I walked 1,000 miles alone through Europe – and learned that fear is the price of freedom
I take risks on solo hikes, navigating animal traps and dangerous terrain. But for a woman, men are the biggest threat. I do it to be more open to the world, in the hope it will be more open to me.
The path, more of a faint depression in the field I had just crossed, disappeared into a wood: yes, I could see an opening in the vegetation. The day before, I had left the official walking route of the Via Francigena, an ancient pilgrimate route from Canterbury to Rome, to stay at a B&B that was highly rated and affordable. Early next morning, after stuffing my pockets with the breakfast my hostess had set out for me, I cracked open the massive gate in the wall surrounding the little country compound and sneaked through.
The village was quiet. Not even roosters were up as I found my stride on a dirt path that would, according to Google, take me back to the route. All I had to do was follow the track that cut south through a forest that showed on the map as a fairly small green blob between me and my destination. No problem.
Except that Google and I were a little lost. Or, more accurately, the signal was sketchy, and I was not 100% sure this was the right way.
I stepped between the trees into a Little Red Riding Hood gloom and hummed a nonsense song. I am more than capable of freaking myself out. A sign nailed to a tree gave me hope. All sorts of labelled and well-maintained paths run through the patches of forest that dot the rolling, mostly agricultural French landscape I’d been walking through for the past week. This sign was not a label, however. Beware, it warned, but I couldn’t make out the other words. Wolves? Wild pigs? I managed to catch a blink of signal and Google Translate informed me that I should watch out for traps.
OK, I thought, as long as I stay on the path. Which, of course, petered out after a few hundred metres. I could backtrack, return to the village and take the long way around, which would add several hours to a day I already expected to be long, or I could forge ahead, using flashes of sun for bearings. I heard my husband’s voice in my head, something about the sunk cost fallacy.
I picked up a fairly long and sturdy stick and, stirring the ground cover ahead of me, stepped carefully through the low tangle of brush, keeping the sun, what I could make of it, to my left. I banished all thoughts of steel traps, shredded ankle tendons and long hospital stays. But a moment of panic sucked the breath from my chest. If I did step on a trap, there would be no way to call for help. After some time, the trees thinned, more sunlight reached the forest floor, which I continued to probe, and then I was literally out of the woods. I laid my stick aside and pulled out one of Madame’s breakfast croissants, which was slightly crushed but delicious, with its layers of butter and relief.
As a woman and a mother, it is rare to only have to consider what I want and need without having to first attend to so many other people
Had I been scared? I’d definitely felt the prick of heightened alertness. In hindsight, taking the shortcut might have been marginally or royally stupid. Certainly, it was a challenge, but one I felt up to, and while it may be unclear how much luck played a part, I did manage to come out in one piece. Mostly, I think, I was too busy paying attention to be afraid.
When I walk alone, the consequences of every good or bad choice I make fall entirely on me: a responsibility and a freedom. As a woman and a mother, I rarely only have to consider what I want and need without having to first attend to other people. I know there are risks, but each time I come out of that “forest”, I feel stronger and more confident. Weighed against the simple daily rhythms of a long-distance walk and the joy and wonder I experience, risk – reasonable risk – becomes a small part of the equation, and one I am willing to accept.
Many things frightened me as I made my way from the Channel through France, over the Alps in Switzerland, and across northern Italy to Rome. Some were rational fears – aggressive dogs (only two, called off by owners), a cash machine eating my card (didn’t happen), getting lost (an occasional, correctable problem); some weren’t.
Read More Here: Guardian
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