The last time we ascended the hill to the Pepper Pot we followed in the footsteps of a trusted friend. He was an outdoorsy kind of guy with a keen sense of direction who’d walked this path many times before. As the guys forged ahead, we wives followed behind, aimlessly chatting and taking little notice of the route. It was a bright summer’s day and the well worn paths were clearly visible. However, on this occasion, the forest floor was a colourful carpet of fallen leaves, every path obscured. And without a knowledgeable guide to show us the way, hubs was relying on memory and instinct to discern which route to take.
As we approached yet another mystery cross roads in the woods, a local dog walker clocked our confusion. Indicating a low level wooden post, nestled against the tree line, he offered this friendly advice: “Just follow the waymarkers. As one disappears behind you, and the next one is still out of sight, you will start to panic. Just keep walking in the same direction until the next waymarker appears.”
And so, on the strength of his word, we kept travelling in the direction the previous waymarker had pointed towards. We ignored the beckoning finger of hopeful trails calling us off in other directions. The comforting signs and sounds of civilisation were left worryingly far behind. Tumble down ruins, consumed by nature, whispered ghostly tales of long ago. Reassuring recollections of the last reliable waymarker began to evaporate, along with our resolve to go where it led. As the woods became denser, the sense of panic which the kind stranger had so confidently predicted, ambushed us in a darkened dell.
In life and hikes, panic can fuel wrong turns. It’s interesting to note that when the way ahead is unclear, there’s an understandable human longing to turn back. To go back to where I “know”. Or to give up altogether. Once, in the city of Birmingham, I was so utterly lost that I just sat on a wall and wept. Or I might disregard those who’ve walked the path before me, or rationalise that some movement is better than no movement so I just sort of freestyle it, running wildly, hoping to wing my way out of a thick fog without taking wise counsel.
But together, we held our nerve, believed the words of the kind stranger and patiently trusted until the next waymarker appeared. We also trusted, to some extent, in our own sense of going up hill towards the summit, where the Pepper Pot was located. We knew for certain it was up there, because we remembered eating cheese and beetroot sandwiches while resting against its base. We remembered taking in the magnificent views stretching out across Morecambe Bay.
I sighed in gratitude as each waymarker breached my sight lines. Grateful for the kind stranger who had tipped us off. Grateful for those who’d gone before us and taken the trouble to mark the way. Each humble wooden post held a grouping of three, wordless signs. A faded, but plainly visible, ancient chalky white image of the distinctive Pepper Pot, about six inches tall, along with a faded, ancient chalky white arrow. Beneath both of these was a sharper, clearer arrow sitting within a small disc of man made material, some kind of plastic or acrylic.
These simple signs were obviously installed some years apart, possibly decades. The old and the new had been created using very different skills, methods and materials. But united in a single purpose they remained, clinging to the wooden post in all weathers, fully aligned in the truth they declared. As each waymarker appeared, then disappeared behind us, we followed the direction they pointed to, growing in confidence and faith that, in its own time, the next one would be there to guide the way to our destination.
Val’s latest book Notes from the North end of Nowhere (published by scm) is available here.
Photo Credits: Getty images.
Pepper Pot image courtesy of Bob Fraser.
