And September rolls around again

The gentle walk back to reality.

There are some trees not far from my house, just along the banks of the River Ouse, which have soaked up hundreds of summers worth of rain and sunlight. They are magnificent: vast-trunked giants, bearing their heavy, fluttering, glorious green weight over the daily dog-walkers and commuters.

They have born countless floods in that time too, of course. Our river often outgrows its tidy channel in winter, and this past year was absolutely no exception. The water rises quickly, spilling onto grass, pouring into rubbish bins, and soaking the roots of every nearby tree. I’ve seen strong currents sweep around bark, dark tide-lines reaching right up to the fork. I’ve wondered, after weeks of being unable to use the river path, how there can be any soil left: not washed away entirely by the swollen rain. And I’ve watched these trees stand indifferent to the rush; having done it all before, of course.

Last month, I told you how much I had been enjoying my morning walks along the river - but I’ve hardly said hello to the Ouse since. My first foray to see what changes might have taken place while I’ve been away was just the other day. It was windy - really windy - and I was nervous to walk under boughs which creaked and swayed, hyper-aware of any sudden flail of branches. I reminded myself how long these giants have stood on this bank, how deeply spread their roots must be. They are the bank.

But I walked quickly, speeding up beneath the furthest leaning trunks, thinking all the while about the enormous chestnut which, weakened by the relentless flooding of the Ouse this year, came down one gusty night. A king felled, unnatural in its horizontal state, splintered and upsetting.

I went out again this morning. The air was calm and cool, and I had a travel mug of strong black coffee in my hands. Since getting back from Canada, my days have been uneven and interrupted, but today I woke up with a craving for routine again.

Leaving the house without any luggage, purpose or particular destination, has an immediate lightening effect. It never takes more than a few steps along the pavement for me to feel just a little bit looser; a little freer from things. What started as a simulated commute - a way to mark the beginning of a working day, when my desk is only a few steps from where I sleep - has become more of a ritual. I make a point of not listening to anything or calling anyone as I walk, and try instead to just pay attention. A bit of empty space to notice what’s happening in my little square-mile. Or to attend to whatever thoughts need attending to.

I walk slowly beneath the canopy - of sycamore, chestnut and oak leaves - hardly noticing their reliable presence this time around. Then I stop. A trunk, as wide as our VW Polo, stands straight as house in front of me. And just like that I’m reminded: how excellent our ancient trees are. It’s like seeing them for the first time all over again. A rediscovery I seem to make on a regular basis.

I cross Millenium Bridge and come back down the river on the other side, heading for Rowntree Park. With the last cooling dregs of my coffee still to drink, I let myself into one of the gated flower gardens - so lovingly restored by volunteers after this year’s floods - and find a bench in the sun.

I don’t do this every day, but that is the aim. Sometimes, if I’m going out and about for the morning, I skip it. Other times I stay in bed too long, and have to roll straight into my inbox (those days, needless to say, are never such ‘good’ or productive ones). My walks don’t fix anything, but they’re definitely doing something. Even if just creating structure where there is none, and tuning me into the natural turn of the Earth.

I strongly recommend this ritual of heading out the door without a destination - even better if you can do it with some kind of regularity. I know that for any dog-owner, this is not exactly a revolutionary concept. But you don’t need a furry friend for an excuse to get outside. Most mornings, I am one of the only people on the riverside without a purpose: a ball to throw, a bike to ride, a personal best to beat or a small child to shepherd off to school. I used to feel self-conscious about this, and I definitely do get the occasional curious look. But as time passes, I have more conviction in my steps: the smugness of someone who knows they’re onto something.

You don’t need to go far. You don’t need to do it every day either: just enough to notice changes when they come. To be familiar enough with your patch to see how it moves through the months and weathers. Whatever your body allows, whatever time you have, I promise you it will not be wasted. Even when it feels like the easiest thing to replace with an extra bit of sleep, or scrolling.

The next weeks are going to be some of the best for watching things transform; as summer green gives way to the rusting colours of autumn, and the golden light of sunrise creeps into breakfast time. Whether it’s your back garden, a local park, a loop to the end of your road or a favourite nearby bench, I urge you to leave your headphones behind and give it a go.

