When my son was born, walking was part of the kind of childhood I wanted for him. Tiny walks at first, when he stopped every five minutes to examine a leaf or a pebble, but then steadily longer distances and ascents. We climbed Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon) by the difficult Watkin path when he was eight. He became a walker, and so did I.

Walking has since become intrinsic to my writing, research, and life. I’ve undertaken multi-day treks in Nepal, Morocco and New Zealand, and have summitted a few 4000-metre mountains. But mostly I can be found following footpaths in the Peak District, Scotland or Wales. I’m passionate about sharing my experience with people who may be new to walking or who lack confidence, and I lead easy hikes open to all for the British Mountaineering Council.

As a writer I’ve been inspired by authors like Linda Cracknell, for whom walking and writing are inseparable. Linda’s supportive tutoring convinced me a few years ago that I could write in a way that was more personal, lyrical and evocative than the writing I’d done in my earlier career.

When I walk, I connect with movement and the senses. The everyday noise racketing around my head quietens down. Sometimes a new idea for a piece of writing, together with the opening line, settles on me like a butterfly. Sometimes my mind just floats free. Either way, it’s both restorative and validating.

The Seattle-based poet Elizabeth Austen expresses this perfectly:

I walk in the wilderness alone so I can hear myself, so I can feel real to myself.

This is from The Girl Who Goes Alone, a manifesto for women who walk, which I’ve shared with almost everyone I know who ever ventures on to a footpath.

I still sometimes walk with my son, when we manage to find a time and place to coincide. He no longer stops every five minutes, although as he’s now an arborist he’s still easily distracted by trees.