The Walk of Witness - finished and yet only just started

It is done. Over eighty miles, 8 days of walking in all weathers and here I am, back in my flat in Sheffield. I still feel strangely disconnected from everything, as though I can't settle now without the rhythm of my feet moving beneath me.

And yet I have returned with an even deeper love of the 'tranquil wildness' of the White Peak. When the sun shines it can be truly breath taking. Day one was particularly varied - first the dramatic rock formations on Froggat and Curbar edge, then through the stately grounds of Chatsworth House, then past the idyllic village of Edensor then finally into Bakewell, crowded with day trippers getting their fill of Bakewell Pudding. But there were so many beautiful moments throughout the whole walk. Shaded rivers overhung with lush foliage. The eerie ancientness of Stanton Moor, where the prehistoric Nine Ladies Stone Circle and stone quarries bear witness to the lost generations that sculpted the land. Tiny ancient churches, where I would sit quietly to breathe in the profound sense of peace. Dramatic river valleys, with hidden caves and carpets of wildflowers. Sudden wildlife encounters - buzzards and kestrels overhead, a hare springing up by my path, a fox dancing across the field like a flash of flame, so many hidden songbirds singing out their hearts...

 The Eagle Stone near Curbar Edge and the Cork Stone on Stanton Moor

But there were testing times, especially when the weather was foul. Heavy rain quickly turned the romantic steep-sided dales treacherously muddy and rocky, slowing my progress to a crawl. Loneliness was a heavy burden: without anyone to lift my spirits, my mood often plummeted as I slopped and slipped through endless mud and drizzle. It was all too easy at times to slip into despairing and cursing myself. But raging did nothing to help the situation - when you are in the middle of nowhere, all you can do is keep going. My worst moment came when I was blundering around a field in the rain and couldn't find the gate to get out. I was cold, wet through, miserable and faced with a long slog across empty moors before I reached any shelter. So when a cross-looking farmer came out, it was the last straw. But seeing how upset and wet I was, he immediately invited me to come in for a cup of tea!

Food was a struggle at times - it's amazing how many villages I passed through that had a pub (or two!) but no shop. Thankfully my parents met me at one point to restock my dwindling supplies, but it was still difficult to cater to my 'food rules' and restrictive diet. Desperate for something green, I even supplemented some of my meals with dandelion leaves, whilst freshly-picked blackberries satiated my 'fruit fix'. All in all, I coped although having tinned fish every day was beginning to get a little monotonous.

Wildlife encounters - prehistoric friend, a Water Vole sculpture and a sleepy hedgehog in Tideswell Churchyard

Fittingly, on the last day of the walk I ascended Win Hill, whose photograph is the backdrop to this blog. With the weather forecast being dire, I wrapped myself up in all my waterproof layers and trudged out into the grey, brooding morning. As I trodged up the steep slope, I thought of all the things I wouldn't miss - the loneliness, permanently wet feet, sheep poo, over-curious cows, tinned fish every day.... and the things I would: waking up somewhere different each day, the sound of running water, sudden bursts of sunlight through the trees, birdsong as a constant companion.

Youlgreave

I ascended up into the cloud layer. I remembered how the last time I was up here, it was in the middle of a thunderstorm. I really must try and come here one day when I can actually see the view. I could make out the summit on the horizon- a distinct, almost conical mass - and headed towards it.

As I reached the trig point, the clouds above cleared and the sun broke forth. The surrounding mists fled away down the hill and the wind dropped, leaving a hushed silence. I was alone, on top of a mountain, watching as distant summits, fields and lakes appeared and disappeared in the rolling cloud. Around me, beyond the oceans of purple heather, cows and sheep lay down in the green grass, their bodies turned golden by the sunlight. The words of a hymn I came across in one of the many ancient churches I visited came to me, repeating in a gentle refrain:

It is well, it is well with my soul
It is well, it is well with my soul

Anorexia has blessed me in one way. Whilst the disease has corrupted my mind and withered my body, it cannot touch my soul. At moments like these, I feel it deep within, eternal, like the bottom of the ocean which remains still even as the tempest rages on the surface. And this is how I know I will endure, that God will heal me fully when I cast off this body and mind and go to join him in heaven. This hope gives me strength for every day.

And that I suppose is the message of life. All our strivings on earth - for money, fame, recognition, a legacy - will come to naught. We bring nothing into this world and take nothing out of it. The best we can hope for is to bear witness - by preparing our minds to receive and putting ourselves in places outside our normal comforts - to moments where we are touched by the forces greater than ourselves; love, hope and peace. And let them change us.

My walk goes on.

Thorpe Cloud