The author of a Guardian article about winter walking in Britain fell into the latter. As a relatively recent returner to yomping across Britain’s countryside, I found it interesting to compare his experiences with mine.

The weather

The weather was one area where hiking in Blighty left him cold. Cold, wet, and miserable.

At this time of year, the lure of warmer climes can be irresistible, whether that’s for lying in or walking in doesn’t really matter. Having lived in places where winter days were rarely what anyone in Britain would call cold, and where rain was an infrequent visitor, I can confirm that warm winter walking is very pleasant.

However, over the last couple of years, I’ve enjoyed winter walking in the UK as much as I did in Portugal, and far more than I did walking in summer in hot climates. In both Tenerife and Portugal, walking was off the agenda during summer months.

The thing about the weather is, you can dress for cold and rainy days. There’s not a lot you can do to keep out the heat. I subscribe to Alfred Wainwright’s assertation “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only unsuitable clothing.”

Clothing

I relish being able to wear trousers, fleeces, and jackets we bought for hiking in Chile and Switzerland. They all get regular outings after languishing in cupboards for years. Hiking in the Canaries and Portugal only required light waterproofs at best. Even in snow in Teide National Park, we hiked in T-shirts (although we would start off wearing light fleeces and a jacket – you don’t go hiking at over 2000m without having warm clothing to hand). Various walking forays around Europe tend to be in spring or autumn, again usually only requiring light walking gear, apart from one time in the Black Forest when the weather turned, temperatures plummeted, and we were caught wearing completely inappropriate clothing (see Alfred Wainwright).

Since returning to Britain, we’ve added gaiters and Wellington boots to our outdoor gear collection. I’ve worn wellies on the last two walks we’ve completed. Both were short (under 10km) and didn’t involve any serious ascents or descents, so wellies were fine. Splashing through marshy fields, along muddy farm tracks, and through lake-sized puddles unlocked the inner child, while my feet and legs remained cosy and dry. I’ve also switched from hiking boots with lightweight uppers to leather ones, far better for traipsing through Britain’s squidgy fields. Although we’ve walked across a cold and rainy Exmoor a couple of times, we’ve yet to resort to the tent-sized ponchos we bought to walk the Camino de Santiago.

Walking speed

I couldn’t tell you whether we are fast or slow walkers, it’s not something I dwell on. I walk at the pace I walk at. I would guess it’s neither fast nor slow. The Guardian’s writer was a confirmed fast walker, speeding along, head down. I’ve never understood that way of walking. Maybe that’s because of a brief stint in the Marines where walking in that manner was called a route march and involved lugging a 56lb pack on my back. It’s not what I think of as a fun activity. Plus, you aren’t going to see much when you’re motoring along head down. Walking for us is all about learning about our surroundings, registering the contributions and impact of both nature and humans. For me, there is no better way to get under the skin of any destination than to walk it, but that wouldn’t happen if we were racing along.

Daylight Hours

One area we had to learn to adjust to was the limitation presented by reduced daylight hours. Thanks to longer days, winter didn’t really affect the length of the walks we did in the Canary Islands or Portugal. We were almost caught out on our first long winter walk in Britain, arriving back at our car just as the daylight was snuffed out. Now we simply stick to shorter routes during the darker months.

Experiences

In a way, scenery in warmer climes doesn’t always change that much. In both Spain and Portugal, the greatest difference in terrain was that by the end of summer, the land looked tinder dry and not particularly attractive in some areas. Generally speaking, that’s not a problem in Britain. Maybe it’s still the honeymoon period, but I’m enchanted by how the countryside transforms with the change of seasons, each one artistically reinventing the landscape. After a lengthy period away, it has been like looking at Britain’s beauty through fresh eyes.

To summarise why winter walking in Britain appeals to me so much, I’ll finish with a selection of snippets from recent walks that had me appreciating my cool surroundings.

The sun’s rays pierced the forest’s skeletal canopy, its warmth causing misty spirals to dance across the Grand Western Canal’s glassy surface. It was magical. If the Lady of the Lake’s slender wrist emerged from the water, I would not have been in the slightest bit surprised.