And if you’re worried about getting bored, just remember that the best ideas have room to arrive when you make a bit of space. Not to mention all the other things spinning around your mind already, that could do with getting some air.

---

August has been and gone in a flash.

I spent much of this past month on the other side of the pond, enjoying time with family in Ontario and having some early celebrations ahead of our UK wedding in a few months’ time. The weather offered us everything from soupy, steaming heat to fresh, pouring rain. We managed to snatch a couple of nights in Algonquin Park while we were there, this time staying in a cabin on one of the many beautiful lakes. I wrote about the place, of course, for August’s mid-month essay: ‘Love, deep as the lake’. I couldn’t help myself.

If you’d like access to all my mid-month essays, past and future, you can become a supporting subscriber:

Or, if you’re just curious, have a little gander with 7 days free access:

For those of you more podcast-y people, they all come with audio read-outs, too. (Okay, sales bit over now. On with the good stuff.)

Seaglass has been out in the world for four months now, and I think my favourite kind of feedback is when people tell me that reading it has inspired them to go outside. If you’ve read the essays and felt a similar desire (or if my waxing-lyrical about morning walks has done the trick!) do let me know. Hearing about your small adventures makes me very happy.

Continuing resolutely on the theme of walking, I was the guest author for a Walking Writers’ Salon in August, hosted by the cheerful folk at Walk-Listen-Create. It was a lovely discussion - about beach-combing, memoir-writing, swimming and marmalade-making - and you can watch it back for free below! Thanks to everyone who came along.

A couple more Seaglassy events have been announced since we last spoke, with tickets now available to buy. In October, I’ll be returning to Durham Book Festival - not as a festival programmer this time, but as an author! If you’ve ever thought about trying your hand at nature-writing, memoir or creative non-fiction, or if you’re already putting pen to paper, then come along to my workshop on Friday 11th October at Clayport Library. Tickets won’t last long as there are limited spots for these sessions. (And sorry to those further afield - this one’s in-person only!)

Then in November, I’m down south for the Creative Folkestone Book Festival, appearing with the very talented Sinéad Gleeson and Robin Laurance, to talk about ‘How the Sea Permeates the Page’. You can get tickets for that one here.

Lately I’ve been reading…

A real mix of things. Whilst away I tore through Lessons in Chemistry, having finally given into the fo-mo of everyone I know having been there, watched the show, got the t-shirt etc. And reader, it did not disappoint. What a fab book. It’s not often that something so widely hyped and relentlessly marketed lives up to expectation, but on this occasion I was genuinely impressed, and totally hooked. A clever, funny, sad and heartening book which deserves all the enthusiasm it’s had.

Other than that, I have to admit I’ve been a bit of a dipper. Attention caught between a few different unfinished books… you know how it can be. I’m hoping some return to routine will help me get back into the groove. But I have just finished the mini masterpiece that is The Word for World is Forest, borrowed from a friend. I’ve been circling around Ursula Le Guin’s seminal sci-fi contributions for a few years now, never quite finding the time or mood to tuck in. But this was an excellent bite-sized introduction, and a nice change from some of the non-fiction research I’ve been plodding through.

Coming up in September

I’ve got a few loose ends to tie before something new starts in October - which will be taking up a good chunk of my diary for the foreseeable future. If you follow me on Instagram or Twitter, you might catch wind about what this is later this month…

So this week, I’m carving out some dedicated time to write. I’m off to the lovely Julia Forster’s new writers’ cabin in Machynlleth, and I am so looking forward to sinking into hermit-mode for a couple of days. I shall return bright-eyed and full of ideas, having made all sorts of early progress on my next collection (I hope!).

Julia is, herself, a brilliant author, publicist, and creative coach, and you can find out more about what she offers, particularly to fledgling writers, here.

I’ll also, at long last, be releasing the first episode - and introduction - to my podcast series, This Place. It’s been a long time in-the-making, but behind all the veiled references and other important things, I’ve been quietly interviewing some of my favourite creative people in their favourite places, and I’m looking forward to sharing the first little bit with you later on this month.

We start, in fact, by the River Ouse, on (you guessed it) another one of my morning walks. So I’ll meet you there.

In the meantime, enjoy this last exhale of summer warmth and, if you get a moment, put on your shoes and head outside.

Till then, with love,

Kathryn x