We plan the perfect meal. A chicken dinner, with potatoes and mint tea. All fresh from the farm. Hand picked by myself and the farm runner, Cesily. Completely organic, completely healthy. There’s just one problem and it’s outside. It’s running around on the grass, pecking at the ground. From time to time it makes a noise. The noise is “CLUCK.”
The English don’t hike. We walk. Over massive mountains, through slithering streams, between towering trees. We walk.
Putting one foot in front of the other is nothing to an Englishman. It’s the first thing we learn after we’re born, so why should it be such a challenge when we’re adults? We’ve been doing it so long that it means nothing to us. And so. We walk.