I'm not a walker. For me a walk needs to have a specific destination – a tube station, for example. My wife, Bridget, has long complained that we don't go on walks together, so it was a combination of her entreaties and the chance to follow in the footsteps of George Bernard Shaw that persuaded me to spend an afternoon walking in Hertfordshire.
It was a blue-skied spring afternoon as we set off towards Wheathampstead railway station. Although it's no longer in use (the last passenger train left in 1965), it has recently been restored by volunteers. Standing on the bare shell of the platform felt like being on a film set after the cameras have stopped rolling. While it was operating, Shaw would cycle here before catching the service to London. It's said the stationmaster would hold the train if he was late, which seems like a reasonable level of preferential treatment considering that Shaw received both the Nobel prize in literature and an Oscar.
We continued walking across fields and past houses so huge they probably have their own postcode. Bridget pointed out the bright red cotoneasters and the blackthorn blossom. Man-sized golden rushes rustled in the breeze. We passed other walkers, more often than not with a dog. We would exchange cheery hellos and they would wave with the hand that wasn't carrying a bag of poo. Those without a four‑legged companion were splayed on the banks of the river Lea, their fishing rods dangling in the green water. We passed Lamer House (where Shaw's friend Apsley Cherry-Garrard had lived), and I pointed out the miniature Shetland ponies to our seven-month-old daughter, Laila, while Bridget stopped to smell the pines.
After strolling down an avenue of limes we reached Shaw's Corner. I explored the great man's home as Laila had her nappy changed. The house itself is large and fascinating – much like Shaw's output – but I was more interested in his revolving writing hut, which follows the sun. Inside the hut was a telephone line and a narrow bed in case he was so convulsed by inspiration that he could crash out next to his typewriter. It must be nice to have a sun-chasing writing hut, I thought, rather than a desk in the corner of the bedroom.
As we left Shaw's Corner for the second leg of the walk, the sun was setting, its honey orb melting below the hazy green fields. The sky was blushing pink as Venus and Jupiter glittered above us.
I don't remember much about this section of the walk because Bridget and I spent most of the time talking. We talked unhurriedly about love and how to not lose ourselves in the frantic chaos of parenthood. The conversation reminded me that walking can have a purpose without having a destination. Feet aching, but with our souls refreshed, we boarded the train back to our reality.
