Matt

Writer of words, rider of bikes.
Also fond of a good walk.

An adult and child walk away down a forest track towards a growth of dark green conifers, with mountains in the distance.

Peace doesn’t always come easily to me, but it comes best when I’m exploring new places on foot or by bike. Our return to Glentrool was a chance to leave stresses behind and be present in the moment, absorbed for a week in this dark-skied forest.

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Trees and sky reflecting in a puddle on a rural track bordered by lush green undergrowth.

As a cartophile, I love what maps tell us about our past and present worlds: trace a finger along a contour and you can almost feel the shape of the land; follow the disused railways snaking their way across the grid and the ghost trains steam back to life. But maps will never tell the full story. And part of that is because of how we define our personal landscapes from a young age, using what rural historian Jeremy Burchardt calls private names.

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A group of children in red, white, blue and brown tops run down a farm track away from the camera, red machinery visible to their right.

“When I suggest they park around the corner instead, they complain that their kids can’t walk that far,” says Mrs M, the crossing supervisor at my son’s school, reporting on what happens when she challenges parents who park illegally outside the gates.

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A woman cycles through a forest pulling a bike trailer with a Golden Retriever puppy onboard.

There’s something different about the way my bike handles. It alternates between dragging me back on the hills and pushing me forward as we crest them. When we round a bend, I glance back to check the line I’m taking on the corner. There, behind me, is the reason for my caution: a bike trailer carrying our new Golden Retriever puppy, Lula. She's looking out contentedly.

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A small child, just visible, sleeps in a green tent against the green backdrop of Dartmoor.

The outcome last week of a wealthy landowner’s high court case was sadly predictable: he’s used his money to strip people of their legal right to camp on Dartmoor. As the fight to win back this right goes on, I’ll look back fondly on nights I’ve spent on the moor.

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Sheep graze on a hill covered by low cloud.

One January morning I stepped out of my front door and didn’t return until the sun was setting and I’d walked 30km.

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A bike leans against a graffitied concrete wall in an underpass.

I’m no lover of cities, yet I'm drawn to edgelands – those transitional spaces that are neither urban nor rural. Seek them out and you’ll find, laid bare, the threads connecting our built and natural worlds.

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A view from the Black Mountains in Wales, the landscape beyond covered in cloud

We drove through thick fog for an hour before turning onto the mountain road. As I steered the car through the gloom, my eyes were fixed on the narrow lane – but Tom was looking skywards, excited. He’d spotted a patch of blue. To our surprise, by the time we reached the parking place at the start of the walk, we were above the cloud and in the most beautiful of winter days.

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A child walks towards the camera along an autumnal avenue of trees strewn with brown leaves.

We pass through an avenue of horse chestnut trees on our walk to my parents’ house. In autumn, G is compelled to investigate every promising-looking conker. In winter, we crunch the icy mud or kick our way through snow. In spring we might shelter from a passing shower. In summer, we welcome the shade. Whatever the season, we never tire of this walk. Yet choosing to travel a few miles in this way, immersed in our environment instead of cooped up in a car, is now seen by many people as strange and unusual.

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A bike leans against a signpost pointing to the Ridgeway byway in either direction, with a track visible to the right of the photo.

It was a late August morning, the first of our holiday, and we were keen to get going. We retrieved our bikes from the cottage porch and set off on trails which – over the next few days – would take us to a street market, a neolithic tomb and the largest stone circle in the world.

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