Walking Slowly in a World That Won’t

There was a time, not terribly long ago, when a walk meant precisely that. You put one foot in front of the other, occasionally paused to look at something that wasn’t trying to sell you anything, and returned home feeling vaguely improved as a human being. No one measured it, no one posted it, and no one felt the need to validate it with a small army of strangers tapping little hearts on a screen.

I still go for walks, largely out of stubbornness and a quiet refusal to join the great modern sprint towards nowhere in particular.

The countryside, you see, has a way of tolerating you. It does not applaud your arrival, nor does it mind terribly if you leave. It simply exists, quite beautifully, without needing your approval. And that, in today’s world, feels almost revolutionary.

On these walks, I often carry a camera / mobile. Not as a weapon to capture and conquer the landscape, but more as a companion. A polite observer. Something to remind me that if I do happen to stumble upon a particularly charming arrangement of wildflowers or a river quietly minding its own business at dusk, I might like to remember it later.

Photographers, however, are an odd species. We have, over time, developed the remarkable ability to stand in the most breathtaking locations on earth and see absolutely nothing unless it fits neatly into a frame. We adjust, tweak, crouch, lie flat on the ground if necessary, all in pursuit of a photograph that will later be judged by people who have never set foot anywhere remotely similar nor have they any idea of art or photography.

It is a curious arrangement.

Somewhere along the way, photography stopped being about seeing and started being about being seen. It became less about creating something that meant something to you, and more about collecting approval from people you will never meet. One might as well stand in a meadow and shout into the wind, hoping it replies with a compliment. Or with some likes on social media.

I have quietly opted out of that particular game.

I shoot for myself. Not because it is noble or artistic or rebellious, but because it makes me happy. The same way walking makes me happy. The two seem to go rather well together, like old friends who don’t feel the need to talk constantly.

There is a certain pleasure in noticing small things. The way light slips through a cluster of leaves just before sunset. The slow, deliberate movement of clouds that have no appointments to keep. The quiet persistence of wildflowers growing exactly where no one asked them to.

These are not the sorts of things that trend on social media.

They are, however, the sorts of things that stay with you.

People don’t seem to walk much anymore. They move, certainly, but always with purpose, always with urgency, as if the act of getting somewhere has become more important than the act of being anywhere at all. Walking, in its purest form, has been downgraded to a fitness activity, complete with goals, metrics, apps, smart watches, fitness trackers and the occasional competitive spirit, which feels like missing the point rather spectacularly.

A walk is not a task. It is an escape.

I used to enjoy the pre-sunrise variety. There was something quite magical about stepping out into a world that hadn’t fully woken up yet. The air was sharper, the silence more sincere, and the light, when it finally arrived, felt like a personal reward for your efforts.

These days, I will admit, I am less heroic. Sunsets have become my preferred compromise. They are, after all, rather forgiving. They do not require you to set an alarm or question your life choices at an ungodly hour. They simply unfold, generously, for anyone who happens to be present.

I avoid tourist spots with the dedication of someone who has learned their lesson the hard way. Crowds have a remarkable ability to drain the poetry out of a place. A quiet hill loses its charm when it starts sounding like a marketplace. A peaceful river becomes less contemplative when accompanied by a soundtrack of chatter, selfies and phone notifications.

The countryside, on the other hand, asks very little of you. It does not demand attention. It does not compete. It simply offers itself, quietly, to those who are willing to notice.

I find I prefer the company of trees, birds, reptiles, and the occasional mildly suspicious cow. They mind their own business, which is a quality I have come to admire deeply. Insects, too, have their place, though I have stopped taking close up photographs of snakes and spiders and now merely observe and smile.

Humans, however, are another matter.

I don’t dislike them, not exactly. I simply find them rather exhausting in large quantities. Out here, in the quieter corners of the world, they are pleasantly scarce. And in that absence, something rather lovely happens. You begin to hear your own thoughts again.

So I walk. I stop. I look. Occasionally, I take a photograph. Sometimes with the mobile, sometimes with the mirrorless / DSLR.

Not to prove I was there. Not to impress anyone. Not to gather approval.

Just to remember how it felt to be.

And, in a world that seems increasingly determined to rush past everything worth noticing, that feels like a rather good reason to carry on.