Hello walkers and writers – and welcome to everyone who subscribed recently. For anyone new, I’m a walking writer. Through this newsletter, I share themes for noticing things on your walks and pair them with writing prompts; I interview people who have interesting walking and creative stories; and I occasionally share stories from my own walks. So with the welcomes done, let’s step into my latest Field Note.

A return to the familiar

I’m in London for the first time since I moved back to Yorkshire. I have a full day with a client and not much time for other things, so it’s a flying visit. I arrived yesterday and stayed with my lovely friend, H, who’s letting me treat her place in Walthamstow like a hotel for a few days. That’s a good friend to have in London!

I’ve come to Shoreditch, taking the Weaver line from Walthamstow to Liverpool Street. But on the train I made a quick decision to get off at Bethnal Green and walk through my old neighbourhood, just as the sky begins to darken and a drizzle starts to land on my face.

I live in Beverley now, a town where I worked for a couple of years before I left Yorkshire in 1999 and moved to London for what would become the first of two separate periods of living here. I thought I knew Beverley well, but time fades memory like the ink in old books and it’s not how I remembered it. I’ve been relying on the map on my phone to make even the simplest of trips, never quite sure if a side road will offer a shortcut or a dead end, sometimes losing my bearings and heading the wrong way. For someone who never gets lost, least of all on home turf, it’s been… unsettling.

Back in London I’m on solid ground. 16 years here was more than enough time for Shoreditch to reveal its secrets to me. Side streets and shortcuts are as familiar as the back of my hand. I walk them unthinkingly, letting my feet set the route. My feet planted firmly on pavement, I feel steadier than I have of late. I detour through Weavers Fields where the wind is snatching the blossoms from the trees as fast as the trees are producing them. I think of my favourite tree in Victoria Park – a grand old magnolia – and wonder if I have time to swing by and see if it’s in bloom yet. I know deep down that I don’t.

Without need of a map, I’m no longer hesitant. I walk freely and easily – and also swiftly. My city sense is as sharp as it’s always been and despite the vigilance I always carry as a woman when I walk in a town or city, it feels liberating. The familiar terrain is comforting. The absence of a map is freeing.

I’ve missed London but it was also the right time to leave. I probably left it too long, in fact. I’d sprouted roots. Become tethered in a way that felt calming and secure at first, but gradually stifled me. A yearning for open space, particularly woodland and coast, was tugging me away. I’m reading The Wild Places by Robert MacFarlane and I recall something that resonated so strongly that I wrote it in my notebook on the train to London:

“Anyone who lives in a city will know the feeling of having been there too long. The gorge-vision that streets imprint on us, the sense of blockage, the longing for surfaces other than glass, brick, concrete and tarmac.”

Those 16 years in London were the longest I’ve lived in one place in my entire life, but despite becoming pot bound, my nomadic nature gradually resurfaced, swirling my thoughts into restlessness, bringing a feeling of claustrophobia so strong there were many moments when I couldn’t breathe. In recent years I’d taken to keeping a grab bag, packed with my camping and walking gear and ready to go in an instant whenever an opportunity appeared. I’ve often grabbed that bag, dashed for my car and driven out of London in any direction that would get me to a quiet and green place. Running away and running towards at the same time. So if I felt the pull to leave, why did I stay so long? I don’t yet know the answer. Or maybe I do but I’m not ready to whisper it to myself yet.

As I walk through the park, an older man with a walking stick says good morning and I’m briefly caught off guard. People outside of London claim it’s not friendly here but I’ve rarely found that to be the case. Strangers unite in cities, drawn by a mutual curiosity of the world and of each other. Why else leave home and go somewhere new? The man was a familiar face in the neighbourhood when I lived here, even though we’d never met or spoken before. Perhaps I’d been a familiar face for him, too.

I continue my walk. Not much has changed in the months since I left and I didn’t expect that it would. It’s 11am so Brick Lane is only just waking up and many of the shops haven’t opened their shutters yet. I scan the walls and pavement, looking for new street art, and quickly spot some.

I dodge cyclists on the pavement, turn to look the wrong way down the one way street to avoid any more of them, and I’m reminded of my city sense. Something that developed so quietly I didn’t know it was happening, but has served me well in many cities I’ve visited either briefly or longer term.

I think of Panama City where I got food and manicures from street stalls. And Guatemala City with its noise, chaos and the surprise of seeing an aquaduct (el Acueducto de Pinula) in the heart of the city.

I think of San Francisco where I spent several months, and how I walked everywhere there. Starting at Duboce Triangle, where I was staying, and making ever wider circles expanding through the Castro, Dolores Park, the Mission, Haight-Ashbury, Noe Valley, Twin Peaks, Golden Gate Park, the Presidio, Lombard Street, and all the way down Market, taking in the Painted Ladies, Polk, Union Square, North Beach and the Embarcadero. I think of Athens and how much I love to walk there and how people are surprised when I say this, but it really is a walkable city.

I used to be adventurous. I travelled more – often on a whim with no plan or compass. When did I stop moving and stand still? When did I lose that wandering spirit? And when did I become fearful, together with a loss of faith in myself that I was capable of adventure? Again, I think I know the answer but cannot yet whisper it out loud, let alone give it the agency that comes from committing words like that to the page.

