The Path Is Made By Walking

Walking, hiking, tramping, yomping…  It's the oldest form of human transport, the most accessible, and the one that can still offer us the easiest escape from our busy lives.  It's remarkable how the further you walk away from the nearest car park the fewer people you see.  You don't have to walk very far at all, but modern society is so bound to four wheels, itineraries and mobile phone reception that very few people take those extra few steps and leave the crowds behind.

My Dad had been trying to give me a new pair of walking boots for my birthday for years, but I always asked if he could please give me something more immediately useful.  How little did I know?  I was making do with a pair of his old boots (treads that had done about 1600 miles in the two years that he wore them before passing them on to me - my old man walks a lot) until last summer I relented and he took me to be fitted for a "proper" pair of walking boots.  Little did I realise that he wasn't just giving me a pair of walking boots for my birthday; he was giving me a little bit of freedom, an easy escape and an open ticket to the entire 630 miles of the South West Coast Path (which runs right past my door) as well as any headland or hilltop that I fancied enjoying the view from the top of.  It's as easy as putting one foot in front of the other and letting your body follow along behind, but you'll be amazed at where it can take you.

Sloe Down

Another Autumnal one, but don't sweat - I'll be back to surfing and sunshine before you know it.  It just struck me that this might be one of the last opportunities to remind those of you based in the UK and above legal drinking age to get out and find some sloes.  
The fruit of the blackthorn tree (although you'll find it in hedgerows as it never really grows over twelve feet tall), sloes look like very small damsons, are inedibly bitter, and are found in British hedgerows throughout the Autumn unless somebody has beaten you to it and picked them all.  If you can pick enough to half-fill a bottle then you've got enough to make some sloe gin which should be ready in time for Christmas.  It's one of those perfect mid-winter hip flask fillers and, like most things, tastes so much better when foraged and home-made rather than bought ready-made from a store.
Harvest time is weather dependant, but you should be able to pick them anytime between September and early November.  Many people will tell you to wait until after the first frost (which they say ripens the fruit and reduces the bitterness), however I'd say to follow logic and pick them when they're ripe (not rock-hard).  If you wait until after the first frost you'll probably find that somebody else has beaten you to it and there are no fruit left on the branches.  

Once you have your sloes don't waste your time pricking each one individually.  If you put them in the freezer overnight then each one will rupture evenly, allowing the flavour to diffuse out whilst they are steeping and saving you precious time.  Next, buy yourself a bottle of good gin.  It'd be a shame to have spent all of that time picking sloes and then produce nasty sloe gin because you've bought nasty gin - sloe's won't magically make cheap gin taste nice, so consider forgoing a take-away coffee that day and spending the extra few coins on your winter warmer.  

Half fill your container (I'd suggest a large kilner-jar) with sloes.  Top up with gin.  Leave in a cupboard and shake every other day for a week.  Then shake the mixture once a week for the next few months, the longer the better really but try to last until at least Christmas.  Once your patience has run out you can strain your sloe gin through muslin into a sterilised bottle.  Then make yourself a sugar syrup by combining equal parts sugar and water in a saucepan over a low heat until it dissolves and allow to cool.  You can then add this to your slow gin to taste, which is far better than adding granulated sugar right at the start and then not having any control over the sweetness.  Pour some of the purple goodness out into a hip flask and put it into your back pocket, then set off in a thick jacket on a wild and wooly winter walk out in the cold, sipping sparingly and sharing and enjoying responsibly. 

Want to see more photos?  I've been digging through my shoebox archiving system and throwing some up on tumblr and instagram recently, click through to check them out and follow if you like them and want to see more.  Thanks!

Footprints in the Sand

When we find footprints in the sand,

Leading from the Sea,

We imagine an envoy perhaps

Or a traveller from a distant country

Come to tell us long term exiles that we can return.

At night we sit by beach fires,

As driftwood adopt animal shapes:

Fishes, lizards, snakes.

We invite nostalgia with our threading flutes,

The galloping guitar,

Hoarse laments of our favourite singer.

And in daytime fields tending red and purple fruits,

We watch the silver river

As it flows into the Sea

And it occurs to us that the mother country,

The one we have abandoned,

Is the Sea itself.

Those footprints then,

Whose were they?

Richard Gwyn

Run in, walk out

Thankfully, in percentage terms, not a great deal of the worlds coastlines are developed and paved over, or have beach access blocked by big private houses. The majority of coastlines are as nature intended, a narrow belt where the land meets the sea taking the form of cliffs or beaches, mangroves, marshes or dunes.
This is what makes our experiences of the coast so special.
Where I live in Cornwall there is a coastal footpath that runs around the entire coast, all 258 miles of it. Most of the main beaches have car parking available so you can just drive there, pay your meter money, get changed on the concrete so that you don't get sand in your wetsuit, surf, and drive home again. But there's a lot more beaches than just those that you can drive too, and most of the time they're the better surf spots - not least because there's no crowds.
Perhaps a longer drive, the last bit down a farm track with grass growing down the middle. A few styles and gates, slipping in cow poo as you run down the path, getting scratched by the brambles, nodding a hello to the occasional passing dog walker. A quick surf check from the top of the cliff then keep sliding down, and the last bit scrambling down the rocks onto the sand. You always run even though you know you'll be out of breath when you get there, because you're always too excited to see what the waves are like.
Surf for a few hours, then put your wet wetsuit and towel, all waterlogged and heavy, back into your bag, pick your board up under a paddle weary arm, and start the long, slow trudge uphill back to the car.
Walk in, run out.
You'll feel better for the effort, and you saved a few coins on car parking.