Bonding with Sheep

Between Humsaugh and Housesteads I forget what attracted me to the adventure of a long distance walk. I have plodded on for hours without connecting to my surroundings, mechanically conquering crag after crag. Though my feet register the changing landscape, I observe little of the rugged terrain I read about earlier. The comfortably soft, red velvet image of the Crown Inn has long vanished, only the young men’s breakfast chatter of blisters and misty hilltops stays with me.

“Breezy and bleak!” said the New Zealander.

“Barren but beautiful!” nodded his British friend.

They are walking in the opposite direction - Bowness to Wallsend – they tramped through these stony outcrops yesterday. The younger one, the Brit, left traces of blood on a towel in our shared bathroom. This morning the wastebasket revealed remnants of crumpled surgical tape and pieces of gauze.

“Moleskin.” I heard somebody say. “Use Moleskin.”

The steady drizzle has become a wind-driven rain that is strong enough to blow me sideways. My knees are shaking. Is that what Roman legionnaires endured two centuries ago when they built their forts and milecastles and turrets? I keep my eyes to the ground but finally stop to pull on my poncho. Facing the field wall, leaning toward it, trying to shield the inside of my daypack from the rain, I dig for today’s section of the guidebook. Through foggy glasses I read a few sentences:

“The walk is now going steadily uphill, with an ever-steeper drop falling away to the north.” And then, “Here is one of the most spectacular views of the Wall, snaking away into the distance, following the high ground to take advantage of the natural defences of this dramatic landscape.”

I am, so the map tells me, in the midst of Northumberland National Park and have just left the rocky slopes of Sewingshields Crags. I must have missed Milecastle 35.

The supersized green poncho, hidden away in an emergency pack in the trunk of my car for more than 20 years, turns out to be an indictment on modern plastics, at least plastics of the early1980s. As I unfold it from its sealed bag it feels limp; while I pull it over my head it tears in several places. Without a sound it falls apart under my fingers. When I continue to walk a gust rips the front apart, from my neck down, and I have to stop again to find something to hold it together. The clothespins are in my suitcase and all I can retrieve from the bottom of my daypack are two paper clips.

Shreds of plastic flutter in the wind like flags as I stomp along the border of the ancient Roman empire. A tired old soldier on his way to Housesteads. My silhouette must be that of a dark green tent, backpack and teddy bear bulging under the rear wall, the front pinched into a makeshift seam by purple pieces of bent wire. The wind whips the hood against my ears. For a while I hold it tight under my chin, but my fingers become so cold and wet that I can’t resist the temptation to slip my hand into the pocket of my coat underneath the rain gear.

A group of men catches up with me at the bottom of a sharp rise and I stop to let them pass. Without slowing down they inquire, ”Having a good walk? The oldest one of the six – probably in his fifties - hesitates for a second, just long enough to let me know that he understands my forced smile.

“A bit windy today.”

I assure him that I am fine, “just catching my breath.” I zoom my camera for a quick shot and watch until they disappear over the top of the crag. They wore shorts and short-sleeved shirts and their muscular legs didn’t seem to mind the steep hill. Even after all of them have disappeared their laughter echoes in my mind. It is the first time since I started this hike five days ago that I feel sorry for myself. All alone in the middle of nowhere. Something I had looked forward to. Something I thought I liked. What happened?

I hope that my mantra for the “sleepless-midnight-blues” works on “stormy daytime greys” too, and I whisper Om Mani Padme Hum. I repeat the Tibetan prayer several times, take a few deep breaths, and a long 360 degree look around.

To my surprise I am being observed at close range. A sheep stares at me. Her long, cream-colored coat is blown into a neatly combed shag rug; brown eyes are bulging from her black face; dark-veined ears move just slightly, as if she is trying to pick up clues about me. She stands on thin, mottled, black and white, legs. I untangle my camera underneath the poncho, wipe raindrops off the lens with the edge of my coat sleeve, and capture her image. She isn’t the first sheep I encounter on my walk, but the only one I see in this area. It is, as some gates point out, lambing season along Hadrian’s Wall and special care is expected so mothers and babies are not disturbed. Yesterday I watched some of them walk in unison, stare at me in unison, run away in unison. Occasionally a lamb drifted too far away from its mother and when it saw me it tumbled toward her and sucked onto one of her teats. Some mothers turned their heads, alarmed by my approach; others ignored my presence. This one, I decide, must be a grandmother like me.

For a while we just stand there, eyeing each other. I have the silly urge to explain myself to her. Tell her about this mountain of green plastic that hovers on the narrow path. Apologize for ignoring her homeland. And thank her for visiting with me.

