The rush you feel when running, mind clear and calves taut, is a wonderful sensation. For the last few years I’ve been running almost every day, either alone or with the club at university. I considered myself thoroughly addicted to the way my feet bounced off the tarmac. Not only a way to get fit, the activity is empowering; you are faster than pedestrians, but with a freedom to weave up side roads and across lawns that car driving doesn’t allow.
I have been lucky enough to run in some of the most beautiful parts of Europe, and would tell anyone who would listen about the scenic exhilaration of these short respites from the stress of work or travel. Yet it was on one of these runs, a quick 5km through the vibrant hills of the south of France, that brought to an end my love affair with the fast lane. A surprise trip to A&E established that my knee wasn’t broken, but the aches I’ve felt since mean that my running shoes have been neglected to the back of my cupboard (my lycra, on the other hand, still makes regular appearances in my daily wardrobe).
Not having my main physical outlet didn’t bother me too much for the first few months as the festival ensured I used my legs as much as I did when I was running 50km a week. It wasn’t until I was left with time on my hands that I began to go a little loopy. So I started walking. And not just out of necessity.
When travelling from the promenade of Portobello back towards East Lothian, there is a two-mile stretch that is usually walked alongside a busy road. I had journeyed this way a hundred times before, and loathed every polluted breath. However, if you follow the coast, and venture down a set of steep stone steps towards some menacing looking rocks, you will find yourself descending onto a silent beach. The noise from the cars only 20 metres away vanishes as you place your first step onto the damp sand. It is a glorious walk along the beach, and a must for anyone who fancies themselves as a character out of an Ian McEwan novel. I recommend you take your shoes and socks off – and please, make sure the tide is out.
A few days ago my dad and I took a 10km walk down a section of the John Muir Way, from North Berwick to Gullane. The route boasts some of the best rare wild flowers that the Lothians have to offer, if you weren’t aware (No, neither was I). My old man gleefully pointed out a variety of peaky looking plants, from Marsh Cudweed to Red Valerian, and Sweet Cecily to Germander Speedwell. By the end of our journey, we had created an entire 1930s style detective novel with characters named after these flowers. Murder in the garden. A case of botany gone wrong. This is a far cry from any experience I’ve had running, the main purpose of which is to clear my head, not fill it with the plot of a terribly niche whodunit. If anyone is interested in publishing the adventures of amateur detective Woody Nightshade, please get in contact.
Often I look out the window in the evening at a pink sky and branches blowing in a warm breeze, and wish I could bound out the door and down to the coast. Running is the perfect accompaniment to a fast life, one that I have no intention of halting. Even when you don’t have time to cook, call your mum or take a trip to the bank, there is always time for a run. But there is a frenzy to your thoughts when travelling that quickly, and I’ve not had a single good idea while trying to beat my personal best. Taking a long, lingering stroll through the countryside has the opposite effect.
Walking is soothing to the mind and wonderful for inciting creativity. It lets you see parts of the country, some no more than a few steps from your home, from an utterly different perspective. There is something romantic about taking the slow lane every once in a while, and I don’t intend to stop when my knee is better. If anything, I’ll just walk farther.
By Alice Florence Orr | 8 September 2016
