On my walk across England my feet are my most important assets. I pamper them – a preoccupation I have never indulged before. Not that I look at them as beauty objects; they are the tools that march me from the North Sea to the Irish Sea and they deserve attention. Every morning, after breakfast, I rub lotion into them, check for bumps, bruises, sore spots, redness. Then I pull on my sock liners, smoothing out and tugging until they are ready to be covered by wool socks. Then the boots, oh my lovely boots. Lowa, Lady’s Renegade GTX, brown and black Nubuk leather, climate controlled with Gortex. Made in Germany. Every time I slip into them I am instantly surrounded by comfort and protection.
I had tried on several boots at Mel Cotton’s when I first hatched the dream of walking Hadrian’s Wall. I had never bought boots before and all of them felt stiff and confining. I almost gave up on the purchase for the day, when the clerk brought me another pair with the comment, “these here are a little more expensive.”
I slid my left foot into the boot in front of me. As I settled into it I felt nothing but happiness. This boot fit like a soft glove. While the girl laced the shoestrings I could barely stand still. I wanted to walk up and down the little incline the store provides to check traction. I was thrilled with the result. The waffle pattern on the sole prevented my foot from slipping backwards. The one hundred and fifty dollar price tag didn’t bother me until I got home and realized that my most expensive shoe purchase until then had been thirty-nine dollar Reeboks, bought on sale.
Of course boots complicate airline safety procedures. If I forget to take them off when I go through a checkpoint, the metal hooks set off an alarm. An alarm means that somebody frowns and makes me lift my arms while she outlines my body with a wand. After the search I stand amongst my belongings, bent over, teetering back and forth, winding the laces back up. When I left home I had no specific way of tying my boots but after a couple of days I become alert to a boot that is too tightly laced or not laced evenly. A loose fit makes the heel ride up and down until the skin is irritated; a tight fit presses against the arch, making it sore to the touch.
Everybody is supposed to carry a medical kit, a guidebook and maps on this cross-country trek; whistle and compass are expected; boots and socks are a given. But since walking gear sometimes falls short in quality, it is always a serious topic for discussion. I meet a group of young people, sitting on the bank of the Tyne River, only a day into the 84-mile trek from Wallsend to Bowness-on-Solway. They sit with their boots off, rubbing their naked feet, covering their blisters with Band-Aids. It is my first look at bloody heels though later I meet more people, mostly young men, whose feet bear witness to the record speeds they accomplish. The sight of abused feet makes me even more determined to walk up hills and down into canyons at a slower pace. A Hadrian’s Wall mile can be three times as long as a California mile, especially in the rain.
My general education about walking is gradual – my vocabulary and knowledge of products increase throughout my trip – but I learn about boot etiquette quickly. At my first farmhouse, The Belvedere,“ I am advised, “Please take off the boots and leave them by the door.”
I have to admit that I am not happy with the idea of leaving hundred and fifty dollar boots unattended, but assume that from now on this procedure will be repeated at all other accommodations. With a smile on my face I walk in my socks behind my hostess, Pat Carr, as she shows me the kitchen and the breakfast and television lounge and leads me to my room for the night.
At the Crown Inn in Humshaugh, the most lavish of all my accommodations, where all three eating rooms are decorated in red velvet, I am allowed to carry my boots to my room. Of course Judy, the owner, first takes a look at their condition. Upstairs I line them up by the window in the shared bathroom, hang my wool socks over a chair by my bed, and wash the thin liners in the sink and roll them in a towel until they are almost dry.
At Beggar Bog Farmhouse, by the side of the Military Road near Housesteads, Brenda Huddleston proudly shows me the shoe rack her husband built just outside the letting rooms. A tactful reminder, I think, as I put down my backpack and unlace my boots before accepting the cup of tea she offers.
The Abbey Bridge Hotel in Lanercost has three separate eating areas, one for walkers, one for locals, one for houseguests and other serious diners. Sue Hatt takes my boots out of my hands and tells me that I will get them back when I leave. What if I didn’t have any other shoes with me, I wonder, but feel a little silly to make an issue over this. Their brochure advertises a drying room. I imagine my boots are resting in the drying room during the night.
At the Four Wynds Bed and Breakfast near Haltwhistle, over black pudding, fried tomatoes and fried eggs, I have a lovely conversation with two gentlemen from Denmark. Eventually they ask what kind of socks I wear. We discuss the Cool Max effect. Though I don’t understand were the water goes after it is wicked away from my skin, I am in favor of the material. And I explain proudly about the attention I give to my liners, smoothing them from toe to heel to avoid even the tiniest wrinkle. The older one of the “Great Danes” (my secret nickname for the pair) tells me about the best shop for walking socks in Carlisle. “You can’t miss it,” he says. The Four Wynds is the only place where I see boots walking across the living room carpet. Two pairs of very confident boots that lead the best-socked Danish feet back home.
During my three-day stay in Carlisle I carry my footwear up and down three flights every day. I do it gladly because Eric Dawes and his wife Marjory are a very sweet couple and I am in awe of the antiques that line the staircase. I would feel like the proverbial elephant in a china shop, would I step on the Persian rugs of the Courtfield Guest House in my boots.
During ten walking days and several days of sightseeing I occasionally switch to tennis shoes, in town, at dinner, and on the final flat stretch along the Solway Firth. I arrive early at the King’s Arms, which is a restaurant at the end of the journey for those who walk east to west. Assuming that my host at the Hesket House does not expect me for another hour I join a couple as they celebrate their trip with ale and pea soup in the beer garden. Since I am wearing my tennis shoes I feel like a novice when the man and woman lift their beer glasses and salute their boots. I keep my NB walkers hidden under the table and wait until the couple leaves before I go over to the bar and request my Award of Completion from the bartender.
On my last night in Port Carlisle at the Hesket House I find no clue to boot rules. It is a brand new place, no numbers on the doors, no room keys. The owner, David Hutton, a young man whose wife left him a few weeks ago, is preoccupied with his grief. The place is so new that I couldn’t find it online and have no idea what to expect. The stairs are not carpeted. Just to be on the safe side I take off my boots while I talk to him in the hallway. Late at night I hear more guests arrive. I jump out of bed and press my body against the unlocked door. Heavy boots cross the hall. Two men discuss the soccer game. They laugh; one slams the door to a room the other one lingers in the bathroom. Too much beer. After all is quiet again I sneak to the bathroom, leaving my door open for light. Next to the claw-footed bathtub sits a pair of worn hiking boots, stuffed with dirty white socks.
The next day, back in London, at The Renaissance Hotel, there is no rack, no shelf, no bench, no one spot to put the boots. I get in an elevator and walk the long carpeted hallway of the second floor, getting lost in search of room 2028, aware of the boots that don’t seem to belong on my feet. I wear them until I find my sweats and take a long, hot, shower in my own private bathroom. I swish the liners back and forth in the water that accumulates at the bottom of the tub. Tomorrow they will get a proper washing in my machine at home.
Though there is no need for boots in the city I have to wear them again in the morning. I don’t have enough room in my suitcase to pack them.
At the airport, as I place my boots into the plastic pan, I notice a few pebbles, a piece of wood, dried mud filling the crevices. Looking down at my unfashionably blue and gray wool socks, I realize that they have not been washed once in two weeks. Only the liners were soaped every evening. My other four pairs of walking socks are still rolled up in my suitcase, untouched. Later, on the plane, I unlace again, stretch my legs, and salute my walking gear. One hundred and thirty-eight miles in fifteen days. On happy feet.
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