“You’re not the first person to get depressed out here,” she says. “But look on the bright side, you’re almost at the Fort. And don’t you people get food and showers and beds when you finish your day’s walk?”

She doesn’t take her eyes off me while she shakes her head. “You look silly.”
“I feel better now,” I hear myself say, rubbing the camera dry before I slip it under my coat. I lift my face and let the rain run down my cheeks. For the first time today I smell the damp soil mixed with a hint of grass. With both hands I rake through my wet hair.

“Hello world,” I say out loud, “I’m talking to a sheep.”
Then I laugh.
“Good bye sheep. Thank you.”

The imagined exchange fills me with exuberance. I feel the ewe’s compassion even as I understand the silliness of this thought. A sense of belonging, that’s all I needed. I gaze far into the distance of the open countryside now, across fields, strips of shrubs, roads, woods. Ridges and furrows where the Wall rises and disappears into the distance. For the next mile I climb and descend at a faster pace. Just before I arrive at Housesteads I take off the poncho, wad it into a small wet clump and stuff it into a ziplock bag. Housesteads is one of the most popular places along the Wall, the most complete example of a Roman Fort in Britain; I don’t want to arrive in rags like a beggar. What would the young legionnaires think of me?

These Boots Are Made For Walking

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.

Stiles and Gates Along Hadrian's Wall

Tyana and I at the Wall

On my 84-mile walk across England stiles and gates are the dots that connect individual properties to each other and the real world to all the twists and turns in my guidebook. Before setting out on a path I follow it with my eyes, searching for a possible exit then I read the next few sentences which go something like this: “”A ladder stile to the left of the Errington Arms leads back into the fields and the walk heads off to follow the prominent earthworks of theVallum. The next stile takes you to the far side of the fence, away from the Vallum. This is a pleasant walk through the fields, which leads to a conifer plantation. Go through the gate and turn right, then left on the path running beside the wall next to the road.”

Sometimes I scribble a comment into the sidelines, or I nod; occasionally I laugh, straighten my back and express a soulful YES to the landscape around me. When I am confused, I put my finger on the line in question and try to follow the rights and lefts in my mind before I look again into the unknown territory ahead of me. When all else fails to convince me that I am going in the right direction, I give the teddy bear on my back a pat and tell him that we are not lost.

Before I read ‘Hadrian’s Wall Path’ I didn’t know that stiles are just steps or stairs. I had never heard of kissing gates. It was explained to me that they are gates swinging back and forth between two fence posts. This prevents them from flying wide open. A narrow triangular space allows the walker to squeeze between the posts while shifting the gate from one side to the other. Occasionally the squeeze space is invaded by stinging nettles and it takes rather inelegant twists and turns to dodge the infiltrators.

Most gates are well taken care of. I only see one in need of attention, a metal gate tied temporarily to a metal fence with rope, rusted and leaning in a not so straight line against a wooden fence post. Once I encounter a metal gate that stays closed by pulling a weight, attached to a chain, toward the ground. It isn’t until past Carlisle – way west – that I see my first metal kissing gate and I am thrilled to add its photograph to my collection.

While gates offer rather easy access to the beyond, stiles vary from field to field. The easiest ones are made of stone flags, leading to a hole in the wall. The majority of stiles resemble ladders that take me four or five steps into the air where I hesitate for an instance, shifting the weight of my backpack and occasionally I turn around, facing the ladder on my descend into the next field.

It is easy to see from one pasture to the next when only barbed wire separates them but when they were divided by dry stone walls I never know what to expect, especially when roughly hewn steps in the dirt lead to a tall stile. Sometimes all I can see is the sky. To my surprise one of my pictures shows a parked car very close to my picnic spot in the wind-sheltered corner of a five- step stile. I had no idea that I was so close to other humans at the time.

Another time it isn’t an unexpected human presence; it is a sheep that surprises me. It must be deaf or maybe she – assuming it is a she – ponders her own barrenness while being absorbed in the lively bleating all around her. She has settled next to a kissing gate and doesn’t move until I emerge right by her side.

Two gates boast stern warnings for the timid walker or maybe they are only meant for the ignorant. The first time I see the sign “Warning. Bull in Field,” I avoid the treacherous playing field of the non-castrated enemy. It is easy because I am next to a frequently traveled road. But the second time I have no choice but to cross into dangerous territory. What do bulls do when they see an old lady with a teddy bear on her back? How do I spot a bull? The difference between a steer and a bull? What to do if the bull attacks me? I have no idea. Nobody told me about the possibility of being confronted with one. And indeed, nobody expects to see one, as I am later told. The sign was probably posted by a disgruntled farmer whose patience with stampedes of walkers has grown thin. It is a fact that bulls are not allowed in any field, which includes a public path. It is also a fact that some walkers stray from the public path and hike diagonally through the field if the path is not the shortest line between two gates.

