Walking

My paternal grandfather was a walker. He and my grandmother lived out in the country, where there were no sidewalks, no asphalt roads. Yet, he would go out for a long walk every day. I wish I had gone out with him on those walks. I was too young and too blind to the pleasures of walking at that time.

He did ask us to go with him, but never appeared disappointed when we didn’t go. He did not try to make these walks attractive to us. When asked what he “did” during his walks, he dryly answered, “walk”. The concept that there wasn’t some alternative motive, or sideline activity, or calculable benefit, made walking seem a very boring thing to do.

It was only when I was away at university, after my grandfather had died, that I started going out walking on stormy nights with one or another of my friends. The setting fit my (then) need for the dramatic. The stormy weather also guaranteed that we were the only ones out in the streets or wandering through the parks. Our solitary aimless wanderings were filled with speculation, philosophy, and stories of our past. Sometimes, we just bitched about the day-to-day worries.

It took coming to Germany to learn the joys of walking in good weather. There are pathways along canals, sidewalks throughout every city, town or village, and quiet country roads begging for walkers. Like my grandfather, I do ask if anyone wishes to come along on a walk. If they say no, I’m not disappointed because “walking” doesn’t need company. It doesn’t exclude it, but it doesn’t require it either.