A Sense of Purpose

And Imaginary Adventures

Apr 11, 2025

At this time of year, when the greening is upon us in the northern hemisphere, and the sun is making a much-needed reappearance, I will sometimes find myself pondering big adventures (or, perhaps, Big Adventures, with capitals, emboldened).

This also happens when the seasons begin to change in late summer and early autumn.

Lydia Crow

1 has a similar sensation in the fall, and she calls it her autumn fizziness, which is a fitting description. The urge to do something, often something others would view as crazy, is strong at these times.

Last week, I found myself thinking of this. We are very much at the mercy of the mountains here, the sun lounging behind this peak or setting beyond that ridge for far longer in winter. Around the time the clocks change there is a curious confluence of light. A morning arrives when, all of a sudden, the sun appears beyond the eastern ridgeline at a spot and time considerably different to the previous day. Then she is here to stay, earlier and earlier until October, when a corresponding darkness arrives. For most, the clock change alters their morning and evening by an hour, for us, it is in tune with the mountain and, as such, has a much bigger impact on our light.

Not our current ridge, mountain, or sunrise. I shall illustrate this piece with other sunrises I’ve made a poor attempt to capture, whilst thinking of those I let go, yet remain in my memory.

The thoughts I initially experienced related to these mountains, to walking along paths ancient and deep, crossing those fast-flowing, snow-chilled streams and all the while open to the signs of nature, whether plant or animal, bird or insect.

Recently, for example, I learnt that a plant in our local forests, the greater wood-rush (Luzula sylvatica), is favoured by the golden eagle (Aquila chrysaetos) for lining their aeries. Ever since, I wonder if this clump or that is visited by these birds, how high they would stand beside me, that imperious glare turning this way, then that, before plucking and harvesting spike after spike. What a thing that would be to witness.

My mind then went to a longer adventure, and then a longer one still.

We currently live a little way north of the 45th parallel of latitude. 45° North. As someone who was brought up just south of 60° North, and has lived below 20° N, I often consider these divisions of our planet. However, it was only very recently that I learnt 45°N is not actually the midpoint between the equator and the north pole, given that the earth flattens down at the pole and bulges out towards the equator.

The real midpoint, I discovered, lies just across our valley. Every time I open the shutters in the morning, I look at this point. Just there, a short walk away.

Which made me think.

If I had time, funds, and was not married to a woman I love, with a three year old daughter who is a power unto herself, one adventure I keep thinking of is this…

Early one morning, perhaps as spring is leaping into life at this altitude and latitude, I would take my pack, a staff, some basic supplies and gear, and I would set northwards, initially following the Belledonne chain of mountains, then up into Savoie, crossing the Massif des Bauges, then to the west of Geneva, into the Jura—and on and on.

Not exactly a direct northward route, but one which carries me through as much nature as possible.

On the way, I would gather food, find as much of my sustenance as possible, much in the same manner as my original plan back in 2010, when I had intended to walk slowly around the coast of Scotland. Then, as I’ve shared before, I ended up doing something very different instead.

In my imaginary adventure, I’d keep walking, foraging, north, up, up, up, eventually into Scandinavia, as far as I could. I don’t really care too much about actually getting to the north pole, but as close as I could on foot—I have no interest in crossing increasingly perilous sea ice, after all.

Then, when I arrived, I would turn around and head back south, all the way home. Only, once I got there, I’d keep going, down, down, down, following the Alpes to the coast, further, perhaps west into Spain, or east into Italy, all the while with the goal of the equator in mind, whereupon I’d turn back once more.

These imaginary adventures are idle thoughts. I cannot make this trip, I will never make this trip, but it is a fun thing to briefly consider whilst waiting for a kettle to boil, watching the birds on the window-ledge outside (oh! How bright and bold is that Rougequeue noir [Phoenicurus ochruros]!), and considering whether the sun has warmed the terrace enough to put the baby chilli plants outside yet (no, another thirty minutes, I think).

I am sure I am not alone in plotting imaginary adventures. I am sure many of you have thought of many different things, ranging across the whole magnificent spectrum of what it means to be human. For some, an adventure which is out of reach is someone else’s daily life. For others, such a thought is an escape from the cruelty in their day-to-day existence. Wearing a different colour can be an adventure. Going a different way to work. Taking the stairs instead of the elevator. Living alone in the woods for months in a shelter you build yourself. Leaving your home nation on the eve of a big birthday, to explore and live in other countries, other cultures. Walking to pole and equator both.

We need to dream and, perhaps, dream as big as we can—often by way of smaller, stepping-stone dreams.

In fantasy fiction there has long been the trope of the quest, something thrust upon our hero or heroes, something vast and perilous and different. A search, a journey, a loss. No one emerges from such a quest the same. Perhaps that is really the point.

Our lives are quests, every day another step on the path towards our common, shared end. There are times when the sun is low and dark, when our way is shrouded in mist, and our minds and bodies fail. Then, we need to pause and recharge, rest and recover, regain our impetus and, hopefully, be strong enough—for ourselves, and for others—to continue.

There are always moments of doubt on any quest. For what would be the adventure if all was a placid sea, or flat, paved road with comfortable, bug-free lodging along the way? We need those troughs as much as we need the peaks. We need the darkness to see the light for what it is—and I see the darkness overwhelming many right now.

I have not been on the internet very much, of late. Instead, I have been concerning myself with other things, perhaps planting seeds, getting my hands in the dirt, whilst I bolster and prepare new soil for later in the year, or for the year after. I have been concentrating on things which do not involve being overwhelmed by all the negativity, all the horror. There is a time and a place for standing firm in front of that but, to do so, you—I—need be strong.

In the last year, I have done a lot of research into why I am who I am. This is not news for you if you have been a long-term reader—I needed to acquire a better understanding of myself and, I think, I have been successful in doing so.

I am also now exiting the grieving period which often follows such discoveries; the realisation that, had certain things been picked up on decades ago then my life would look very different today, is obviously tempered by the fact I also know that, had those certain things been different, then I would not be sitting here, married with a three year old daughter, thirty minutes walk from the midpoint between the equator and north pole.

As I emerge from this period, I feel stronger in my mind than I have in a long time. I am beginning to recover a sense of purpose I felt I had lost, perhaps never to regain, the realisation that yes, my actions—and, crucially, my words—might well make a positive difference to others.

You might not believe me but, as I drafted the previous paragraph, the sun I mention above appeared over the ridge to the east. A brief moment when it is diffused through the trees, then sudden light floods my study, the glare strong and warm on my right cheek, my breath catching in my throat at the timing (and then I realise I really, really need to clean that window).

This short essay was not intentional. I did not intend to write anything to send this morning. Instead, I set a timer to allow myself to write, more as a test for myself than anything, or anyone, else. I was not sure what words would come.

Soon, I will need to get up from my desk and refill my tea. Soon, I will need to begin to tick off the tasks I must complete in the next few hours. Soon, my chain of thought will be broken and this piece could easily rest with so many others in the oubliette of unfinished, unshared drafts, not quite ready to see the world, another hint that perhaps I myself am also not quite ready.

And yet…

That sun, that brightness, swift and powerful and—for as far as our tiny and wonderful lives are concerned—more or less eternal, this is a powerful hint that, perhaps, this is the piece I should send, after all.

I have rested long enough in the Last Homely House. I have paused on my quest and replenished my powers, revitalised my purpose, and resupplied my metaphorical pack with all I need to continue. I can do this and, I think, so can we all.

The sun rises and it is time to set out once more.

Many thanks for reading. I appreciate each and every one of you who does.

A Sense of Purpose

And Imaginary Adventures

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