“For there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed that will not be made known and brought to light.” (Luke 8:17)
My plans change, leaving me with a free Wednesday afternoon, so I send an email to a group of people who have been in touch after reading my previous blog posts. I ask whether any of them are available at short notice to walk with me today and soon receive a reply from David. We arrange to meet outside Billington’s. I don’t know David at all, so as I wait, I wonder about everyone who walks towards me. After several people rule themselves out by passing by without making eye contact, one wanders up the hill and identifies himself with a nod. We shake hands and introduce ourselves before we set off, joining the Moss at the station carpark.
David is a fast walker, and I am happy to match his pace. Our conversation moves on quickly, too. He works in insurance, attends a church under the Anabaptist umbrella, and has three children in their twenties, two of whom are still at home. We talk of a shared experience of ‘super commuting’ between Glasgow and London. David used to be a subeditor and for a short time worked on the earliest version of The Guardian website (which I happen to read every day). He is a North Londoner and grew up near Hampstead Heath, so access to greenspaces near urban areas has always been important to him. He says that heaths and parks are the lungs of the city. Like Richard, who I walked with last week, David often looks after his daughter’s dog (theirs is a fox labrador called Psalm) and while she isn’t with him today, they are regularly out on the Moss for exercise. Psalm is a fetcher and spends much of these excursions chasing sticks and bringing them back, covering significantly more distance than whoever is walking her. With a such a busy life, full of work, family commitments, and dog walking, the Moss is a place that David can come to slow down and reset. It means a lot to him.
When we reach the part of the boardwalk where I sat with Cathy watching the roe deer playing in the heather, we look out across the bog. David points out the sections of fencing at the far side. He is unconvinced by the need to manage access in this way. When the fences were being constructed, David spoke with the contractors and they claimed they were for safety, citing an incident many years ago when a child had to be rescued from the bog. This is the first time I have heard this explanation; I was told by Jackie that access was being discouraged to protect the fragile peat layer from erosion. David doubts that there was any real evidence used to justify these interventions. He says that he has always walked across the bog, but that he does so responsibly. With very few walkers diverting from the main pathway, and those who do taking care and sticking to the well-established routes, David doesn’t see why there needs to be such an effort and investment to block off paths and prevent access.
I understand that the barriers and borders can seem excessive, but I have learnt that small amounts of footfall over long periods of time can cause real damage to the bog. My own opinion on this thorny issue changes a little every time I complete a circle. Today, we pass a father with a sleeping toddler in a pushchair, a couple of joggers, teenagers on their way back to school, and several dogwalkers. Almost all of them follow the main pathway round the perimeter of the bog. One walks along the raised bank of the old railway line, his husky leading the way, seeming pure white in the sunshine. David’s internal map of the Moss is a network of interconnected paths, and he rarely follows the same route, but there are places he often returns to.
We turn off the boardwalk and David offers to show me a place that I might not have visited before. We follow the path for a while and then suddenly leave it at a point that he clearly knows well, but which I will struggle to find again. After walking a short way into the birchwood, we reach a clearing marked by a fallen branch. David steps over it and uses it as a seat. He talks about the sense of peace and calm that this part of the Moss offers him. He also encounters it as a spiritual place: it is a part of the Moss that he comes to for silent prayer. When he is walking with Psalm, she anticipates these moments, becoming quiet and still while David gathers his thoughts. David tunes in to the environment, slows down and listens to God. Sometimes, he senses meaning in the wind through the trees and the passage of deer. I tell him that while I am not religious myself, I share a sense of peace that for me arises from a connection to wild places.
As we return to the main path, we say farewell and go our separate ways. I walk the last few feet alone, back towards the turn off to Fern Avenue. While there is nobody else around, I stop for a moment. I breathe in and listen. I have to be aware and in tune; I have to be present. If I can do this, then the world might tell me something. I am searching for a sign. Then, the wind causes a dappled light to move in the bushes, and I turn to see hundreds of pure white flowers turned to where I stand. They are hedge bindweed – moments of light and beauty popping out of the tangle of nettles. If I am looking for meaning, these will do nicely. Later, I read that this plant represents an unyielding spirit – its strong roots and delicate flowers symbolising a connection between strength and fragility. I realise that I walked past this spot already, when David and I passed it by earlier, talking about the Moss rather than being present in it. By breaking from the walk and pausing in the clearing, we have shifted our mode of engagement with the environment. The things that went unnoticed now reveal themselves; those who stop to look will see what was always there.
