My walking boots are starting to look their age, just like their owner. Some cleaning and some waxing would improve their appearance, but there’s not a lot I can do for the worn out linings. Still, I think they look interesting. They look like they could tell some stories of the places they’ve been with me.
These boots have climbed mountains, like Hellvelyn with my friend Simon, when all we had was an afternoon free while on a course in the Lake District. They have rested on a rock on Lindisfarne for hours and for days when I’ve been there on retreat. They have tramped through snow and ice, like the time when walking was the only travel option to go and see my counsellor when I’d had my breakdown. They have trodden hills and woods, fields and beaches in Devon, Wales, Dorset, Derbyshire, Northumberland and, of course, on the beautiful South Downs. They’ve gone camping and gardening and have even done a bushcraft course. These boots have lived, and I have lived in them and trodden this amazing earth with them and had some incredible experiences while wearing them (or alongside them, having taken them off for a swim in a river or to walk barefoot on dewy grass in the moonlight).
I feel my boots and I could sit down by a campfire and tell nostalgic stories of our adventures together, and even if no one else would be especially interested, my boots and I would understand each other like old friends do. And they do feel like friends, in a way that no other part of my kit does, and it’s a shame that they are wearing out. I think that some cleaning and waxing is the least I could do for them, faithful companions, and perhaps we can share a few more adventures yet.
