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A good walk – the perfect way to clear your head A good walk – the perfect way to clear your head
(about 9 hours later)
It’s fair to say that it had not been my best morning. I had smacked my head pretty hard on a ceiling beam, a jackdaw had flown down the chimney while I was cleaning my teeth in the kitchen sink, and I had reached a tricky passage towards the end of my new book. I couldn’t really complain about the first of these events: I knew what I was getting into when I rented a rural cottage built during England’s Hobbit era. The trick, if you’re over average height, is not to rush about, but that’s easier said than done when you’re in pursuit of an excitable cat, who is himself chasing after a panicking corvid.It’s fair to say that it had not been my best morning. I had smacked my head pretty hard on a ceiling beam, a jackdaw had flown down the chimney while I was cleaning my teeth in the kitchen sink, and I had reached a tricky passage towards the end of my new book. I couldn’t really complain about the first of these events: I knew what I was getting into when I rented a rural cottage built during England’s Hobbit era. The trick, if you’re over average height, is not to rush about, but that’s easier said than done when you’re in pursuit of an excitable cat, who is himself chasing after a panicking corvid.
This was the second jackdaw that had flown down the chimney since I moved last spring, and I had learned from my mistakes, having befriended its fledgling predecessor only for it to be killed by a sparrowhawk while I was on the phone to the bird protection people.This was the second jackdaw that had flown down the chimney since I moved last spring, and I had learned from my mistakes, having befriended its fledgling predecessor only for it to be killed by a sparrowhawk while I was on the phone to the bird protection people.
Once I had recovered from my blow to the skull, rugby-tackled the cat to the ground and locked my other three cats in the living room, I opened the window and let this latest jackdaw out into the wild. I then checked the spider living in my bathroom sink was still OK, after all the commotion.Once I had recovered from my blow to the skull, rugby-tackled the cat to the ground and locked my other three cats in the living room, I opened the window and let this latest jackdaw out into the wild. I then checked the spider living in my bathroom sink was still OK, after all the commotion.
It could be argued I have worried too much about this spider, but it has been living in the sink for a while. Often I will move spiders from my bath and sink so they don’t drown, but settling in new places is difficult for everyone. I had been trying to clean my teeth and wash my hands carefully “around” the spider, but this morning it had been very central in the sink, so I had decamped to the kitchen. This is the kind of stuff that I hope will count in my favour on judgment day, when the Great Spider God makes his decision on whether or not humans go to heaven. Of course, I should probably also take into account the countless spiders I must have unknowingly trodden on, but there is a point where you have to face up to the fact that a happy human mind necessitates the blocking out of atrocities, to some extent.It could be argued I have worried too much about this spider, but it has been living in the sink for a while. Often I will move spiders from my bath and sink so they don’t drown, but settling in new places is difficult for everyone. I had been trying to clean my teeth and wash my hands carefully “around” the spider, but this morning it had been very central in the sink, so I had decamped to the kitchen. This is the kind of stuff that I hope will count in my favour on judgment day, when the Great Spider God makes his decision on whether or not humans go to heaven. Of course, I should probably also take into account the countless spiders I must have unknowingly trodden on, but there is a point where you have to face up to the fact that a happy human mind necessitates the blocking out of atrocities, to some extent.
I decided that the best move would be to go for a long walk. I’m sure this isn’t an absolute rule, but I don’t think I have ever finished a country walk and felt less positive about life than I did when I started. Also, it’s an official fact of writing that all books would be at least twice as good if they could be written while walking. I try to trap the observations and insights I have while walking in Devon, but because I’m nearly 40 now and my brain is decaying, they often escape. This is one of the cruel paradoxes of getting older: you have better thoughts than you once did, but you forget most of them seven seconds later. I have thought about taking a Dictaphone out with me but I worry it might make me feel a bit too much like Alan Partridge brainstorming ideas for TV shows, such as “Monkey Tennis” and “Youth Hostelling With Chris Eubank”. This is even more true, since on a recent walk I actually did have an idea for a TV Show: Men Who Visibly Enjoy Their Own Hair, a Top Gear spin-off in which James May goes around Britain meeting other men who, like him, visibly enjoy their own hair.I decided that the best move would be to go for a long walk. I’m sure this isn’t an absolute rule, but I don’t think I have ever finished a country walk and felt less positive about life than I did when I started. Also, it’s an official fact of writing that all books would be at least twice as good if they could be written while walking. I try to trap the observations and insights I have while walking in Devon, but because I’m nearly 40 now and my brain is decaying, they often escape. This is one of the cruel paradoxes of getting older: you have better thoughts than you once did, but you forget most of them seven seconds later. I have thought about taking a Dictaphone out with me but I worry it might make me feel a bit too much like Alan Partridge brainstorming ideas for TV shows, such as “Monkey Tennis” and “Youth Hostelling With Chris Eubank”. This is even more true, since on a recent walk I actually did have an idea for a TV Show: Men Who Visibly Enjoy Their Own Hair, a Top Gear spin-off in which James May goes around Britain meeting other men who, like him, visibly enjoy their own hair.
