A WALK OF ONE'S OWN

The solitary joys of hiking By Elizabeth Day

I came to the pleasures of walking relatively late in life. As a child, I’d been dragged on long family expeditions by my climbing-obsessed father and many of my early memories are of trudging up mountains, wondering how long we’d have to wait until we unwrapped the picnic sandwiches.

When I was old enough to make my own choices, I resolutely refused to walk anywhere unless there was a distinct objective. Walking to the shops for a packet of biscuits? Fine. Walking aimlessly for a couple of hours after Sunday lunch? I’d rather stay in and watch the EastEnders omnibus, thanks.

But something changed in my mid-twenties.

I went travelling on my own for a month to East

Africa and I learnt that the best way of understanding a place is to walk around it. I realised

I’d never really strolled on my own for pleasure, so it was the first time I experienced the delights of ambling without intent.

On one particular excursion through the narrow, sun-dappled streets of Stone Town in

Zanzibar, I felt the peculiar happiness that comes from not having to talk to anyone. There was no one telling me where to go or how steep to climb. Left to my own devices, I could potter and think and take in the view. I was surrounded by new sights and sounds: squawking chickens, fragrant jasmine, brass door knockers in the shape of Fatima’s hand and then, without announcement, the golden arc of beach.

When I came back home, my friends were mildly astonished by my change of heart. One of them gave me a book containing details for the ‘100 Greatest Walks in Britain’, complete with a compass and waterproof map-holder. I think he meant it as a joke, but I did actually use them more than once.

Walking has become more and more a part of my life. Something about the action of it – the movement of my legs and arms, the inhalations of fresh air, the release from computer screens – enables me to think more clearly. As a writer, I’ve been able to iron out knotty plot issues by tramping along the clifftops around St Ives or marching briskly over Hampstead Heath, past excitable dogs and children flying kites. Much of the structure of my latest novel, The Party, was worked out on long, sweaty hikes in the Hollywood Hills behind Griffith Observatory in LA.

I don’t set out with the deliberate intention of thinking. But walking without needing to be anywhere allows my thoughts space to settle and reshape. It’s taken me a while, but I think I’ve finally learnt what my father was trying to teach me, all those years ago: that, sometimes, walking with no destination can be an end in itself.

‘The Party’ by Elizabeth Day (£12.99, 4th Estate) is published on 13 July.