ILL EQUIPPED. (pictures not required)

 

It had come highly recommended by Polly. “There’s a Constable exhibition at the Royal Academy you must see”. Entitled “Late Constable” it covered a time line from 1825 to his death in 1837. It was a short stroll to the nearest tube station and ten stops on another short walk along Piccadilly from Green Park Station, and a perfect distraction from thoughts of my own exhibition starting that evening.

The pavements were bustling with eager shoppers and the well-dressed seem to carry an air of entitlement and ownership, while the homeless sat cross legged on cardboard, backed up to what would now seem useless telephone boxes, muffled and blanketed against the first real nip of winter. As I approached Dover Street a black woman stood doubled over in obvious distress, tears streaming down her face as she pleaded blindly for help to the passing pedestrians. I drew closer watching people skirting around her, turning their gaze elsewhere and walking on. After all that people have been through over the past two years there must now be a greater awareness of people less fortunate, and surely someone would take notice of such distress.

In the Outer Hebrides I expect to say hello to everyone I come across during my walk, but obviously on the streets of London that is impossible. There is a level of self-imposed isolation that comes with the use of smartphones, a reduction in observation and a cutting off from reality. Headphones in place, they walk and talk, but exist elsewhere. I looked ahead and passed, disgusted with myself for joining the throng.

I paid my £17 entry and spent the following hour transported to another world, enthralled by the magic of Constable. Being able to get so close and study the confident confusion of paint application, no longer aware of my mask. To see his full size preparatory sketches alongside the finished studio work was a delight, flitting to and fro, seeing decisions taken almost two centuries ago.

Pleasantly exhausted I left by the Burlington back doors, my back beginning to feel the strain of concentration. Unmasked I walked on down Old Bond Street and slowed as a woman standing in front of a handbag shop posed, while her husband took a photo. A purchase had been made and she proudly clutched the smart paper carrier bag sporting the shop’s name. I stopped and stared, the tears welling up, a brutal transportation to the reality of today, the contrast too great. I could not survive long on these streets.      

A DIFFERENT SORT OF WALKING.

 

Making comparisons have always seemed somewhat pointless to me, and yet I’m still drawn to do just that. Walking in the Sassenach South is so different to that on the Isle of Lewis that I am constantly comparing and contrasting. There are plenty of what you could call single track roads down in Cornwall, but when bordered by high stone hedges that sense of open space found in the remote coastal wilderness of the Hebrides is lost. Walking down a winding Cornish country lane at any time of day is dangerous. Not simply because they are narrow, but because the traffic volume is considerable and the speed at which people drive is terrifying. So whenever possible I choose to scramble through the hedges and walk in the fields. There is no right to roam in England, but I would rather take my chances with livestock or local farmers than head on with a delivery van.

Delivery vans are perhaps the one thing that remain unchanged wherever you are. The company might not be the same but next day delivery to the door has certainly become the norm, even if on the islands the next day is more likely to be the next week. While the latest trend is to de-clutter, and chuck stuff out, many more are on line ordering stuff that they don’t need. So what’s new?

I digress. My walking has by necessity been in daylight since pushing your way through a thorny hedge is the dark can leave some nasty scars. From my brother’s house in the center of Probus I will more often than not head through the churchyard.

The classic West Country square granite tower is the finest and tallest in Cornwall. When walking out to the west of the village it stands as a noble landmark, prettier and debatably more useful than our own Tolsta wind turbine. Here the valley meanders down to the Tresillian River through mainly permanent pasture and scrub woodland. There is a bridal pathway but the proximity of the bypass road makes this a rather noisy trudge. My preference is to keep to the footpath that runs up to Trelowthas farm, or to wander down Wag lane and onto Trevorva Farm. However beyond these points I must cross that bypass road and to do so requires a good sense of speed judgement and timing. Simply walking across is not an option, one has to move fast during week days. One of the more pleasant circular loop walks is to the north and west of the village to Lemmellyn, following the footpath down to the railway and back up a little used lane to the village. Another longer loop is east towards Grampound and through the parkland of Trewithen Estate.

 Here my eye is always drawn to the magnificent centuries old oak trees with their neatly cattle trimmed skirts. At the east entrance I cross the road, hop over the wall and into the fields, for the lane heading south to Tregony is too dangerous at any time of day. There are pasture fields and four hedges to negotiate before I reach Golden Manor.

 The large double row of mid-17^th century mullion windows hide behind tall beach trees and the troubled history of the Tregain family. Across the road is what appear at first sight to be a farm building but which in fact one of the few remaining examples of a medieval first floor hall. Much transformed over the centuries and now incorporated into a modern day dairy farmyard the building stands unused and unloved.

 From here I take the dogleg lane south of Trewithen, crossing the bypass road, through the new Tregony View housing estate and home. Yes, it’s different, very different to my coastal evening strolls from New Tolsta, but there is interest if of a different nature.