How many steps have we walked?!!??! is a common question today. My stock answer is ‘don’t care’. Because who really fucking cares to quantify a lovely walk. It’s an abusive form of reductionism. Because walking is not about how many steps, nor how far you go. It’s about where you are. Possibly who you’re with. And where you stop for cake. To remove that context is to make every beautiful, summery, coastal, foresty, hilly, old city walk just a simplified numerical value. You might as well go on a treadmill in front of Coronation Street. It’s not that I’m ‘anti-steps’, it’s just that it doesn’t bother me. I don’t have a ‘step counter’. Not on my phone. Not in my watch (too analogue for such things). Not in my jock-strap, hearing aids or underpants. Unfortunately, I know a lot of people who aren’t as lucky as me. Some of whom will spend a gentle, pre-dinner conversation in the kitchen walking on the spot. Why? Increase my steps, of course! Why else??? And I’m often accompanied by human step-counters.

Thus; to yesterday. We walked. In the howling winds. In a bit of rain and at (very few) times, in some sunshine. We walked all around Le Touquet in the morning (but like ALL of it) and then did a coastal hike into the forest in the afternoon. In the evening we walked back into town (you can’t park there ever, so no point trying), which is a good 15 minutes each way. Or actually, in the wind, not such a good 15 minutes.

Which resulted in this. On Mel’s watch. Top left. The infamous ‘step counter’ for the day. 27,138 steps. I think that’s about a year’s worth.

Until this morning. When we drove over to Montreuil-sur-Mer. The odd thing being that from Le Touquet, which is truly, right on the fucking ‘mer’, you have to drive 13 kms over to Montreuil. Inland. So you turn up there with your buckets and spades, swimming trunks, lilo, and… you’re in the middle of the countryside. Fucking fraudsters.

Apparently, it was ‘sur Mer’ and then the tides changed and the seas receded and the next thing you’re closing up your ice-cream parlours and flogging off a pier to the highest bidder. Sorry mate, sea’s gone, try Le Touquet up the road. And the weather was sufficiently lovely to take the top down on the car. (Read: it stopped raining for a bit).

But in Monteuil, in about the 11th century, they walled in the whole town, as you did if you lived with thieving Frenchmen all around. And the wall still stands. So any self-respecting Brit, step-counter or historian, simply has to walk round ‘the Ramparts’. It’s only about 3k round and such a fab walk, with very high views around 360 degrees. You’re very high up because you only built towns on the tops of hills, ‘back in the day’. Not saying ‘it wasn’t windy’ because on numerous occasions we nearly got blown off. Ok, I exaggerate, but incredible winds.

Then it started raining, 5 minutes after our walk ended. Give me a sign, Lord.

I’m in the room with a cup of tea and a sleeping wife. And no fucking wind.

Happy Friday

A xxxx