As a garrulous youth I used to boast, to anyone who’d listen (and if I’m honest, there weren’t many who would), that I intended to die young with a good corpse, preferably before I’d reached the chronologically vertiginous age of fifty. As of today I’m nine years beyond beyond that arbitrary deadline, staring down the barrels of the big six-zero and still very much alive, probably far more alive now than I was when I was brash and full of braggadocio.
I’m not normally one for celebrating birthdays, what’s to like about taking another step closer to one’s grave? But nine years ago, revitalised by the Camino de Santiago and PhD study, I decided to use my fiftieth for taking issue with the dying of the light and, more in revelry than rage, give it a good, hard jab in the eye by climbing a dozen volcanoes, dormant and active, in Mexico and Central America. Standing close the crater of Volcan de Santiaguito in Guatemala as it erupted right before me, feeling the earth rumble and warm embrace of falling ash must have put fire in my blood because I haven’t stopped adventuring since.
My life has been blessed by the gods and goddesses of mobility, in terms of both ambulatory excursions and travel to distant shores. I can still remember, as an eighteen year old 'A' level English Literature student, the words of Tennyson’s Ulysses resonating with me, though I never expected to follow in the footsteps of the restless hero.
I sat my A level English Literature exam in 1983 – sadly, thanks to unfulfilled dreams of rock ‘n’ roll stardom, my diligence didn’t match my passion – but can still recite them, word for word, 41 years on. And I like to think that I now have a greater understanding of the physical finality of death, even if my soul smoulders on. It ‘closes all’, wrote Tennyson, but its inevitability might still be adjourned: ‘something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods’.So I’ve decided to dedicate my sixtieth year on this earth to that most fundamental of human acts, putting one foot in front of the other. In 1988 The Proclaimers claimed they would walk five hundred miles, and then walk five hundred more, to be the men who walked a thousand miles. Well, I see Craig and Charlie Reed’s five hundred miles and raise them tenfold, replacing the conditional tense with the simple future. Setting out on Sunday 1 June, 2025, and over the course of the following 365 days, I will walk 5000 miles, or rather, 8000 kilometres. And then, on Monday 1 June 2026, I’ll step out of my front door with the intention of walking 5000 more.
It works out at an average if 13.7 miles or 21.9 kilometres a day. It’s a tall – or rather, prolonged – order and one I plan to meet by walking a number of long distance thru-hikes and caminos in the UK, mainland Europe and Mexico/Central America. It might even include the Pacific Crest Trail, negotiations with my nephew are ongoing. And to ratchet up the self-indulgence to another, even more solipsistic level, many of the walks will be autobiographical, revisiting the hikes and places that made me, and celebrating those who aided and abetted me: I walk therefore I am.
I make this announcement now, on the morning of my fifty-ninth birthday, as a cri de coeur and statement of intent, because once it’s out there, on the internet, in full public view, there can be no turning back. There are plans to make, logistics to arrange, websites to be constructed and funds to be raised because I aim to keep work commitments to an absolute minimum and any I do undertake will have to be done on the road, quite possibly in a tent. And to counter the ambulatory sybaritism I plan to turn I will walk 5000 miles into an extended sponsored walk. As I said, I’ve been blessed with mobility and a mighty fine pair of legs, I would like to raise awareness of, and funds for, those who, be it for physical, socio-economic, cultural or political reasons, are not so fortunate. I’m thinking about my niece, who had her lower leg amputated but responded with the courage and energy of the proudest lioness. I’m thinking about Oscar, who I met on the Mexico City metro, who could barely walk but was unable to seek treatment because he couldn’t afford to take time of work selling knick-knacks on the street. And I’m thinking of all those women across the globe who, for various reasons, are prisoners of patriarchy and will never walk again.In the beginning was the walk, and the walk was made flesh. Every project has its genesis, every idea and imagination has its kernel. Precursors pave the way, to make the ground fertile before the sowing of the seed. So today, 1 June 2024, begins my John the Baptist year. A year of preparation and reflection: a time to be born, a time to die; a time to plant, a time to reap; a time to kill, a time to heal; a time to laugh, a time to weep.
To everything, turn, turn, turn
There is a season, turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose, under heaven
