I hate walking. I won’t do it. I am not going any further. Unorthodox as it may seem, as an introduction to a celebration of great walks, I need to put those words down and look at them. They are certainly the words every parent fears. The words I inflicted, as a nine-year-old on my dad on Snowdon, were later echoed by my own children. They are uttered, or just thought, at the crucial moment in many a great walk, usually when a corner is turned and the true dimensions of the landscape open up and show a narrow stony path, winding onwards for long miles, always upwards, to a goal that is impossibly distant and probably wreathed in ominous black clouds. The view up Langdale towards Lakeland’s Scafell massif often conforms to this pattern. Children do us a service in voicing such feelings; we adults often ignore them, or soldier onwards, never appreciating that this is all part of the drama.
You see I do believe that great walks are like great dramas. Act One is the optimistic practicalities: the picnic packing, the maps and checklists, the jokes and the laughter. You set off with fresh faces and jollity. But then, just as the effort starts to bite, comes that moment. I suppose the ancient Greeks had a word for it. Suddenly there is the threat of tragedy in the air, or at least the disappointment of turning back. But something keeps you going: it could be the promise of lunch, or a shaft of sunlight that warms your back. And, by the simple formula of putting one foot in front of the other, those long upward miles fall behind. Then the summit is in sight, the views become magnificent and soggy cheese sandwiches taste amazing. Triumph is felt.
In this, walking has not changed since my dad dragged me up Snowdon, but almost everything else is different. Before 1969, all outdoor clothing leaked. Then a Delaware chemist named Bob Gore, frustrated by a recalcitrant lump of stuff called polytetrafluoroethylene, gave the material a big angry yank and miraculously discovered what would become Gore-Tex. Before this material became commercially available in the late 1970s, hill-walking was like a bloodless version of a Great War debacle: shell-shocked survivors trudging in from the mist at the end of the day wrapped in dowdy tarpaulins and sodden wool. Bob Gore delivered us into a new dry world of weightless colour and optimism.
It’s not the only change. These days you actually do arrive, courtesy of better maps, navigation devices and route guides. Previously you just walked off a cliff and, if you were lucky, got the boulder that killed you named in your honour. And on arrival those mountain lodgings, formerly Nissen huts infested with military-trained masochists, are often welcoming. The chalets or mountain huts of continental Europe bring warmth, conviviality and comfort to what was spartan and cold, making treks like the Pyrenean GR10 or Corsica’s GR20 a joy.
Even in Britain, where the tradition of walking as a penance is deep-rooted (thanks John Bunyan, or was it bunion?), you can now arrive to smiles and the announcement that tea and homemade cake or scones will be served in front of the log fire. On England’s Coast to Coast path, the Jolly Farmers B&B in Kirby Stephen manages precisely that, as do Woodland House in Cowling on the Pennine Way and many others. No one lit a log fire before 1969: it wasted fuel and tempted Oliver Reed into a homoerotic wrestling bouts (what a year: Gore-Tex and Ken Russell’s Women in Love!).
Not only that but your baggage, once a rucksack heavier than Captain Scott, is now an ergonomic design champ that has been delivered to your room while you were out actually enjoying the hills. The Long Distance Walking Association lists more than 90 companies that provide this service in the UK alone.
If you have got wet – and even Gore-Tex cannot hold out forever – there will be a drying room. Meanwhile, you can head off to a pub that serves food in the evenings – food that is delicious. And on your walk, those soggy cheese sandwiches can be traded for all manner of delicious deli treats, trail mixes and power foods. Kendal Mint Cake is no longer the only luxury allowed (but I still love it).
Yes, walking has certainly undergone a revolution, and all these innovations and changes I welcome with open arms. And yet, the best hikes are not chosen for any of those reasons. What makes a great walk remains the gift of nature: the subtle alchemy of landscape, elements and path that is transformed into a dramatic stage for your pleasure and experience by the magical spell of your own tramping feet.
