Alone but Not Lonely: Echoes of Moel Famau
I think I’m an oddball. Someone who doesn’t fit in. The introverted weirdo without life-long friendships. While I might not always be a fan of peopling, that doesn’t mean I don’t want company and good friends.
There are moments when I feel sucked into a deep hole of loneliness that haunts me. These usually come storming along when I sink into comparisonitis. Or when I’m at home, seeing no one other than my family members for weeks on end.
Yet, when I’m exploring the outdoors, whether climbing hills, meandering through woodland, or attempting to kayak across a lake, I am often alone. There are times when I don’t see a single other person. But loneliness rarely visits me in nature.
It is something of a paradox, to be alone but not lonely. But as I stand at the foot of the almost-mountain, I am not expecting to feel lonely. Neither do I expect to feel less of an oddball. But by the time I reach Moel Famau’s peak, everything will have changed.
At The Foot of Moel Famau
As soon as I step out the van at Moel Famau’s lower car park, I experience a sense of calm wonder. Surrounded by hilltops stretched high, I am embraced into a hug, welcomed into a world different to the one I usually occupy. The deep green pine trees span the lower slopes, adding depth to the lighter green grass surrounding the car park. Blushes of pale brown intersperse the landscape, undefined trees not yet ready to bloom.
Somewhere, there is the bubble and rush of a stream as water weaves its way downhill, and its influence is immediate, as if the rocks on the stream bed filtered away any of life’s stresses. Water has always been special to me. I’m drawn to the sea, waterfalls, and streams. I can watch it for hours, in awe, soothed as much by roaring, crashing waves in a storm, as I am by a gentle trickle of a stream.
Today, I’m not alone for my walk. My partner is with me and knows this hill well. We plan to walk the steep path from the lower car park to the Jubilee Tower on Moel Famau’s peak. It is a significant step up from last week’s hill and a test of my capabilities post Long Covid and surgery.
As we follow the path over the stream and onto the steep trail, I am excited for what lies ahead, eager to prove that I can do this and more.
But it doesn’t last.
The Ascent
Only a few steps up the steep hillside and the doubts creep in. I’m already breathing heavily, and I’ve barely moved. There is a rush of sadness and disappointment.
How have I let myself get so unfit?
Surely this path is not that much steeper than my usual hill?
Does this mean something’s wrong, that a virus lies latent waiting to pounce on its prey and bring me down?
Up ahead there are the fast footsteps of someone making their way down the hill with ease. My lacking-in-self-confidence brain does not consider how much easier descent is than ascent. Instead, it goes into overdrive.
Please don’t look at me.
Please don’t notice how heavy I’m breathing.
They’ve noticed, haven’t they?
They’re internally laughing at how much a mess I am.
They’re wondering what a fatty like me is doing on this hill, almost mountain.
I smile, nod, and say hello, as is common practice on the hills. Then, to hide the shame exhaling from my lungs and deepening my cheeks, I distract myself with fussing over our collie, Dexter.
More thoughts scratch their vicious nails into my mind.
I must look totally ridiculous dressed like this.
There’s no disguising my size.
Why did I think this was a good idea?
Everyone must be judging me.
This was a bad idea. I can’t do this.
I should ‘fess up and return to the van.
There’s no way I can walk to the top when I’ve barely started.
Honestly, I eye-roll at myself.
As I try to calm and self-sooth myself, I remember a 1500m ‘race’ at school. Our form group needed to pick someone to run it on sports day. I had put my name forward as did another girl. One of the more popular girls, of course. And despite recording the faster time during PE lessons, a group decided that we should battle it out on the sport’s field racetrack at lunchtime.
There was no time for something such as a warm-up. We simply got changed and stood on the starting line. I was determined to prove myself, sick of being over-looked. Imagine my joy when I won the race.
Now imagine the crushing despair when I discovered that wasn’t enough. Apparently, the other girl was only just getting into her stride. And so, we went again…
Alas, I pulled a muscle on the second round. I now know I have hypermobility which is why I have been prone to injuries. But back then, it was just another symbol of:
a) I’m not good enough
b) I would never be accepted by my peers
When Sport’s Day arrived, I sat on the side lines with the group who had chosen the other girl (trying to fit in and be one of the popular one, much?). As we watched the popular girl race, one of them suddenly said something about her hitting her ‘pain threshold’. She continued chatting about how she’d get through it very soon and would then settle comfortably into the rest of the race.