I pop into an old neighbour’s shop and surprise him. He asks if I have time for lunch and unfortunately I don’t. I have places to be, appointments to keep and other people to meet. I say that next time I’ll let him know I’m coming into town so we can make a plan and he tells me that he likes that I popped in without warning. It’s been a good surprise. It reminds me of all the times I’ve walked in London and bumped into people I know on the street – a seemingly improbable event given there’s roughly 9 million people here. It’s reassuring. Bumping into someone I know on the street is something I’ve yet to experience in Beverley. I hope it happens soon.

I dash on, wanting to fit in a word walk in the short time I have left, when something cold and sharp hits my cheek. It’s a hailstone. The sky starts lobbing them at me out of nowhere and then just as quickly it stops. I wonder if I imagined it, but I look down and see hundreds of tiny ice balls melting into the tarmac.

Minutes later and the wind has blown away the clouds and the sky is blueing up nicely. I pass Christ Church at the same time as a double decker bus and capture a typical London photo along the way. Six months away and I’ve experienced four of the city’s ever-changing moods – rain, wind, hail and sun – in less than an hour.

My word walk comes up trumps as I spot some chalked art on the pavement, courtesy of @BeakAndSqueak, the sentiment pairing beautifully with the piece by Benzi Brofman that I spotted on Brick Lane earlier. And that’s how inspiration sparks. A piece of street art on a wall, some words scrawled in haste on a pavement around the corner. The connection to creativity is never far away when you walk with curiosity.

London is a big city filled with small villages, and for years Shoreditch was my tiny patch. I knew its streets like the back of my hand, the shortcuts and the best parks to pootle about in to get the most of the city’s nature. I knew which streets were filled with birdsong and the ones that were always littered with fly-tipped scraps of furniture and trash. I knew a secret place where you could smell jasmine and an alley that made me feel like I was walking in Charles Dickens’ shadow.

I love London. I think I always will. It’s home. One of many I’ve had over the years. At the same time I’m content with the fact that I’ve left, even though I’m still feeling unsettled in Yorkshire. I think about that feeling as I turn and head back. Will Yorkshire be a pause or a permanence? Only time will tell if my feet will sprout roots or wings.

As always, I hope you’ve enjoyed reading and walking with me. And maybe by sharing this Field Note, you might feel inspired to try your own. I love hearing what you find from these posts, as well as what you discover on your own walks, so please share what you find by leaving a comment

Leave a comment

Happy walking and writing until next time.

Sarah

More from The Writer’s Walk

If you enjoyed this edition, check out Walking to find the words, which has tips on how to find writing inspiration from the words you spot on the street.

Hello walkers and writers 👋🏻

And welcome to everyone who subscribed recently. For anyone new here, I’m a writer who walks to boost my spirits and inspire my writing. If you’d like to know more about this newsletter and why I started it then the edition where I explain the philosophy behind The Writer’s Walk is a good place to begin.

Today’s edition is the first in a new series I’m calling Field Notes. The idea behind it has been bubbling away since I created The Writer’s Walk in 2022 but it’s taken me a while to muster the courage to share it. That’s because Field Notes is a little more personal, and ragged around the edges, than my usual editions because it explores some of my own walks and what I find on them.

So with the welcomes and intro complete, let’s step into my first Field Note. I hope you enjoy reading it.

Millington Wood and Sylvan Dale

This morning I woke with the sound of songbirds. It’s the first time this has happened since I moved to East Yorkshire and it’s quite lovely that it coincides with Imbolc, the first day of spring. It’s also the first day of February, and there’ll be a full moon tonight – the Snow Moon. And for the first time that I can ever remember, I didn’t need a calendar to tell me about the moon’s current phase. I could tell it was almost here as I walked through town yesterday evening, following the light of the moon as it led me home. I rarely saw the moon in London. The light pollution drains all the light. Does it seem odd that I wrote that? How light can drain light? Seeing the moon so clearly last night reminded me that without the darkness of an unlit sky we can never truly appreciate the magic of the light.

I’m letting my thoughts drift like this while I sit on a bench overlooking Millington Wood. It’s becoming my favourite local wood and I came here today to look for rowan trees, listen to the birds and to spot other signs of spring. I’ve recently started carrying books with me when I walk, something I’ll share in a regular edition at some point, and today I brought Lia Leendertz’s Almanac – A Seasonal Guide to 2026. The theme of her almanac this year is the forests and the trees and I brought it to read the chapter on February as I enjoy a brew with a view. Although the murkiness of the day is making the view a bit hard to see.

It’s busier than usual today, with lots of couples walking their dogs, and families with young children. Until a short time ago, the woodland below me was filled with their chatter, interspersed with delighted squeals from a small child, and the occasional bark from a dog. I’m the only person wandering here alone right now – which is something I’m used to. I do see other solitary hikers when I’m out and about, but I see more people in pairs or groups. I like wandering alone but sometimes I wonder if that makes me unusual.