All gates and stiles are properly marked with the white on black acorn of the National Trail. Hadrian’s Wall Path is the thirteenth in the family of England’s national trails and its completion in 2003 allows walkers to follow for the first time since the fifth century the historic line of the Wall on a specified path. Every few miles I meet travelers: families, friends, couples, lone men – men in shorts – men of all ages marching in the shadow of history.

Every stile, every gate gives me a new perspective. A castle in front of me, a golf course I have to cross, a herd of raggedy cows that won’t move over, a mother sheep protecting her lambs. Once I am surprised by a mountain biker who peddles uphill. Another time a man in his seventies crosses my path – he is walking west to east – somewhere behind him his friend and doctor has hurt his ankle and spends the day recuperating in a hotel room. It doesn’t take long for me to learn the etiquette of the road. Most of us nod, smile, take inventory of the other’s well-being and then we pass. Occasionally, in the openness of a meadow, we ask each other about our home bases or we comment on the weather, spend a few minutes with pleasantries. Those who pass me, walking in the same direction, comment on my teddy bear companion. We laugh.

Once I enter the garden of an elderly woman and admire her poppies. I tell her I grew up in Germany, surrounded by poppy and rape fields. She asks if I have enough water for my journey to the next town. As I climb across the stile that leads out of her backyard I encounter a couple sitting in the sun against the stonewall; they are eating their bag lunch. The man says the words I hear most these days, “Walking the walk?”

“Yes,” I answer, “nice day isn’t it?” Then I pull the guidebook from my coat pocket and mark the map with a star. The private garden is something I want to write about in my journal tonight.

In the Beginning

Tyana at ebay park

An early morning wind. Fertile soil. Untamed growth. That’s my field of dreams at the beginning of a story.

Tentative, like a weekend gardener, I walk the perimeter. I drag out a hoe, a shovel, pruning shears. A deep breath, a few cautious steps into the tangle of weeds and then a peek at the blue eye of a cornflower. I am ready to plant my story.

My writing includes a lot of dishwashing, walking, piddling, CNN background noise, and to stay with the garden metaphor, a lot of manure. All this and hours in front of the computer screen.

I want be a travel writer. I imagine I have to be a mobile gardener. Not only will I have to be proficient with the tools and terms of the essay, I have to be alert on the road. Observe things. Write them down. Elicit responses from deep down and from around me. I have devised a set of lists that need to accompany my first steps into the field.

Before any trip my foremost concerns are with factual, physical, and emotional preparedness. Travel demands plans and the willingness to throw them overboard. Writing demands structure and the boldness to ignore it. I am excited to embark on this double adventure. I am thrilled that my first attempt will be the exploration of Hadrian’s Wall – a long distance walk through Roman past and British modernity. Bed and Breakfast near the Vallum. A hop, skip, and jump past hedgerows and dry stone walls. A longing look into pastoral distances. Museums, forts, and of course the WALL. I will follow in the footsteps of a second century world power. In case my feet don’t work out as planned, there is always line AD122, public transportation along the path.

AD122 is one of the things I discovered during extensive web searches. Another is the BBC weather forecast. The bus schedule makes me happy. The weather is unpredictable. Both components are important to the success of my journey; the first as alternate transportation the second as wayfarer warning. I found out that Wiliam Hutton, one of the 19th century walkers we know about, seems to have speculated a lot about the history of the wall; he seems to have made mistakes in his assumptions. My trip would depend on the most up to date guide book – the official “Hadrian’s Wall Path’ by Anthony Burton. I have read it once already; now I am making notes, print out parts, construct a continuous picture in my mind. In the late hours, just before falling asleep, I wander on my imaginary path, happily marching to the literary voice of my leader.

Hadrian’s Wall Path is a National Trail and according to the preface to the guidebook walking the whole length along a ‘specified route’ has not been possible since the fifth century when Roman occupation ended. With the opening of the National Trail in 2003 I now will be able to walk from Wallsend – between Tynemouth and Newcastle close to the North Sea – all the way to Bowness-on-Solway by the Irish Sea – 84 miles of ever changing terrain over flatland, near rivers, through fields, woods, towns and villages and over crags.

Travel accounts confirm the fact that anticipation and reality of travel are usually far apart. We formulate an ideal picture or we might even, in a regretful hour, envision disaster. All in all it is rare that the preview our thoughts speculate on are in unison with the experience that awaits us.

