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.
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.
Strangers unite in cities, drawn by a mutual curiosity of the world and of each other. Why else leave home and go somewhere new?
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 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?
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
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.
This was a lovely read and I'm in awe of all the places you've lived. I haven't travelled much and kinda live by a Proust quote 'The real voyage of discovery consists, not in seeing new landscapes, but in having new eyes.' I think you do both! You're observant in your surroundings wherever that happens to be, which is a wonderful habit to develop.
Absolutely adore this.