My usual method is to find a pub near the end of my walk, down a pint of ale and furiously scribble every half-decent thought I can remember in my notebook. When I finish this notebook, in a week or so, I will probably view it as a greater achievement than finishing my new book. Not that it’s better. Far from it. Three whole pages of it are just about a stone stile near my house that I quite like. It’s just that I have been writing professionally for almost two decades and have written almost eight books in that time, but have never previously finished a notebook. This is one of those secrets a publishing house doesn’t tell you when they’re belatedly publishing an “author’s journal”: nobody ever publishes a real author’s journal, as they would have to include pages that say stuff like “Wasp?” for no good reason, shopping lists, and the 40 blank pages at the back.My usual method is to find a pub near the end of my walk, down a pint of ale and furiously scribble every half-decent thought I can remember in my notebook. When I finish this notebook, in a week or so, I will probably view it as a greater achievement than finishing my new book. Not that it’s better. Far from it. Three whole pages of it are just about a stone stile near my house that I quite like. It’s just that I have been writing professionally for almost two decades and have written almost eight books in that time, but have never previously finished a notebook. This is one of those secrets a publishing house doesn’t tell you when they’re belatedly publishing an “author’s journal”: nobody ever publishes a real author’s journal, as they would have to include pages that say stuff like “Wasp?” for no good reason, shopping lists, and the 40 blank pages at the back.
I chose Start Point as the venue for today’s walk: Devon’s pointiest, most exposed, southerly promontory. An angry sun was bearing down on a thin cotton wool pad of cloud. By the time I reached the west side of the lighthouse, out of the wind, it felt like a bright, coolish day in June. “Coast path: Minehead 462 miles,” said one of the west country’s optimistic fingerposts. I had only done four, but already I felt better.I chose Start Point as the venue for today’s walk: Devon’s pointiest, most exposed, southerly promontory. An angry sun was bearing down on a thin cotton wool pad of cloud. By the time I reached the west side of the lighthouse, out of the wind, it felt like a bright, coolish day in June. “Coast path: Minehead 462 miles,” said one of the west country’s optimistic fingerposts. I had only done four, but already I felt better.
A sea walk, in particular, will have this effect. You’ll be all like: “My mind is heavy and troubled today.” And the sea will be all like: “As if I give a crap! Look at me. I’m the fucking sea.” Then there was the additional reality check of the nearby ruined village of Hallsands, where the fishermen’s wives of the late-19th and early-20th century waded out to sea with their husbands on their backs, “so they did not start the day with wet feet”. “I might have slight creative block,” I thought, “but at least I don’t have a fisherman on my back and my village isn’t about to fall into the sea.” Four miles later, by the time I had reached East Prawle, I had written the final chapter of my book in my head. I had also found a piece of seaweed resembling a one-eyed zombie snake, which felt like an amazing bonus.A sea walk, in particular, will have this effect. You’ll be all like: “My mind is heavy and troubled today.” And the sea will be all like: “As if I give a crap! Look at me. I’m the fucking sea.” Then there was the additional reality check of the nearby ruined village of Hallsands, where the fishermen’s wives of the late-19th and early-20th century waded out to sea with their husbands on their backs, “so they did not start the day with wet feet”. “I might have slight creative block,” I thought, “but at least I don’t have a fisherman on my back and my village isn’t about to fall into the sea.” Four miles later, by the time I had reached East Prawle, I had written the final chapter of my book in my head. I had also found a piece of seaweed resembling a one-eyed zombie snake, which felt like an amazing bonus.
