Maconie - Never mind the Quantocks: how country walking can change your life

I started walking in the late 1980s. Well, no, I actually started walking in the mid 1960s, much to the delight I imagine of my mum and dad, and had become really quite adept at it by the late 1980s. What I mean is that I started walking in the late 1980s in the sense that I imagine everyone reading this little tome knows and loves it. By which I mean walking as an end in itself, a lovely, noble, almost artistic endeavour full of pleasure and danger and wonder, as opposed to the quotidian, one foot in front of the other, getting from A to B, pedestrian in every sense, kind of walking.

And when I began that kind of walking, most of my work mates thought I was a nutter. There are two reasons for this. One was the kind of work I did, namely a young-ish writer for hipster rock bible the NME. And the other was the general image that rambling (not a sexy or indeed accurate description) was held in up until quite recently. Maybe it was just the culture I grew up in, an urban adolescence of punk rock, girls, Northern soul and generally getting into trouble, but I had reached the ill-informed and lazy conclusion that walkers were dull, middle class bores with facial hair and bad dress sense. I knew nothing then of Benny Rothman and the Kinder Trespass, of Ewan MacColl and the Manchester Rambler, of the Ramblers Societys roots in the love of the working classes for their landscape and their refusal to accept that it belonged to someone else.

No, back then I just thought ramblers were weirdos in bobble hats. If I was dragged on a walk by a well-intentioned mate or girlfriend, I would take a perverse and callow pride in not having the right gear, of going clad in a leather jacket or an overcoat, plastic sandals or espadrilles. I would refuse to look at the map and affect to be unmoved by the view, claiming to be only interested in getting back to the streetlamps of the town and the clamour of the pub and nightclub. In retrospect, I can see that I was bit of a pillock.

Anyway, that all changed one half term in the 1980s when I spent a long weekend in the Lake District. Perhaps because my working life had become a smoky, shouty round of gigs, airports, and overgrown adolescents in black jeans who thought Dungeon Ghyll was a heavy metal band from Wolverhampton. I walked to Easedale Tarn, did the circuit of Devoke Water and stood at the foot of the path up Brown Tongue to Helvellyn and knew that I had found a romance that would last me the rest of my life

I am probably still a bit of a pillock from time to time. But at least now Im one who loves to walk. I still love all the delicious, noisy, naughty urban things my teenage self did. And I enjoy them even more after a day on the hills or in the woods or by the river or the sea. Walking for me is a celebration of the joy of being alive, alone or with friends, epic expeditions or easy rambles, as long as it is outside where the free things are (in every sense) and where the perspective on life is longer and clearer and higher. For, as the poet Thom Gunn said one is always nearer by not standing still

Stuart Maconie

I was listening to Stuarts radio show last night, and he apologised for sounding flustered, adding: Ive had to come into the London studio; couldnt get back to Manchester because there was a dead ocelot on the track at Didcot Parkway.

I think that sentence tells you some very important things about Stuart Maconie.

1. His command of language, and habit of making you laugh with it, is absolutely awesome.
2. He loves the north of England and, while hes very happy to explore the South West Coast Path or indeed the Quantocks, its never long before he wants to get back to, talk about, or explore his beloved home turf.
3. He knows the most amusingly-named station to throw in to an anecdote about rail travel.

These important things have all helped to make his monthly column for Country Walking an absolute pleasure to read for the past seven years.

The magazine is devoted to those lucky people who know that Britain is best explored on foot, and Stuart knows that very well. Each month his column looks at some wonderful facet of walking, be it the triumphs and traumas of climbing the Lake District fells beloved of Alfred Wainwright, the joy of exploring the Pennines with a canine companion, conquering the Jurassic Coast with colleague Mark Radcliffe, or heading for the Peak District to walk off a hangover sustained by a night out with the Arctic Monkeys.

He gets the same pleasure out of a canalside stroll as he does from a high-mountain trek. He gets equal pleasure from chatting with a walking companion or being alone amongst the fells with just a teacake for company. And he understands the millions of strangely wonderful moments that walkers encounter every time they set out to put one foot in front of another. Because theyve happened to him, too.

In picking up this book, you are taking a stroll with one of Britains wittiest writers, a peerless storyteller and a genuinely genial guide. Barring any dead ocelots on the path, youll have a wonderful time with him.

Nick Hallissey

Editor, Country Walking

And so, I have decided to give some personal advice tothose lucky beginners reading this who stand poised on the great adventure of country walking. Heed my words, walkers of tomorrow!

Gearwise, dont feel you have to straightway buy everything thats reviewed and advertised in the pages of magazines and books. Its all superior stuff Im sure, but take it in stages, put bits on your birthday list. There is nothing more tragic than seeing the novice walker kitted out from head to toe in the latest breathable technology, clutching an ice axe and clattering polyurethane alpine climbing boots, attempting nothing more taxing than a circuit of the tea shops of Moreton-in-Marsh.

On the other hand, beware false economy. On one of my first walking expeditions, the popular ascent to Easedale Tarn via Sour Milk Ghyll in Grasmere, I decided to augment my meagre kit with a waterproof purchased in the village post office for the frankly irresistible price of 8.

It was a sort of souwester made of dauntingly heavy-duty rubber and was certainly waterproof. I think it would have proved fireproof and radiation-proof, too. By the time I got to the tarn I was drenched in sweat, several pounds lighter, and so hot and dehydrated that in my delirium I fancied I could see a caravan of Tuareg nomads over Greenup Edge.

Tick off a list. Purists and snobs may scoff, but ignore them. Almost as soon as I got the fellwalking bug, I resolved to complete the Wainwrights. A goal like this gives you a galvanising sense of purpose, helps you plan and encourages you to discover and explore new places, rather than stick only to what you know. It doesnt have to be fells. It could be rivers, canals, cathedrals, even the tea shops of Moreton-in-Marsh, but believe me, a list really is a great motivator.

Encourage friends, but dont press-gang them. Remember how it was when your chum or loved one got into golf/vintage traction engines/the operas of Wagner. One mans meat is another mans poison, and one mans exhilarating day on the high hills is another mans unnecessary brush with pneumonia and edition of Deal or No Deal missed. Of course, if they really prefer Noel Edmonds to Nethermost Pike, you might want to think about getting new friends.