In homage to solitary walks

Walking alone is like sitting between the cellos in a symphony orchestra. It’s like cooking with the stew in the pot, being inside the cloud that rains.

I love walking alone. There is a secret ravine on Table Mountain that harbours me on short afternoon walks and has a Verraux eagle that ignores me. A few days ago I was alone in a valley on top of the mountain in the middle of a city of 3.7 million people. Deep in this valley there was no sign of the city at all.

It felt as if I could hear every single thing. The darting song of every sunbird, the moist croaking of frogs, the sound of water flowing deep under a rock, the wind shaking the seed pods on the reed-like restios.

When I’m alone I take longer, see more. Stand at the edge of a pool reflecting the blue sky and watch the frogs go plop in the water, then stare at me with bulging eyes just above the surface, their legs hanging down like swimming paraplegics.

In the mouth of a cave I could feel the cool air on my cheek coming from deep inside it. Across the valley a waterfall made the sound of a distant car crunching on gravel.

When I’m walking alone I feel like the first person and like the last person.

I love walking alone.