"I'm on the outskirts of Paignton,
alone, picking out an
overgrown path,
climbing up hidden
steps made of railway sleepers, and I enter a world where I can hear no
cars, I can hear no planes. Only insects and
water and
birdcalls and a rippling
sea of greens and
yellows. I
disappear into the
pattern of a butterfly. I begin to feel all the
experiences of my walking becoming a
pattern, a
map, something I can
fold up and put in my inside pocket. [Touches heart.] I see where all the
different routes connect up. [...] those rowing boats full of
flowers in Shaldon. Herring gulls and electrons. If only I could leap like them and not
fear where I might end up."
Phil Smith, "The
Crab Walks," in
Walking, Writing & Performance: Autobiographical Texts by Deirdre Heddon, Carl Lavery and Phil Smith,
Roberta Mock, ed., Bristol, UK: intellect, 2009, page 8.