Something caught my eye, the slightest hint of movement prompting me to look up from the crisp, frosty ground where I was hoping to see more examples of the rare phenomenon called hair ice. On the slope above the path, a young roe buck stood stock still, observing me with curiosity. In spring and summer, when the foliage was lush and lovely, I’d never have spotted him.

An icy wind pinched at my nose, cheeks, and earlobes, the only exposed parts of my flesh. A low, bright sun silhouetted two hikers enjoying a picnic on a grassy mound overlooking a golden sea of grasses and shrubs where Exmoor ponies with shaggy chestnut coats roamed freely. In one direction lay an endless panorama consisting of Somerset and Devon’s gently rolling hills. A spin on my heels, and this green and pleasant land was swapped for a view of the Bristol Channel’s slate grey water, looking cold and uninviting as it sloshed across the divide between England and Wales.

It is partly these contrasts that make winter walking in Britain such an enjoyable activity.

It’s been a sedentary month since Jack and I returned from our brilliant Brecon Beacons trip on behalf of Inntravel and more than 18 years since we last went walking in Britain with nothing more than an OS map and an idea of a route. The day promised no rain and a good chance of sunny spells as the afternoon wore on; the best forecast in two weeks or more and all the excuse we needed to stretch our legs. We had already used the public footpath that begins at the entrance to the farm, walking south west over three fields to the local village for its fête but we had not, as yet, followed it eastwards where we knew it reached the River Tone and hooked up with the West Dean Way which would take us north towards the local pub for lunch.

Setting out was very strange, as we crossed tree large fields belonging to the farm we lived on. More often than not, there was no waymark, no clear path through the long grasses and quagmire, and we were walking directly alongside farm buildings and through fields grazed by sheep and horses. We reached the final gate on our landlord’s farm which would take us briefly into trees to cross a small stream, to find that the gate was knotted with string – the sort of string that it’s really difficult to undo. As Jack grappled with the unruly knot, it started to rain.
“Hurry up! We can shelter under the trees!”
Jack stepped aside with a sharp look and a muttered expletive. I managed to undo the knot just as the rain stopped. Sigh.

While crossing through the yard of the neighbouring farm, we were stopped in our tracks by a flock of sheep being herded into a pen right beside us, with not enough space to accommodate the sheep and ourselves. We pressed tight against a barn door and squeezed past the last sheep to where the farmer was holding the gate open for us.
“Sorry,” we muttered.
“No problem at all,” he beamed, pointing us in the right direction for the next gate.
In all the years we have been walking all over Europe, paths have never felt more like trespassing; yet they’re not, they’re public footpaths.

One of the things that will be very familiar to every UK walker except me, is the astonishing variety and fiendish complexity of gate fastenings to be found in the countryside. Enjoying his superiority, having spent his childhood summers on the farm of his auntie’s farm in Dumfries & Galloway, Jack stands back at every gate and challenges me to open it. I push, lift, click, pull and grunt, sometimes successfully, many times not so much. Occasionally I just stand and stare, baffled, until Jack (rather smugly I feel) easily opens the gate. Navigating our way through thick, cloying mud; soaking wet long grass and multiple gate fastenings worthy of inclusion in The Crystal Maze, we find ourselves standing in front of the offending electric wire which runs right around the field we’re supposed to be crossing. I manage to get under it without mishap, only to discover it’s not the right way and we have to retrace steps. That’s when I fail to get low enough.

Multiple nettle stings and bramble scratches later, with feet sodden, we arrive at our destination only to realise I haven’t brought a face covering. Although it’s no longer a legal requirement, the landlady prefers her customers to wear one so, rather than risk being refused entry, we decide not to bother with the last quarter mile to the pub and to do a circuit instead, heading home across the Combe Downs. Walking along a level track, I suddenly find my feet tied together as the eye of one boot hooks itself into the fabric of the other, and over I go, a severe cramp sending pain shooting through my calf as I hit the ground.

I’ve hiked up and down mountains and sheer cliffs in Switzerland, Austria, Germany, Italy, Portugal, Slovenia and Spain with no problems at all. I do a 12km circuit around the Devon and Somerset countryside and manage to get myself scratched, stung and shocked while limping home with a swollen and scraped knee and nursing a battered shoulder and sore calf. I can see I’m going to have to go into serious training to go walking in Britain.

And those boots have gone into the bin.