My dear reader,
There are few things in life I hold more sacred than the simple, unassuming country walk. It is my firm belief that many of the world’s greater trials—awkward tea conversations, poorly judged proposals, and the unbearable sound of a pianoforte lesson repeated for the third hour—might be best endured, or indeed entirely escaped, by the timely declaration of: “I believe I shall take a turn about the grounds.”
To the casual observer, a solitary walk is a gentle pastime, a modest indulgence in nature and fresh air. To the initiated, however, it is an act of quiet rebellion—a most respectable form of flight.
Let us not underestimate its strategic brilliance.
One removes oneself from the Drawing Room—scene of so many social skirmishes and unsolicited opinions—and enters the realm of hedgerows, birdsong, and merciful silence. No cousin to interrupt with his dreadful anecdotes about chimney repairs, no aunt to ask why one remains unmarried (again), and no Miss Bates to recount the entire menu from the last three dinner parties in exhausting detail.
Out of doors, the mind is restored. One may rehearse dialogue, revise characters, or mentally rearrange entire chapters. Elizabeth Bennet, let it be known, made more progress in understanding Mr. Darcy during a single muddy walk than in several stifling afternoons spent in his company. Charlotte Lucas likely accepted Mr. Collins out of doors—the air must have been thin. And as for myself, I have plotted fates, ruined suitors, and invented entire love triangles before the first gatepost.
There is a particular pleasure in walking fast enough that your skirts swish rebelliously and your bonnet tilts askew. One must, of course, appear composed should one meet a gentleman (especially one unexpectedly brooding in a meadow), but a flushed cheek and sparkling eye may be forgiven—nay, encouraged—under the guise of healthful exertion.
For the aspiring authoress, the country walk is a portable writing desk. It allows the mind to roam where the pen cannot always follow, to sketch without ink, and to dream without interruption. There, amid the rustle of leaves and the occasional disgruntled goose, one may overhear fragments of dialogue from passing strangers or invent better ones for imaginary ladies and fictional squires.
So, my dear reader, should you find yourself cornered by a matchmaking mother, or in mortal danger of being asked to play “Greensleeves” yet again, tie your ribbons, lift your chin, and declare firmly that you are in urgent need of fresh air. Plot your escape with purpose and with pride.
After all, genius often begins with a pair of sturdy boots and a well-chosen path.
Yours most briskly,
Jane