For the writer this might even be impossible. Not a day goes by without imagination’s wildest input. I have read books, studied maps, consulted the Internet. I have bought a compass, a whistle, walking sox, and a blister kit. I should, I think, be prepared for anything.

Anything the 84-mile hike along an ancient Roman fortification might present me with. I am ready for Hadrian’s Wall.

Though I carefully planned my wardrobe to take up the least amount of space, and I have made copies of travel papers and have envisioned a plan B for most occasions, the major amount of my time has gone into dialog with potential companions.

I am quite serious about this. I am contemplating as much a literary device as a conversation piece. Last but not least I need an uncommon companion as teacher. Let me explain.

When I was young I wandered through life uninstructed. My real education didn’t begin until I was forty-five - after a sad divorce - during a complicated love affair. I began to sort through the ruins of my self-esteem. Somebody had to tell me who I was. Somebody who would correct my thinking but wouldn’t punish me for past mistakes.

I invented Dr. Steinfeld. My imaginary shrink was the first of several guardians I made up over the years. Dr. Steinfeld educated me from the inside out by allowing me to accept some questions as unanswerable. I imagine we all have teachers in us – roles we explore as we go along – in order to survive. I just happen to give mine names. Bring them to life. Like some files on my computer, the psychiatrist’s teaching role was hidden and only surfaced when a serious attempt was made to destroy my mental well-being. Suddenly I was drawn into a crash course of identifying and locating the tools that would free me. At my computer I never fail to be impressed with the results of explorations into unfamiliar software. In my personal confrontation with impending doom, at forty-five, I accepted the notion of an invisible psychiatrist with some reservations. Now, at 65, I am no longer surprised by the arrival of new teachers.

Dr. Steinfeld served as my mentor for almost twenty years. I wrote to him, talked to him, frowned at him in the mirror, and at least once I dreamt of him as if he were a real person. He had two helpers – Madam X, a mannequin, whom I call my immortal sister and Laura Spencer, my more carefree, spirited alter ego. Madam X became the center of essays and poems I wrote. At a time when I questioned the sagging and wrinkling of my own body, she stood in as a shining example of perfection. Now I no longer depend on her beauty for consolation. She stands silently in my spare room, still wearing her mysterious look, yet no longer endowed with special qualities. And Laura Spencer – figment of my literary imagination – kept track of all the secrets I was not able to write about in my own journal. A third person account of first person remembrances.

One day my imaginary shrink suggested an imaginary island community. I invented Easter Island as home for a band of stuffed rabbits. I sewed day and night to fulfill their group experience. They were a self-reliant and ambitious bunch of furry friends who taught me to accept their varied characters and appearances. They insisted on a history and a scrapbook full of photographs. Alfie, Oliver, Kate, Cocoapuff, Grandpa Woodie, Uncle Elmo, Morgan Cloud, Jason Rocky and all the others. When they had given me all that I needed, they walked off into a homeless shelter to amuse a group of lonely children.

After Easter Island I made up Tiny Trina – the child of the sacred mountains – a spiritual guide surrounded by night shadows and flaming candles. Though I tried very hard to breathe her into reality, Trina never quite materialized into a full being – she stayed on the sidelines of my life. Dr. Steinfeld told me that Trina was premature. Which made me, again, question the difference between waiting for the right time and procrastination. Unfortunately, I still don’t know the answer.

When I retired, Steinfeld retired too. He sent me a young friend whom I named Isabelle. She is a real doll with an imagined life. Blond hair and gray eyes. Thirty six inches tall. While Steinfeld answered serious questions, Isabelle only discusses fun things like button collections and pets and the color of cornflowers. Sometimes, when I force her to think like an adult, she gets upset and tells me to leave her alone. She is, so I tell everybody, my inner child. Her role is to let me remember the curiosity of my childhood. Her teaching is laughter.

I love all the imagined roles I play. I know they are temporary; new ones come up when it is time to move on. Which seemed to happen just a few months ago when I first contemplated a trip to England and Hadrian’s Wall. I found a new friend. His name is Barnsie the Noble Bear. Though he has the body of a teddy bear, he too is a fictional teacher. He insisted that he would replace my travel companion, Sami Lucius Putnam, the stuffed frog. Sami is a timid traveler, hiding in my luggage, leaving me to fend for myself in strange cities. Most of the photographs I have of him are poses in hotel rooms, overlooking room service orders, guarding my keys, maps, and watch. Then he decided to stay home. He said he is going to play the violin instead of traveling with me. Apparently I insulted him with my remarks about his size. Really. He is too small to pose in front of a museum. His eyes bulge. He doesn’t own any clothes except his dining suit.

