Navigating the Adventures of the Unknown
“At the brow of the hill, take the path to the left until you reach the gate at the far edge of the paddock.”
Simple, right? Or so I thought until I found myself standing on a hillside, squinting at a web of winding paths, none of which offered a clear invitation. I’d assumed the “brow” of a hill was obvious—a point near the top, naturally—but now, I wasn’t so sure.
I was alone, deep in the Kent countryside, following one of England’s ancient public footpaths. These trails, some older than the houses they now skirt, are a testament to a time when walking was the only way to get anywhere. They cut through private estates, sheep-dotted pastures, and even a Downton Abbey-esque lawn or two. Despite the centuries and the gates they traverse, they remain open to anyone adventurous enough to wander them.
Earlier that morning, I’d set off from a pub with a history that stretched back to the 1300s, marvelling at the weight of time embedded in this place. With a sketched map in hand, I climbed my first stile, meandered through a paddock of sheep who barely noticed me, and passed a thatched-roof cottage that could’ve been plucked straight out of a fairy tale.
But now? I was stuck. Paralyzed by a simple question: which way?
Standing there, I felt the weight of my indecision—my feet frozen as if refusing to move without certainty. I tried reasoning through it, debating each path like a chess player, considering all possible outcomes.
The longer I stood, the more futile it seemed.
That’s when it hit me: there is no perfect choice. No glowing sign marking the “right” way. The only way forward is… forward. I picked a direction, exhaled the tension I’d been holding, and walked.
As I continued, a thought struck: this moment wasn’t just about a footpath. It was a mirror. How often had I been here before, not on a hillside, but in my own life—caught in indecision, craving certainty? How many hours had I spent agonizing over whether to choose one retreat location over another, draft an apology, or simply order dinner?
This walk was teaching me a hard truth: perfectionism is the ultimate deadweight. It anchors us in place, robbing us of momentum and joy. The irony? Moving forward, even imperfectly, is the only way to learn, adjust, and ultimately discover where we’re meant to go.
Step by step, I began to relax into the rhythm of the walk. The hedgerows whispered in the breeze, and the crunch of my boots became a reassuring soundtrack. I realized that even if I were wrong, I could retrace my steps—or stumble upon something even better.
By the time I returned to the pub, I wasn’t just satisfied with a pint; I felt transformed. I’d discovered a quieter kind of courage—the kind that doesn’t require knowing all the answers but moves anyway.
And the brow of the hill? That’s a mystery you’ll have to solve for yourself. Join me on these ancient paths. Get a little lost. You might find your way back to yourself, too.