The Gentle Art

There was a programme about Wayfaring on the radio, based on a book called The Gentle Art of Tramping, written in 1927. In those days “gentlemen of the road”, often old soldiers, would be seen on foot across Britain, communing with Nature, find rough shelter each night, doing a little casual labour here and there. The practice is not dead it seems, for they interviewed a few modern exponents of this way of life.

My own wayfaring seldom extends beyond fifteen miles at a time. Typically I get out for a couple of hours to explore the endless network of footpaths which traverses the gentle Chiltern Hills and slices through towns too, away from the busy roads. Britain is fortunate in the way these footpaths are maintained by county councils and protected by law.

My house is not far from the traffic light at the bottom of the hill.

The close-packed houses and flats on the other side of the hill were built in the 1990s. Mine was built in 1901, to the same design as those on the left of the photo above.

A couple of minutes later, looking over the rooftops in another direction, I see the beckoning countryside.

I walked in that direction, along Toweridge Lane, and was barked at by a Great Dane named Farley. I was glad there was a five-barred gate separating us. His owner came over and said hello.

Farley is affectionate as you see, but weighs thirteen stone and has alarming claws. I asked his owner what it’s like to have such a big pet. He said he doesn’t think of him as big, because he owns horses too.

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That was a few days ago. Today I went walking round Chalfont St Giles, the little town where Milton finished Paradise Lost, and Chalfont St Peter.

In a field stood a lady with straw-coloured hair. I asked her if she owned the horses. No, but she loves them, and comes often.

One of them is particularly affectionate. She allows it to munch her hair. I allowed it to munch my fingers. It was very gentle, happy to spend all day with us, nuzzling and being caressed. We (the lady and I) spoke of the love of animals. I mentioned various books, including Michelangelo’s Finger by Raymond Tallis, all about the human index finger, and pointing, and the inability of animals to point, even the pedigree dog known as a Pointer; because pointing is a complex thing, and a prerequisite to the development of language as we know it. Which led to the fact, which Tallis points out, that autistic people do not point, except when instructed to do so. Which led to my mention of Dr Temple Grandin, an autistic woman who empathizes with cattle, and uses this faculty to design slaughterhouses. As I rambled on, the lady continued her love affair with the horse before my eyes; except when the horse offered me his love too, with nuzzling and kissing and finger-munching. I thought he was seeking out the apples I had in my knapsack, but he wasn’t interested, until I offered one to him in my hand. We discussed love and whether it could be disinterested: at least, the love between humans and other species.

We said goodbye and I walked on, not really knowing where I was going, but I’d set up a GPS device to tell me where I’d left the car. The footpath went right through the National Epilepsy Society’s Respite Centre, a spacious set of buildings laid out like a village: very peaceful. Somewhere on the other side, after several loops and crossings of the same path, I passed a farm.

Here it is, Tipping’s Farm.

But as usual, I had my head in the clouds, and turned to look at another part of the sky.

It was a long way back to where I’d parked the car, near Milton’s Cottage, but there were plenty of late blackberries for nourishment along the path.