Barnsie the Noble Bear is a literary agent and an editor of sorts. He is definitely very outgoing. Almost pushy. I assumed he would teach me the art of travel writing. Barnsie promised to give me a well-rounded approach to walking the countryside and reporting on it. He would ride on my backpack and watch the scenery as it passes.

“Hindsight,” he insisted, “lasts longer than foresight.”

I told him that I prefer to see new faces approaching me. I don’t want to watch people fade into the vanishing point. I realized there would be some battles. He shortens my sentences. Already he asked me to set up a file folder for him on my laptop computer. “Simultaneous entries,” he hinted. And he chuckled when I told him I hate editors.

“You’ll love the changes I am going to make,” he promised. “You’ll be glad when strangers come up to us and take our picture. We’ll be digitized. We’ll be famous.”

“Oh yes, we’ll be famous.” I quipped. “Barnsie and Cloud dined at Milecastle Inn last night.”

Pretending to read a newspaper he responded, “ Barnsie the Noble Bear and his companion were sighted at Chesters Roman Fort. He rode in comfort while she limped into the Passport Stamping Station, where she applied moleskin to a blister on her left heel.”

We both laughed. Dr. Steinfeld wrote about him last Christmas from his retreat in the small Bavarian town of Kochel. Yes, he still gives advice, though he insists that I no longer need his guidance. “Dear Gisela,” he said in his letter, “Maybe now is the right time for you to take a look at the humorous side of life. Hire my friend Barnsie as guide on your next trip. He boasts and shows off his cleverness at every opportunity he gets. I know you hate this kind of arrogance but look at it as a challenge. A timed experiment. The two of you face life from different angles. Is that so unusual? Just promise to think about it for now. When you return I’d love to know how it worked out.”

Well, Doctor, it didn’t work out. My initial idea of taking along the Barnes and Noble Bear was abandoned after a while. First, he is way too big. He doesn’t fit into my suitcase and he adds two pounds to my backpack. The second reason is his arrogance. I thought I could develop him into a somewhat petulant overly sensitive, intelligent character who would stimulate my senses. I found him overbearing and excused my change of heart with his business association. I didn’t really want to walk alongside history, advertising America’s #1 bookseller.

Finally I met a cute little bear at a local yardage shop. A narrow ribbon around the neck was her only adornment. I paid for her, tied her to my backpack and walked home. On the way we passed Ebay Park where I named her and took the first photographs of her. I called her Tyana (she is a Ty bear) J (Java is her Ty name) LittleString. She is what I needed at the time, a companion who had no prior attachments to my household. She is also very limber and though she is 14 inches tall she weighs only one pound fully dressed.

As any artist can tell you, wild images roam through our minds especially in the dawn hours. Sometimes I can barely stand it, this delicious tension just before daylight forces me to open my eyes. I have to slow down the film rolling past my eyes, slow down the urge to create whatever the night has planted in my heart, slow down the swing that bounces my body out of bed. I am possessed. I can see this little bear as the next literary character of note.

Tyana’s first week with me transformed her into a well-dressed young lady, ready to travel the world. She took on a personality that is totally opposite the one I had given Barnsie. My guess is that I am not ready for arrogance. Will I ever be?

I knitted, crochet, and sewed six outfits for her. Gave her a portfolio of eight by tens. Wrote her into my journal. I adopted Tyana J LittleString. Then a funny thing happened. Samy the frog became jealous. Suddenly he decided he would join us in our walk. He had an alley in my daughter who is anything but a friend of my menagerie. Sometimes I think my daughter hesitates to bring friends into my house because of my obsessions; exactly the way I felt about my mother until I slid down the forty something ladder and became – who else – my mother. My daughter was surprised that Samy would have to stay home.

“But Mom” she said, “he has gone everywhere with you. Morocco, Egypt, China. You don’t want to leave him home, do you?”

“Well, I guess not.” The problem is space, in my backpack and in my mind. Can I deal with two voices at the same time? But then, his voice might be helpful in overcoming the hesitations I hear from friends.

“You are walking by yourself? Aren’t you afraid? What if something happens to you?”

No, I wasn’t afraid. I have thought this out carefully. Countours Walking, a travel company in England, provided me with all the necessary details. We added three museum days to the original ten walking days. I had reservations for 13 nights; they sent a guidebook – the same one I had already read twice – a detailed map, and a folder full of information and instructions. My suitcase would be transported from one place to the next each morning. Somebody would search for me should I get lost and be late. I have a whistle and a compass.