Huh? A pain threshold? Something you just had to get past? I mean, I know now that pain threshold was the wrong phrase. But back then, I sat with the idea and thought about whether this happened to me.
Was there a point where I was particularly uncomfortable?
Did I work past this point and then settle in my running?
It didn’t take me long to realise it was at the start of the race. I would be uncomfortable straight away, my lungs struggling, my heart straining. I would doubt my ability. But, after a little while, I would find a rhythm. My body would adjust and I could continue in more comfort.
Maybe this is why I’ve never been able to use a walk, run strategy. I understand the benefits, but it’s like I’m living in my ‘pain threshold’. Before I can settle in, it’s time to walk again. It’s exhausting.
But as I continue placing one foot in front of the other up Moel Famau’s slopes, that memory returns and reminds me. This is just me in my ‘pain threshold’. It will get better. It will settle.
And then I spot something magical.
Forest Whispers
Either side of the path is a wooded area, filled with tall pines trees. Stepping off the hard path, my feet sink into the soft, springy pine needles. The light filtering through the branches is ephemeral. Enchanting. I can see the grey sky above them, but the clouds of needles hanging on the branches trick the eye, creating a mistiness where magic might happen.
Suddenly, I feel transported to another world. I smile to myself as I half expect a centaur to wander past. We pause to take it in. The majestic green hideaway starts to overshadow my doubts and internal struggle. I’m no longer focused on what others might think of me, and instead I am just being.
We continue climbing. Now my only thoughts are about my surroundings. How strange the small Christmas trees look on the side of a mountain. The hazy view down the valley lined with hills. The patchwork blanket on another hillside. The hillfort visible on a peak even now, thousands of years later.
In recent weeks, I’ve suddenly become aware of how many hillfort shadows remain on top of our hills. They’ve always been there. But it only now that I realise their frequency. And every time I see one, I can’t help but wonder about the people who lived there long ago. Maybe that’s why I can be alone but not lonely on a hillside. My mind is walking with thousands of ghosts from the past.
Lying ahead of us is the final steep section of path that will lead us to Jubilee Tower on Moel Famau’s peak. And suddenly, I am no longer doubting my ability, and instead concentrating on enjoying myself. I relish the challenge ahead.
To my surprise, as we climb up to the summit, I do not struggle. I do not have the inner critic running my thoughts. I am too focused on my feet! After my operation, I struggled a little to lift my feet up and still tend to trip. So, as we climb over the stony section, I concentrate on lifting and placing them with care. Before I know it, I reach the top of Moel Famau.
The Summit
Not only have I done it, but I’m not in the slightest exhausted either. Climbing the steps up the Jubilee Tower, I look forward to a cup of black steaming coffee from the flask. I moment of doubt crosses my mind, and I turn to my partner. “You did bring the coffee, right?”
“Silly question,” he replies.
Another couple is arriving at the same time and join in our conversation, confirming it would be pretty disastrous to forget the coffee. The next thing we know, the guy is laying out a mini picnic. He shakes some tabasco sauce into whatever his flask contains and tucks a huge napkin into the top of his jacket. It is a strange but wonderful sight at the top of an almost mountain.
We find out he is more used to running in races over these hills. His wife tells us, “I usually try not to walk further than the length of my body.”
With my partner and my dog at my side, I laugh with the couple. Others come along, joining us in a drink and a snack before continuing their walk. I feel as if I’m surrounded by kindred spirits. I’m one of them, in a place where I belong. No longer the weirdo.
It seems nature can not only allow you to be alone but not lonely, but it can also deliver the gift of companionship. We often think of meaningful friendships as something made of time and deep conversations. But sometimes, it’s fleeting moments that hold the magic.
The thirty minutes or so we spend sitting on the tower, is that kind of fleeting magic. Lost in the joy as we sit and chat, I forget about everything else and don’t take a single photo from the top of the almost mountain.
But isn’t that how it should be? Experiencing the moment rather than trying to record it?
Eventually, we make our way down the hill via a different route, looping back to where we started. My pace is fast, and my legs are not tired. I’m not the same person who set out on the walk only a couple of hours earlier.
Instead of doubting myself, I recognise my capacity for more.
Instead of feeling like the odd one out, I feel accepted, at home.
Instead, of wondering what the hell I was doing, I am already thinking about my next walk, and how I really don’t need to feel lonely or alone again.