To Somnambulate

 

What good is the warmth of summer when I am in the cold bottomless pit of grief? And yet I know this honeyed glare of a heatwave is better than being in the middle of winter. Summer makes people happy with its classic lawn smell, its levels of serotonin and melatonin, its glasses of sweetness. That’s some consolation, others said to me, reassuring themselves more than anything, before my trip. I’m glad to be cut off from those voices now, at least for a little while. They mean well but what do any of them really understand? It is remarkably difficult not to be bitter about something so utterly unfair and unjust. The deep dark sad nights don’t seem so bad when I’m not enclosed by four solid walls. I didn’t sleep much last night but the distant bleat of sheep pulls me out of the haze and into the present. The morning heat has already begun to penetrate my temporary home. I’ve never spent more than a couple of days in a tent but I’ve already grown quite enamoured with it. As I unzip the buttery scent of coconut from the yellow gorse flowers lingers in the air. All sense of time and urgency has gone and there’s only one goal: to get to the end of this trail, however long it takes.

Every morning begins in a similar fashion. I pack everything up and hoist it onto my back, leaving without a trace. A flattened patch of grass where my sack of a body lay. I am here now: moving from one day to the next. The cool morning air is deceptive; in just a few hours it will ramp up, as I know only too well from recent experience. The heat makes it a matter of urgency that I know where to fill up my water bottles. The old me would have been anxious but what is the worst that could happen now? I’m walking the conventional direction of south to north. There wasn’t an awful lot of planning involved as the signage is fantastic and there are places to pick up food along the way. I do know, however, that I will shortly be coming across a pub at just the right time for lunch. The thought of chips and a cool pint of cider keeps me going as sweat drips from various parts of my cushiony body. I march up to the entrance. A locked door bars my way. Closed. A wave of anger hits me. It is such a trivial thing to be mad about but I can’t stop the red impotent rage.

Despite this being a popular trail there are points that are utterly devoid of people. I find myself sobbing, talking to myself, or singing. I even catch myself giggling sometimes, which is surprising. My motivation is a strange one. I’m not sure my partner fully understands and I can’t really explain it properly to him either. Our baby daughter is my motivation, even though she doesn’t exist anymore. The river sings for her. The wildflowers bloom for her. It is they—the river, the flowers—that are keeping me alive, and all I have to do is keep putting one foot in front of the other. Today is an exciting day because I will meet three waterfalls. Each midge and blister that tries to dampen my spirits simply cannot, not today. I stuff jelly babies into my mouth; this steep walk up the valley is surely like climbing a munro. My body is getting stronger with each passing hour. I know when I next look in a mirror I will appear healthier than when I first set off. It was frightening day after day seeing pale, desolate, ruined eyes reflected back at me. I set off straight after my six-week sign-off by the doctor; I didn’t dare tell her what my plans were. She would think I was crazy with my vulnerable brain and malfunctioning body. Work were understanding of my situation. I am still entitled to take my maternity leave and I get the impression they’re quite fearful of me—the situation—the raging grief. I hear the rush of waterfalls before I see them. An ancient rocky gorge with its relentless river surging into its depths. I respect its strength, its power, its unceasing changeability and yet continuous cycle of sameness.

I scramble up. I am stronger but my muscles ache. The high daily mileage and heavy backpack is clearly taking its toll. For a moment the magnitude of what has happened vanishes into the timeless expanse. I breathe and listen to the wind whipping up a strange howling song. The highest point on this hike is like someone has scooped a gigantic hole out of the earth. Tumbled rocks and scree scatter down the slopes. It is nothing and even so it is something. A chasm. My route takes me down again into the valley. Distance changes and fluctuates when you are on foot. Walking by foot can make miles stretch and expand or fly by depending on the type of terrain you’re wading through. I’m beginning to dread getting to my destination as the beauty is here and now. My knees and thighs burn on the way down and I’m glad I have my hiking poles to help. I will need similar implements to help prop me up when I am finally home.

