Path

I have been reading The Path to Rome, Hilaire Belloc's timeless account of his epic walk from Toul in France to Rome. A journey of about 700 miles or so, depending how straight a line you keep, which he seemed to manage quite well, traversing whatever mountains and valleys and rivers got in the way. I have read it several times since my youth: one of those books you want to keep revisiting, a mixture of  evocative travel writing and rambling anecdote, punctuated by sketches of the sights he saw along the way.

His journey comes to mind at times when I am wandering over the more modest hills hereabouts, as I have been doing recently with the advent of milder spring weather. Strolling gently along the rock-strewn paths of the Gritstone Trail, for several hours at a time sometimes, makes me think of the weeks he spent tramping across the Alps, sleeping under the stars, bargaining for food at passing inns to make the most of his diminishing funds, walking through the night to avoid the sultry heat of Italy, communicating with the natives as best he could in his own hybrid French-Latin. It seems to belong to a forgotten age, a simple act of pilgrimage to the heart of Europe, a reaffirmation of his cultural roots.

You wonder what the journey would be like if you could re-trace his steps today – presumably a passport would prove handy, as would a detailed map of where to find suitable cash machines en route. And possibly a GPS device of some sort to be on the safe side. Not to mention one of those courier services whereby you can get your luggage delivered ahead of your arrival at the next overnight stop. But you easily forget that, making the journey at the start of the twentieth century, he was deliberately trying to avoid the trappings of modernity that he saw around him, but instead connect to a simpler life, at one with the landscape and faith of his youth.