Trails and trials of the writer who walks
I’m a lightweight back-packing oldie who took up wild camping and writing in my late fifties. I know why I write – the shameful vanity of seeing my name in print and a very occasional cheque – but when I sit huddled behind boulders, my bottom welding to sheep shit as I try to eat a sandwich with gloves on (shouldn’t keep buying these sandwiches with gloves on), it isn’t clear to me why I’m there. But it’s obviously something incurable. Two things happened last year. My husband sadly passed away after a long period of illness and I found myself disoriented by the sudden complete lack of any responsibility towards anyone. Then the government very kindly gave me a bus pass. Although I own a small car, I don’t enjoy driving. But I do enjoy joy-riding the buses, and when you’re carrying your night’s accommodation on your back, you can go pretty much anywhere you want.