Over the Stile

Who writes here

I walk the same ring of hills most weekends, usually alone, sometimes with a flask and a dog that belongs to somebody else. None of them is high. The tallest tops out a little under 600 metres, and the paths are mostly old drove roads, forestry tracks and the kind of field edge where the stile has rotted and you climb the fence instead. This is a record of those walks: distances, weather, what I ate, and the kit that let me down.

Everything here is written at the kitchen table on the evening of the walk, while the boots dry on newspaper by the back door. I am not sponsored by anyone and I do not review things. If a jacket leaks, I say so, and if a cheese sandwich saved a bad afternoon, I say that too.