There is something revitalising about being outside, walking or just standing, stretching the eyes further than walls, and feeling whatever the weather brings.

Although I’ve never been a gardener (save for lawn mowing and occasional weeding), I can understand the allure. Gumboot adorned, mucking about in winter’s muddy soil, planting vegetables for Spring (or before), takes one’s mind away from the usual demands and brings a certain satisfaction to the spirit.

My equivalent is walking the hound twice a day, come wind or weather. The latter has been a bit bleak of late. Not that dog minds. With tail in the air, and an enthusiasm to match, he’s off. The rain brings a whole new set of smells. Sometimes he is my (Philip Pullman) daemon. Or maybe my spiritual supervisor.

Last weekend was the 50^th anniversary of our parish’s tramping group. It began when a couple had booked to walk the Milford Track and, in their need to improve fitness, embarked on a regular post-church Sunday ramble. Others joined in and, as they say, the rest is history. Good history. Lots of camps, tramps, fellowship, and fun.

I sometimes join in. And I’ve been to a few of the annual camps. They are a great group.

There is a spirituality associated with walking and tramping. Prayer doesn’t have to be something you do with the mind. Indeed sometimes I think its best if the body leads, and then the mind can try to catch up. What I call prayer is largely feeling part of and connected to something bigger, more mysterious, more accepting, than the usual limits I live within.

And there’s lots of ancient precedent for walking your prayer. Like pilgrimages, like the Camino de Santiago. Although too much of the religiously-crafted holy stuff can be a pitfall. Holy stuff can distract one from the holiness of beauty: putting one foot in front of another, feeling the earth beneath your feet, being connected and ‘online’ with trees, hills, and rivers, and experiencing both the bodily aches and joys of doing this day after day.

Of course companionship on these occasions too is a balm. Or can be. You have to find a walking partner who talks, listens, and likes silence at about the same ratios as you.

I reflected last week on Mary Oliver’s poem “Storage,” about the accumulation of things and the art/difficulty of divesting them. A particularly modern, Western, problem. She suggests that we have a problem with room, not just physical space, but heart space. Excess of things can make life difficult when we want more room for love, joy, and serenity.

And that’s one of the gifts of walking, especially multi-day walks. You can’t physically carry, or are wise to carry, too many things.

You also, usually, can’t use a phone, or get an internet connection, and therefore have to rely on what the bush, birds, and breeze are telling you. A different type of messaging if you can hear it. Texts written for the heart, in both senses of that ‘h’ word.

Glynn