North of Bristol

At the beginning of March, Bristol journalist Hannah Stuart-Leach set off on an ambitious journey that would see her walk 400 miles from Bristol to Scotland. The journey took five and half weeks and, at times, all of her willpower.

Hannah tells Bristol24/7 what she found when she walked 400 Miles North of the city, and what it means to be home again.

Are you a big walker then? You must be very fit? Driving lessons not going so well? Just a few of the responses when I told people I was walking from the South West all the way to Scotland.

I have lived in cities most of my life and although I love the countryside, you wouldn’t have me down as an outward bound type. Until recently, my boyfriend laughed at me for heading up hills in my ‘hiking dress’, equipped with only a handbag heaving with an uncalled-for collection of Cream Eggs.

But that’s what made it a challenge. Setting out inexperienced – and mostly alone – to navigate 400 miles of England, Scotland and Wales. I had no end point set, no daily plan, no expectations of where I was going or who I would meet. Just a commitment to myself and the kind people who sponsored this nonsensical endeavour to get up each day and walk until I reached 400 Miles North.

At times it was hellish. For the first couple of weeks my wincing hamstrings and cranky knees were so horrified at the sudden spike in activity and weight of the overloaded backpack I was lugging around, that just the getting up part hurt. I couldn’t make breakfast without a dose of ibuprofen and a slathering of the cooling horse chestnut remedy I picked up mid-Offa’s Dyke Path.

There was also the weather, which – at the risk of being a British bore – really did make or break a day’s walking. Sometimes the wind and rain were so strong I didn’t have the strength to move against it, and several times I was frozen to the spot by a blinding onslaught of snow or hail stones. Awful, especially when there was nowhere else to walk except an exposed section of bypass busy with swaying HGVs or, worse, an inhospitable Birkenhead backstreet.

Then, as in the films, the sun came out and I felt like the luckiest woman alive.

On those bright, blooming days, when most people were hard at work, I watched spring unfurl in slow motion, bringing with it lolloping lambs taking awkward first steps, and bumble bees knee-deep in violet coloured crocuses sampling the season’s nectar. I smelt the first freshly cut grass of the year, rolled up my sleeves to feel the gradual warming of the sun on my arms and listened out for dialects changing lilt as I journeyed gently north.

I passed through some of Great Britain’s most outstandingly beautiful spots, watched wild ponies roam the snow-capped Black Mountains; observed the quiet, introspective lakes of Cumbria; and looked in awe at the fairy-tale Falls of Clyde. I visited villages, towns and cities. Llanthony, Lockerbie, Liverpool and – finally, as fate and I decided – Glasgow. And in between those reassuring beacons of civilisation and much-craved M&S salads, I was surprised to find there were places, of no special note, where in an entire day I wouldn’t see a soul, save a hardy shepherd. It unnerved me at first; it felt eerily quiet, calving cows scared me and I kept losing my way for lack of landmarks.

But I learnt to embrace those days for the space they gave me. I stopped wearing make-up and started singing the 90s hits in my head out loud – Chaka Demus & Pliers helps you climb hills, it’s a fact – because it didn’t matter how bad it sounded, or if I looked mad. It woke me up, made me laugh, and when I next came to a place inhabited with humans, face red from windburn, I had a genuine smile to give and greater appreciation of their company. I remember them all, from the beaming Elaine who, elated after quitting her IT job of 25 years, was celebrating her freedom by ascending various peaks of the Lake District, to quick-witted Tony – definitely-not-a-twitcher – who I met admiring nesting bullfinches by the river in Lanarkshire.

But after five and half weeks of walking all day long, come rain or shine, it was a relief to return to Bristol. I missed, well – everything that happens here. This city has a ridiculous amount of good stuff going on, I always knew that, but now I know I’m going to do more of it. Turns out there aren’t many places you can go, say – from a breakfast rave, to a Stretch + Knead yoga and baking workshop, to a teatime screening of a Japanese fable. And that’s just Stokes Croft.

It is great to be home, but should I ever require respite from Bristol’s ever-evolving, ever-incredible programme of multicultural events – it’s nice to know that in this little country of ours there are still places to get lost and be nothing but alone.

Hannah walked 400 Miles North in aid of three charities: Magic Breakfast, Child Poverty Action Group (CPAG) and Alzheimer’s Society. As part of the fundraising, Aardman Animation’s Pete Lord has very kindly handmade – as original creator of the much-loved TV character – a Morph figure that will be auctioned online from Friday 1^st May. For details, and to read more about the walk visit 400milesnorth.tumblr.com or search 400 Miles North on Facebook.