It’s usually remarked how those of a non-appealing visual arrangement must needs be equipped with a remarkable streak of humour to attract and hold the attention of those who normally would not deign to cast eyes upon them past the cursory fleeting glimpse, but for the poor, this need is elevated to the same sense of importance and fundamentalism as the very needs for victuals and water.

This is an age wherein strolls by the countryside in which the strollers bathe their feet in the early morning dew, caressed by the gently blowing and unblemished morning breeze, whilst cavorting to the tune of countryside, birds, the whistling of the grass as the wind blows through it, the chirping of crickets innumerable, the distant hum of the tractor ploughing the far-off fields, the odd human hail to some working partner, amongst a greatly diverse cacophony of other sounds, has since been replaced by movie dates, candlelit dinners at some expensive French diner serving seafood ‘fresh off the plane from the harvest in Scotland’, and various other experiences which all require the expenditure of a not inconsiderable amount of pennies.

A bloke, in spite of his bright promise and almost certain destiny perched in the upper echelons of society finds himself undesirable if he displays even the slightest inability to subject his lady friend (or otherwise, I am not bigoted), to the full rigours of such surfeit and luxurious comfort. A simple offer to walk a couple of blocks to the high-end destination is met with severe suspicion, for what self-respecting man hails not a cab in such advanced times as ours. It is increasingly difficult to find anyone who regards you simply for the jolly good company you are reputed to be if that enjoyable companionship is not shared over a bottle of (I don’t know any really good wines-let me revise that, I don’t know any good wines, so insert precious vintage here) and some snooty food with only a French designation.

I am an engineering student. That statement has many a time seen me imbibing a great many pints of beer at my local pub courtesy of some of the male regular patrons, whilst it has seen many a prospective conquest shirking away in scarce disguised horror and consternation. The male patrons recognise promise and decide to make an investment that has the slightest of chances of maturing after the passage of time in years, whilst the ladies, of whom I’ve learnt to be wary, and to keep my distance, are perturbed by the very thought of a student daring to approach them. The nerve on that boy! What have I done to encourage such low people to approach me? Has my mascara clouded again? No dear lady, as the irrepressible Bob Dylan sang on the song Goin’ to Acapulco “it’s a wicked life, but what the hell, everybody’s got to eat.” It gets to be that occasionally we have to aim higher despite the crippling fear and dread.

I remember well my first girlfriend as quite a special somebody. Our first date was a tennis match at the university courts, and when we decided to break for victuals, we walked the kilometre or so between the courts and the nearby Spar, and there we split the bill and proceeded to buy six hot cross buns and a two litre pet Sprite. We then downed these on the way back to the courts, alternatively taking turns to drink from the bottle. I even mocked her about how she would stop walking every time she took a swig at the bottle, albeit at the least opportune moment, for she was just then holding the bottle at a sixty degree angle, drinking from our shared refreshment and the fit of giggles that ensued almost brought her to choke! Subsequent dates never improved much from this early example, and included long night-time walks, long day time walks, and long eventide walks. I’m yet to get her opinion on such odd date behaviour, but my own experience of the thing was unforgettable. It simply was a better way to spend time with one’s beloved, and had a level of intimacy and privacy simply not offered by the most exclusive of dining establishments.

I have subsequently been on many similar dates, albeit all inside my imagination, and they were simply indescribable in their elemental and simplistic candour. I am an avid walker, known at times to wander off for no apparent reason and to no apparent end to the exhaustion of fifteen miles and more at a time, and the course of my plenitude of impromptu gallivants, I have come to know of a good deal of sublime and unimpeachable treks. Walks through virgin land leading up to a secluded lake; climbs up rocky hills where I found myself leaping from rock to rock akin to the fashion of a rambunctious young mountain goat all the while grinning with stupefying glee; long, arduous wanderings on sultry afternoons without water or any refreshment through a network of intricate and often dead-end dusty paths. I have been lost innumerable times courtesy of the male ego which believes males to be equipped with an infallible internal compass, and the asking for directions to be the very basest of all actions. I have encountered hostility from both humans and rapacious dogs after inadvertently trespassing through some property on untold occasions. I have tired whilst still walking to the point of finding some shady bush or tree to crawl up underneath, covered my face with my hat to prevent flies landing on it, and proceeded to knock out for a goodly two hours from sheer exhaustion. I once had thrones cast at me after cutting through some compound by the frankly unruly inhabitants, and from thence I beat a dignified yet hasty retreat all the while heeding the mutt that was paying undue and rather disconcerting attention to my ankles. I once almost slipped off a rather high rock I had surmounted, the hasty descent from which would have resulted in significant maiming or even death. I have seen nature in all its beauty and splendour, at its most dangerous, and I have had many of the sightings. The overpowering yearning of my very soul through all these adventures has been to find a soul to share them with, and it is this drive that has led me to experience vivid and all too real  daydreams of what could be.

Is it too much to hope then, that amidst the crowds of highly selective Godiva and Roche consuming lasses might be found my companion walker? One who scoffs not at the idea of a walk that could only leave them tired, sweaty, parched and dry; one who does not reproach the awkward commute home in a commuter bus whilst carrying the unmistakable odour hard physical exertion entails; one who would voluntarily give up on a 5-star dining experience whilst donning Dolce and Gabbana and Dior fragrance, for crisps and a 50c bottle of mineral water whilst baptised with a quiet twang of urea and ammonia infused with that morning’s deodorant, and a slight degree of halitosis borne of long periods without water and solid food.

Oh well, till I  find her, I’m off to bed, for tomorrow I go walking once more, the lone participant in what remains my favourite activity. I will enjoy the thrills, the unpredictable joys and spills all on my lonesome, till I won’t have to.

Jo.