The author Douglas Kennedy once told me: “Writing is like being a shark: you keep moving or you die.” I think this theory applies to actual motion as well as the writing. I’ve been wondering who to thank at the start of my new book, and I think perhaps I need to thank walking. I wondered about thanking coffee, which is my ally in the mornings, but it has often turned against me in those dead hours between one and four pm. In these hours, walking repeatedly comes to my rescue. Without it, I’d probably be 40,000 words further back, still agonising over whether or not to begin a chapter with dialogue or a monologue. On a recent walk I saw a weasel. The weasel didn’t stick around for long as, like so many weasels right now, it was worried about going technologically viral, but in a sense, I felt the weasel creatively freed me for the day. How can you not write when you’ve just seen a weasel?The author Douglas Kennedy once told me: “Writing is like being a shark: you keep moving or you die.” I think this theory applies to actual motion as well as the writing. I’ve been wondering who to thank at the start of my new book, and I think perhaps I need to thank walking. I wondered about thanking coffee, which is my ally in the mornings, but it has often turned against me in those dead hours between one and four pm. In these hours, walking repeatedly comes to my rescue. Without it, I’d probably be 40,000 words further back, still agonising over whether or not to begin a chapter with dialogue or a monologue. On a recent walk I saw a weasel. The weasel didn’t stick around for long as, like so many weasels right now, it was worried about going technologically viral, but in a sense, I felt the weasel creatively freed me for the day. How can you not write when you’ve just seen a weasel?
I’m lucky, as Devon is a wild county, rich in wildlife and craggy inspiration. But a walk in any of the areas I’ve lived in the past has had a similar effect. Quite apart from the fact that motion gets the artistic juices flowing, there’s the simple, undeniable fact – so wonderfully illustrated in Dominick Tyler’s new book The Land Reader – that a country walk means you’re more likely to be around more interesting, appealing words than you are when you’re at home: “clitter” and “fingerpost” and “tumulus” instead of “sideboard” and “tax” and “USB”. Urban Dictionary will tell you that clitter is “vaginal glitter” but I learned what it really is from Ellie, a film-maker I walked with at Lustleigh Cleave a couple of weeks ago: ancient scattered granite formerly making up the higher part of tors. Sleet pounded Ellie and me as we reached Hunter’s Tor, then sun and wind spun us back dry as we returned to the bottom of the cleave: a sharp cheese slice in the land, full of twinkling magic. We staggered up the last hill like two drunks, but I felt brimming with words, as if I could write into the night and beyond, and I rushed to my desk when I arrived home and opened my notebook, frantically keen to write up every one of the day’s observations. “Wasp?” I typed. I’m lucky, as Devon is a wild county, rich in wildlife and craggy inspiration. But a walk in any of the areas I’ve lived in the past has had a similar effect. Quite apart from the fact that motion gets the artistic juices flowing, there’s the simple, undeniable fact – so wonderfully illustrated in Dominick Tyler’s new book Uncommon Ground – that a country walk means you’re more likely to be around more interesting, appealing words than you are when you’re at home: “clitter” and “fingerpost” and “tumulus” instead of “sideboard” and “tax” and “USB”. Urban Dictionary will tell you that clitter is “vaginal glitter” but I learned what it really is from Ellie, a film-maker I walked with at Lustleigh Cleave a couple of weeks ago: ancient scattered granite formerly making up the higher part of tors. Sleet pounded Ellie and me as we reached Hunter’s Tor, then sun and wind spun us back dry as we returned to the bottom of the cleave: a sharp cheese slice in the land, full of twinkling magic. We staggered up the last hill like two drunks, but I felt brimming with words, as if I could write into the night and beyond, and I rushed to my desk when I arrived home and opened my notebook, frantically keen to write up every one of the day’s observations. “Wasp?” I typed.
Tom Cox’s latest book, The Good, the Bad and the Furry is published by Little Brown. Follow him on Twitter @cox_tom.Tom Cox’s latest book, The Good, the Bad and the Furry is published by Little Brown. Follow him on Twitter @cox_tom.