A walk between two high points, Hampshire, 1993

A walk between two points
an 8mm film with narration

Video presentation compiled with narration in 2009
from film shot in 1993, Hampshire, England



A walk between two high points - A meditation on walking


From where I stand the ground slopes in all directions
I came here earlier this year while the field lay fallow
and I stood waist high in the long grass
From where I stand I have a clear view to all points of reference.

On softer ground I gather momentum and there is a rhythm
to my steps. Each step lands in the print of other footsteps and
I remember walking in other fields, along other bridleways with
muddy tracks and overhanging branches

Sunlight filters through the arc of branches, the sun feels warm
on my back. Branches drape the air across the entrance of a hollow.
The leaves are brushed by many shoulders, shredded edges.
I step through thorns into a darkening path as feet sink into the mud,
leaving an echo of my passing as I listen out for those who have gone
before me.

The air is still.
Nothing stirs.
Red flag limp amongst the verdure, no wind to disturb its sails.

Crunching gravel underfoot I lick at loose stones and follow
my shadow. My nose is filled with the scent of wood smoke,
chamomile and cow parsley. The smell of pine from a fir plantation
sweeps across the valley, a great surge of verdant miles.

Four ways meet at a five bar gate. Of the three remaining options
one must be discarded. I take the only one that takes me past
the 'acorn post'. Unlikely as it is to ever grow branches and spread
a canopy I wonder if it is merely directional or a monument, perhaps,
to the hills and valleys once covered in oak and beech. The last
surviving clumps become landmarks crowning the tops of hills.
Looking back one affords a distant view of Deacon Hill,
further off St Catherine's.

Far away a dog barks. Further still a skylark, invisible but audible.

The South Downs Way runs like an artery through the hills
of the southern counties, an ancient highway. I feel the blood
rush in my veins as I align myself through Hampshire and Sussex.

This chalk ridge terminates abruptly, not at a gate or the scar
of tarmac but at the sea. Yet, among these gentle undulations
there are thorns and nettles. Barbed wire is a hazard, much as
rocks and stones are, but these I put behind me as the clump,
the triangulation point and my thoughts all come into focus.