Remember the pandemic? Me neither. The human brain’s ability to forget the bad and remember the good has always fascinated me. It’s a phenomenon I first noticed after our family holidays to Orlando, which were fabulously fun but also involved frustrating hours of queuing in the torrid Florida heat and humidity. Once back in England, though, I’d only ever recall the thrill of the rides, the magic of the parades, and the hilarity of us discovering that American chocolate tastes like cheese.
I digress, however. I bring up the pandemic as I’ve been thinking about walking. Walking is something I’ve grown to thoroughly enjoy and appreciate, and I didn’t want to bore you all by linking it with my accident and spending yet another post wittering on about breaking my leg.
So we’re back to the pandemic. I spent a good few months holed up in my little flat here in Madrid where, despite my dad’s best efforts at getting me to pace around the tiny place, I anxiously awaited the day we’d be let out for even the shortest of walks. This relief eventually came in our state-sanctioned daily walk: an hour to stretch our legs and fill our lungs with fresh, virus-free air. The most basic of human exercises became a luxury, and I’ve held my walks as sacred ever since.
It’s this perspective that’s recently had me jumping at the chance to visit new places. I gladly accepted Fer’s invitation to Segovia and my auntie’s to a town in Murica, keen to pop on my comfy shoes (I’m 30 now, remember) and discover what the streets of these two destinations would have in store.
Looking back over the photos I took, I see that what struck me about both places was the beauty that is to be found in the old, be it well maintained or not. Segovia’s old houses and Roman aqueduct have an inescapable gravitas, but the rusty and forgotten corners of this random town on the Murcian coast captivated me just the same… perhaps even more.
What do I take away from this reflection? I’ve no idea. It’s not yet 8am and I’m sat in Madrid Barajas Airport, rubbing my eyes and finishing my coffee. As I prepare to spend two hours with zero room to move my legs, though, I eagerly await my arrival in Milan and the hours on hours of walking that await me. I guess that’s it, really. This is just a love letter to walking.
