out. “A wee bite to help you on your way” she said. I made my way down the road beside the loch, towards the sea. No one followed me.

An hour later, I heard the sound of an aeroplane. It came high over the far ridge then dropped, following my road. I stepped under an old pine and watched as a twin-seater biplane worked its way along the coast. I could see the pilot and observer both leaning out to scan the ground. My sense of security of the last few hours fell away. The gentlemen of the Red Door gang had taken their search to the skies. I was still hunted.

That fantasy accommodation isn’t about to happen in a hurry. But a country pub, with a simple room, and a bathroom down the hall, is enough. Especially if it has a decent wine list, a veranda, and a log fire in winter.

A decent network of minor roads; a few country pubs; some pleasant countryside to walk through. That’s what I’m looking. Within striking distance of Sydney, it announces itself. The Central West — stretching from Mudgee to Cowra. High country, rolling hills, big sky. It’s as close as I get to a bush home. Family connections, and a lot of work as a geologist has taken place in the Central West of NSW. That’s where I will start looking for walks.