This helped me like my own work again
Chapter 8: February
Hi friend,
Last week, I found myself face-to-face with one of the only things that could stop me on a walk here (outside of an injury): a herd of cows. Not just big cows, but small ones too. Moms and their calves were standing directly on the path in front of me, and scattered all across the field in every possible direction I could go. There were no clear gaps, no obvious next move to make. Just 40+ pairs of cow eyes staring at me, and the knowledge that you don’t want to step between any mama animal and her babe.
This was around the halfway mark of a 7.5-mile (12 km) coastal walk I had decided to do only two days before. A section of the England Coast Path along the Cumbria Coast, from St. Bees to Whitehaven. Coastal walks in the UK typically involve taking public transit to the starting point, walking one way, then taking public transit back. Leaning on infrastructure you don’t often find in North America, it feels uniquely British. I’ve done a few coastal walks down south with UK friends before, but this was my first time going solo.
I parked my car at the St. Bees train station1 and walked to the beach. This is the same beach where you would start (or end) the Coast to Coast Path—something that is also on my radar. After weeks of grey and wet days, I could not believe my luck that the sun had come out for this adventure. From the beach, I headed north and continued to be blown away by the views. (The St. Bees Head Heritage Coast is STUNNING.) With the sun on my skin, and gorgeous colours all around me, I felt happy and more like myself than I had in months. And then, the cows.
I thought about turning back. Since I was halfway done, I would still cover the mileage I’d anticipated doing, and I already knew those views were gorgeous. But I wanted to see what was ahead, and to see my plans through. So, I decided to wait. Thankfully, within a few minutes, a couple I’d been zig-zagging along the path with caught up to me and we decided to forge on together. Him at the front, her in the middle with their dog, me in the back—with my hiking poles out, as some form of protection!? (I did hold them up as a kind of barrier in front of one calf, after it tried to run toward the dog.) We made it through the field, all carried on and zig-zagged past each other a few more times, until I got to the Whitehaven train station and took the short ride back to my car in St. Bees.
This wasn’t just my first solo coastal walk. It was also the first solo trip I’ve done since moving over here. Actually, the first solo trip I’ve done since the pandemic. You could say my move from Canada to the UK was one GIANT solo trip, but setting up a life and settling into a new town is not the same as booking a hotel (which I did here for 1 night) and exploring a new place by yourself. This is the first time I’ve done that in 4+ years. It was a tiny adventure, compared to the ones I used to do. Road tripping through 18 states in the US, or spending half a year exploring the UK. Before booking the hotel, I noticed that I felt out of practice… out of touch with this part of myself. But it only took one tiny adventure to remember who I used to be and how I used to live. To remember: oh yea, this is something I know how to do. I know how to travel solo.
I don’t know why I stopped travelling. I don’t think there’s one specific reason or explanation I can point to and say: that’s it! I think it was a combination of many things. A trauma right before the pandemic. Then the pandemic. Then I spent a huge chunk of my savings on the move to the UK. Then I started building a life and new relationships here. And then there’s the fact that my income took a big dip after the pandemic, and I’ve basically only been earning enough to live and enjoy daily life (grateful at least for that). I also don’t have the most reliable car, which makes the idea of solo road trips feel like a bigger risk than I’ve felt comfortable taking.
I’ve tried to tell myself this feels ok, and it’s fine that I can’t afford to travel much. And it was ok for a while. But recently, I’ve felt a huge pull for adventure again. To enjoy my life here and go explore more—of the UK and the rest of the world. This short trip felt like a quick dip of the toes and now I want to do more. I can’t exactly afford to yet, but I still feel grateful this part of me has returned. I’d wondered if she was lost or gone forever. Now, it feels more like she was resting. Waiting for me to get my life (and honestly, my nervous system) back in a good place. I’m there now, and I feel ready to live a bit of a bigger life again.
There’s still one last part of me that is missing though (and is hopefully just resting). I’ve been calling it my “writerly brain,” in conversations with a few trusted friends. Sure, I can write things. I can string words into sentences, and write enough sentences to warrant hitting publish on something. But I still don’t always see the world in quite the same way that I used to. I don’t notice the same kinds of details, or connect those details with other ideas, and imagine how I can combine them all into one piece. If you’re a writer, you know what I’m talking about. It’s a beautiful and vulnerable way of living and thinking. And, it truly feels like this part of my brain just stopped working. Got shut OFF like a light switch. And it’s been off for the same length of time as when I stopped travelling. Though I think I know the reason behind this one…