I don’t have too many goals on this trip but it’s nice to have specific points to aim for. As the light begins to fade and my feet and body and backpack get heavier I realise that I have been overly ambitious. I need to find a camping spot now, but this boulder field is not conducive to a good night’s sleep. When you are tired anything can look like a bed. I could adapt to this challenging environment like the plants and slot into a ledge or a crevice. I hear a desolate songbird claiming its territory. I see the blackbird of the mountains and know I am a disturbance to his peaceful family. It’s not ideal but I’m going to have to pitch up in the least rocky part. I know if I push a little further I will get to a clearing but I feel like I’m getting shin splints and I want to be safe in my temporary home before it is pitch black. My dreams cannot die but neither can my nightmares. I want to try and understand but I can’t. Pure despair. There’s nothing to understand. The foundations of my home tonight are flawed and fairly comical but I’m safe. My exhausted mind drifts into blankness.

This heat wave is making things preternatural. It is a known fact that usually the higher up you get the more boisterous the wind. This particular fell is famous for it, but it is eerily still. The balmy beauty of a bare fell in July. It has been a very slow incline to get to this cairn—a small manmade rock shelter—so I sit and escape from the bright elements and eat my sandwich. The views are astounding. If you sit still the wildlife comes to you, but I would not expect anything to find its way to me up here. And yet, like in a dream, an owl passes over me and back again—over and back—over and back. Three times! It’s like she is sussing me out, having a good look at this mess of a human. I can’t stop smiling. On my way down I see not one, not two, but five other fellow ramblers. We all nod and greet each other and it’s like I’m a new woman, falling in love again, ready to take on the world. A trail runner is about to overtake, but to my surprise she slows down and falls into step with me.

“That looks like a heavy pack. I’m impressed,” she says cheerfully.

“I’m impressed you’re out here with nothing looking like a mountain goat!” I say. She seems free, fit, without a care in the world.

She laughs and asks for my name.

“My grandmother was called Clara. She always said it meant bright and clear. I’m Nadine. It can mean hope. Pleasure to meet you, Clara.”

She pats me on the shoulder and then just like that she is gone. I see a luminous green dot bobbing away in the distance.

“Nadine.” I say aloud.

What a lovely baby name. Strangers will have no idea that I was a mother; that I am a mother. My brain is suddenly a tangle of emotions. I feel guilty because I haven’t really thought about her an awful lot today. She’s been there in the background but I haven’t really thought about her. I wonder about if things had been otherwise. What could I have done differently? Coping is truly traumatic. I find it really hard to believe what happened. That’s why being here helps. This is the real world out here in nature, however uncanny and unrelenting it may be. Freshness and beauty is infinitely healing, even when your feelings seem more than you can handle. Am I selfish for leaving my partner behind to deal with his grief on his own? He is back at work acting like nothing has happened. Perhaps this is a little unfair of me—everyone grieves in their own way—but I remain in a state of total limbo. This way, we both get the time and space we need to process, to recover, to heal. An ant lands on my arm, and then another, and then another. For some reason I find myself walking through a swarm of flying ants. I frantically wave my poles in the air and do a panicked dance. There’s no wind to shoo them away, so I drag my aching body down the hill and away from the buzz.

My final night is short and the tent is my grown-up version of a blanket den. I feel so safe, and regress back into a childlike state. Why do we all have to be such boring adults? I make a promise to her that I won’t; that I will make the most of my life and never lose the joy and glee of discovery. There are so many comforts at home that had become stale after what happened. After being at the mercy of the elements I am thankful for those small comforts. I miss my partner. I can see things afresh, aglow with life. There is beauty in the everyday too. I have gained so much joy from the primal things that I will never forget. I shuffle up to the doorway of my tent and look out. The night sky is clear with thousands of bright winking-twinkling little stars.

The map tells me I cross into Scotland soon. A reminder that this walk is almost at its crescendo. A bittersweetness. The rain is so heavy I don’t want to stop to eat my sandwiches. Water has seeped through into my base layers. It soaks and drips through to my core washing away everything. Nourishing summer rain: the wind makes it chilling and I feel both frightened and elated. I’m not angry. This is the best day for it to rain like this. Blue skies gone grey. Puddles. Slosh. Mud. Outside the stone hotel are discarded walking boots from previous pilgrims at their journey’s end. I intend to keep on going—not further into Scotland, but I intend to keep on walking for a big part of my life. The rain stops for a brief moment enabling me to take a photo to prove I made it to the end. This walk is a connection to life, to the present, to the fleeting now. A double rainbow emerges, revelling in its unlikely duplicity, and a slight drizzle starts up again.