Still felt shit today. Not sure if it’s just a two day hangover or I’m ill. Either way, I still could have slept all day and I wasn’t about to waste another day of the weekend so I dragged myself out and went for a walk around/over Cleeve Hill on a thing arranged by BMF. The first mile or so was spent thinking I’d throw up any minute but eventually that stopped and I think it helped to get a bit of fresh air.
While walking around, trying not to throw up and enjoying the view, I thought about the boots on my feet. They’re still my very first pair of walking boots, bought back in 2011 when I went to walk Hellvellyn in the Lake District with the guys from work. I remember the excitement of buying some proper boots, although I felt like a fraud and I had no idea of what I was doing or what I really needed. Admittedly, they’re a completely different colour to when I bought them and have been waterlogged in stinky water too many times than I’d like (I wouldn’t get too close to them), but they’re still going strong and there’s nothing really wrong with them.
They’ve got me up Ben Nevis (still my favourite hike even though it was constant rain and wind and no visibility, but think that was mainly down it being a wonderfully slightly-illicit weekend with a certain person). They finished the hat trick by summitting Scafell Pike and Snowdon (not in the same day, I hasten to add. I wasn’t fucking superfeet.). They’ve trekked the Inca Trail in Peru and a 60km hike in South Africa. They took me to the Peak District where I walked with cows and ate Bakewell Pudding. They trekked miles in Lincolnshire on head-clearing walks and walks that decided my future and shattered someone else’s.
They were a metaphorical first step to a new life, even if I didn’t realise it at the time. And so now, I’m much more attached to them than if they were just a stinky pair of old walking boots. I’ll get new ones at some point, I know I will, and these will get thrown out. But I’ll always remember these, just like I’ll always remember my first pair of proper running trainers, my first day at school or a new job or a first boyfriend, and that first person post-separation on that illicit weekend. Gone, but never forgotten, held as a cherished memory.