Miles and miles of bog and brier | The quest for inspiration ch 1

- I didn't take many photos, but here's a quick snap -

It's an early Saturday in January, the sky is clear and I am trying to free myself from sinking ankle deep into a bog - just you're average start to the year. What had led me, you ask, to be so bespattered in mud?

It had started, as so many great things do, with a quest, a quest for inspiration. To provide some context, it had been my good hope to have in my possession a full first draft for my poetry collection by the turn of the year. Needless to say this had not happened, with only 2 pieces short of a full run I had inadvertently run dry. I found myself stuck on what was arguably one of the most important parts of the whole thing.

The plan had been originally to spend a day at the south coast and seek inspiration in the crashing waves, arguable a more relaxing writing experience than what I had ended up in. However one thing had led to another and following the scent of adventure rather than any sense of practical poetry writing, I now found myself cutting a boggy path across the Hampshire landscape by virtue of my compass and the directions of fellow sojourners in that lonely land. 

Due to a sad lack of walking boots, I had volunteered my bright green racing flats to join me on my quest, and it must be said that they served their duty valiantly, however there is only so much that one can ask of your lightweight road running shoes when it comes to keeping out the mud and mire through which I resolved to trudge. And in my particular case it turned out to amount to practically nothing. So, soon freed as I was from the futile efforts of trying to keep my feet dry, I ploughed on.

To tell the truth this type of excursion had been known to aid my failing inspiration in times gone by. but this time round, inspiration managed by some trickery to evade me still, probably because I spent so long picking my way through the New Forrest bogs, of which, I can confidently say, there are many.

Because of this, some may be fairly disposed to class my day as a failure. After all I had battled some 20 miles, traversed bogs, forded a rushing river and ran a good 5 miles in order to make my train, all that and yet the poem had not been written, nor, as it would turn out, would it be in any short time afterwards. As it happened I actually wrote a few versus of an entirely unrelated piece, which itself has lain unfinished in the month since. So yes, some may class it as a failure, I would, however, be most reluctant to, for poem or no poem it was a glorious, revitalising day.

It was a joy simply to be free, free of restraints, free of my phone, relying instead on my compass which was not a little inconsistent. A fault due perhaps in part to the fact that it was also a whistle and a magnifying glass and to be expected to serve these many roles whilst also holding a consistent navigation was just too much to ask. This inconsistency did, however, rather add to the enjoyment than deduct from it for where I doubted its ability to lead me to my destination, I was led to seek advise with other walkers who I stopped to ask for directions and who were in many ways the highlight of the day. Though it may sound contradictory,

I believe one of the greatest things about traveling alone is the people that you meet. And it is my hope that the Saturdays of my kind navigational assistants were made at least a little more interesting if not necessarily better, by their brief interactions with that strange youth, clad in jeans and running shoes and layers of New Forest mud.

And so the quest for inspiration continues. There is no knowing where it will take me or when it will end. But until it does I’ll make sure to appreciate the journey and the people that I meet along the way.

Robert -