Walking with Plato

by Gary Hayden

  Mono no aware.

  On the very first stage of JoGLE, it occurred to me that our journey could be seen as a microcosm of human life in its constant switching back and forth between hardship and comfort, toil and repose, pain and pleasure. Now, as our journey drew to a close, I realized that it could also be seen as a symbol of human life in respect of its impermanence.

  We knew, from the very first step, that JoGLE wouldn’t last, that it would consist of a series of moments, both good and bad, with a beginning and an end. And this knowledge added to the poignancy of those moments.

  In the same way, life consists of a series of moments, both good and bad, with a beginning and an end. And, if we are wise, we will let this knowledge add poignancy to those moments. We will see not only the inescapability but also the beauty of impermanence.

  Our penultimate day’s walk on the South West Coast Path, from St Ives to Pendeen, was one of the toughest and most rewarding of the whole of JoGLE. The path hugged the coastline for the entire fifteen miles, with frequent ascents and descents between high cliff-tops and secluded coves. And just to make things more challenging, we had to battle against a stiff wind for most of the day.

  The cliff-top sections are very exposed in parts, and at one point we had to abandon the SWCP and walk further inland, rather than risk being blown over the edge.

  It’s a stunning piece of coastline though, wild and rugged, rocky and remote, and worth every step.

  Towards the end of the afternoon, about four miles from Pendeen, we took a brief detour off the path and met up with our friend Karen (not the Brian-and-Karen Karen) at a car park near the tiny hamlet of Rosemergy.

  After exchanging greetings, we all marched off together in great high spirits, in the direction of Pendeen. It was only when Karen stopped, gasping for breath, after keeping pace with us for just a few minutes that we realized how freakishly fit and fast we had become.

  We spent the night – our last one on the trail – at a B&B in the village of Pendeen. We ate dinner at a nearby pub, and there, over curry and beer, Karen arranged to meet us (with celebratory champagne, bless her) the following afternoon at the iconic Land’s End signpost.

  On the final day of JoGLE, the blue skies and sunshine were replaced by grey cloud, mist, and rain. The Indian summer was ended.

  The ten-mile walk along the South West Coast Path from Pendeen to Land’s End is magnificent whatever the weather though. So there was no sense of disappointment or anti-climax or let-down. Things were just different, that’s all.

  The path, here, winds along the edge of the cliff-tops, twisting and turning into every little nook and cranny as if to make the journey to Land’s End last as long as possible.

  The first hour of the walk took us through one of Cornwall’s oldest mining districts, past the remnants of the Levant Mine, from which tin and copper ores were once raised, and past the relics of two engine houses from the Crown Mine, perched partway down the cliffs near Botallack head.

  The path then took us to Cape Cornwall, a small headland from which, on a clearer day, we might have caught our first sight of Land’s End. From there, we walked along the cliff edge to Aire Point, the northern tip of the mile-long surfing beach of Whitesand Bay, with some treacherous clambering up and down rocks to keep things interesting.

  Land’s End, with its rocky headland descending towards the sea and petering out into a series of tiny islets, is easily recognizable from a distance. As we headed down from Aire Point, onto the dunes behind Whitesand Bay, it came into view.

  It had been our destination and goal for three months, for eleven hundred and fifty miles, and for two-and-a-half million steps. And now, at last, surrounded by a grey choppy sea and thinly veiled by mist, there it was.

  There had been times on our long journey when I had thought that this sight could never come soon enough, when I had imagined that walking this final mile would be a blessed relief. But looking at it now, the feeling was neither joy nor relief, nor even a sense of achievement. It was sadness.

  A poem by the Japanese poet Bashō, a Zen Buddhist, reputed to be the greatest master of the Haiku, came into my mind:

  Even in Kyōto –

  Hearing the cuckoo’s cry –

  I long for Kyōto.

  As a Buddhist, Bashō understood that there is an element of suffering even in life’s most pleasant experiences, that all earthly joys are fading and impermanent.

  There is sadness in gazing at a cherry blossom, knowing that its beauty must soon fade. There is sadness in watching children at play, knowing that their innocent joys must eventually give way to adult cares. There is sadness in loving a woman or a man, knowing that we cannot hold onto them forever.

  Sadness of this kind permeates every part of life. Even the most supreme joys contain the seeds of sorrow, because they cannot last.

  So, even as Bashō hears the cuckoo’s cry in his beloved Kyoto, he is conscious of a sense of longing. His joy is tempered by the knowledge that he cannot hold onto the moment, that he cannot possess Kyoto forever.

  And yet there is sweetness in his sorrow.

  Just as the fragility of a cherry blossom enhances its beauty, and just as the brevity of childhood makes it all the more precious, and just as the impermanence of love adds to its intensity, Bashō’s understanding that he cannot hold onto the moment makes the moment all the more poignant.

  I realized – even as I felt my throat constrict and the tears begin to well up in my eyes – that this was precisely how JoGLE should end.

  I turned to Wendy. ‘It makes you want to cry, doesn’t it?’

  She nodded.

  We hitched up our rucksacks, one last time, and strode out, for one last mile, towards Land’s End.

  Epilogue

  It’s a crisp October afternoon. Wendy and I have finished JoGLE, have spent a few nights with Karen and her parents, in Devon, and are now travelling by train to Runcorn in Cheshire.

  Normal life is just a few hours away.

  I gaze out of the window at the surrounding countryside. There are freshly ploughed fields in the foreground, and trees and hills in various shades of green in the background.

  A wave of nostalgia washes over me.

  Not so very long ago, I viewed ploughed fields as mere inconveniences: muddy, slow-going, and difficult to navigate. But now I feel that nothing – really, nothing – would give me greater pleasure than to cross those ploughed fields and disappear into those green trees and hills.

  Kierkegaard famously said, ‘Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.’

  As far as life as a whole goes, I can’t say I agree. I don’t understand life backwards any more than I understood it forwards. But when I look back on JoGLE – at that small but significant slice of my life – his words ring true.

  I lived JoGLE forwards, and I misunderstood it. I thought that the sore feet and the rain and the slugs were the bad bits, and I thought that the lighthouses and the puffins and the sea-breezes were the good bits.

  But now, looking backwards, I understand it perfectly. They were all good bits.

  I close my eyes and lean back in my seat.

  Later, friends will ask, ‘What was the highlight?’

  That’s an easy one.

  There were no highlights. Just as there were no lowlights. It was a glorious whole. To isolate any part and say, ‘That was the best’ or ‘that was the worst’ would be to diminish the experience, to misunderstand it.

  Looking back, I wouldn’t change a thing.

  Acknowledgements

  Grateful thanks to Mike Harpley for making this book possible, and to Shadi Doostdar for making it a better book than it would have been.

 

 

 
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