Just back from a few breezy days on the North Yorkshire coast; long enough, almost, to feel the metropolis blown out of one’s system and enjoy fish suppers, warm doughnuts on the harbour’s edge, and striding out into the wind. My only regret that Whitby Town were not at home.
For the present, in these memories only …
Ever since I learned to read, I’ve had a book on the go – one after another – an unbroken chain from Winnie-the-Poo to Salman Rushdie. There are so many left behind here in my grandmother’s bungalow; publication dates to span her entire life. Every evening after I’ve eaten, I make myself open one and read, for a while, and then lay the book down spine up on the sofa cushions at the page where I stopped.
The trick to keeping going is break going into bursts: to stop, and otherwise occupy my brain for a spell, and then start going again. Nowadays I apply this to my whole day long. Each is a succession of shallow occupations, enforced intervals. Even my sleep is only ankle deep, interrupted.
Sarah Baume : A Line Made by Walking, William Heinemann 2017
Richard Long : A Line Made By Walking, 1967
Back from the glories of Whitby and the North York Moors to the splendours of Parliament Hill and Hampstead Heath …