I came here for silence and the presence of other people interrupted that plan. But only briefly. The groups gradually peeled away, returning to their cars, and as the wood settles back into silence, I hear the sound of a high-pitched, short and sharp bird call. I look up and there in the milky sky, a bird of prey, perhaps a honey buzzard, is soaring above the canopy. Perhaps she was also waiting for this moment of quiet and solitude. The type that can only be found among the trees.

I leave the bench and head down the steep steps that weave between the trees. Millington is an ancient wood. It’s only small – just 52 acres – but it’s one of the richest botanical woodlands in the East Riding and is a nature reserve and Site of Special Scientific Interest. It dates back around 1,000 years and, at its heart, a small pocket of ash trees remain.

As I reach the valley I see that the path is blocked by a fallen Norway spruce and a cluster of its leaves have been placed on a stump, almost like an offering. Millington Wood is managed by the East Riding of Yorkshire Council’s Countryside Access Team. There’s a note on their webpage that explains how they’re managing the woodland, which includes removing the Norway spruce that cast heavy shade. I wonder if this tree fell by accident or by force.

Walking on, once again I find myself looking up, drawn to the sound of the birds. I spot this chap sleeping on the job, his mossy cap keeping him warm, no doubt.

Millington wood sits within Lily Dale and I wonder if this name is what draws me here. I come from a long line of women, on my mum’s side, who were either called Lily or, like my mum, Lily was their middle name. I think of my mum for a while. This month marks the anniversary of her death. Three years gone but still the voice of reason in my head.

Back at my car I realise I’m not done with walking yet today, so maybe now’s the time to explore nearby Sylvan Dale. I’ve spotted the finger post that points toward it many times on my drives down to Millington but have yet to have a nosey. Now’s my chance.

I drive down and park beside the road between two cars, then head down the track, crossing a footbridge to reach the start of the Dale. As I start my walk, I hear a call above, look up and spot my feathered friend. I wish I was better at identifying birds. I don’t know if she’s a hawk, a kestrel or a falcon. I do know that I’m happy she’s here.

The Yorkshire Wolds Way passes through Sylvan Dale and as I begin the steady ascent up its steep sides I make a mental note to get myself hill-walking fit ahead of my plan to walk the whole trail at some point this year.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a Sylvan is a being who inhabits the woods. Perhaps that’s how this place got its name and I wonder if there’s a folklore connected to it. I wonder, too, where all the trees have gone.

The Yorkshire Wolds is an interesting place to walk. We have hills rather than mountains and it’s what I’d call a soft landscape. But don’t let that fool you into thinking this makes for easy walking. The hills are deceptive and the public footpaths offer sharp ascents that get your heart pumping. It’s always wise to stop when you reach the top and look back at where you walked, so I do that now. The clouds are dropping down to meet the land but in summer I imagine the views will be glorious. I make another mental note to bring a picnic for my warm weather walks here.

Earlier this week I chatted with someone from Derbyshire. We’d compared the landscapes of home and she shared with me that she finds vast, flat landscapes disorienting. They’re hard to navigate, she told me, and the open space brings a feeling of agoraphobia.

I’m reminded of this conversation as I stand at the bottom of Sylvan Dale, its valley drifting away in a curve ahead of me, its grassy sides rising swiftly on all sides. I feel a moment of claustrophobia. A fear I’ve carried with me my whole life. I’m not afraid of flat landscapes. As a lowland lass, growing up around Hull and the Holderness, I barely raised my heartbeat when I walked its flattened paths.

So I wonder now, as I stand between the hills thinking of that conversation, did growing up in the Yorkshire flatlands contribute to my claustrophobia? And is it why I’m also not good with heights? For a moment I feel hemmed in between these hills, unable to see beyond the curve of the Dale as it swerves away, not knowing what’s beyond.

And maybe that’s what adventure looks like for me. A gentle hill – at least compared with most in the UK – a dabble along the Dales as I wander the Sylvan curves.

There’s a thrill to be found in doing something for the first time, just for yourself and no one else. Even more if you choose to do it slowly and silently so you can savour every sip. Like acknowledging the claustrophobic feeling that threatens at the corners of my mind, then taking a step onward, and being rewarded for facing my fear and walking on anyway. It’s not a reward I could measure by awards, applause or gravitas. But by the contentment in being who I am. And by embracing the person I’m becoming through my footsteps.

As I carry on up the hill, the clouds sink toward me, and I decide to turn back. Sylvan Dale will still be here, ready to welcome me another time. I hear a final call from my raptor and think about what adventure means to her – and what it means to me. And I realise adventure doesn’t need to be fierce or wild. It can be soft and unexpected like the kiss of a hill as it rises up beneath your feet.

As always, thanks for reading and walking with me. I hope you’ve enjoyed this Field Note – and maybe feel inspired to try your own. I love hearing what you find from these posts, as well as what you discover on your own walks, so please let me know what you find.

Leave a comment

Happy walking and writing until next time.

Sarah

More from The Writer’s Walk

If you enjoyed this edition, check out Walking to fall in love with a landscape for inspiration on how to make a new place feel like home.