The beginning
There is a truth I’ve come to understand: walking twelve journeys was the easy part.
It might not seem that way—twelve months, twelve paths, miles unfolding beneath my feet—but out there, on the trail, everything felt clear. Step by step, the days revealed themselves. The body knew what to do. The mind softened. The world, in all its beauty and unpredictability, met me exactly where I was.
But sitting down to write it—to gather those miles into words, to choose what to hold onto and what to let go—felt entirely different. It asked something deeper of me. It asked me to be still in a way that walking never did. It asked me to remember, to feel again, and most of all, to be vulnerable.
I never set out to write a book when I made the challenge.
I can still picture the moment the idea first arrived, almost uninvited. We had just climbed what felt like an impossible hill along the Cotswolds Way in England. My legs were tired, my breath uneven, and when I reached the top, instead of triumph, questions settled in.
I considered my art—if what I was making made a difference. I questioned whether anyone would notice if I shifted, if I tried something new, if I allowed myself to change direction. The thought came so unexpectedly: What if I wrote a book?
At first, I laughed it off. It didn’t feel like me, or at least not the version of me I had known for years. But the idea lingered. As the miles continued, I began to see it differently.
The trails had given me so much. They had offered beauty in ways I hadn’t expected—light across fields, the rhythm of footsteps, the kindness of strangers. They had connected me to places, to people, and to parts of myself that had been waiting patiently to be noticed.
It began to feel natural, almost necessary, to try to hold those experiences not just in images or memory, but in words. To pair language with the visual stories I had always told through my art.
And so, slowly, the book began.
Not as a plan, but as a collection of moments. Not as something polished, but as something honest.
Releasing it into the world has been the hardest part. Because once it leaves your hands, it no longer belongs only to you. The quiet, personal reflections become something others can see, interpret, and hold in their own way.
There is a tenderness in that. A letting go.
And yet, there is also a hope—that somewhere, someone might find a piece of themselves in these pages. That they might feel invited to step outside, to walk, to notice, to reflect. That they might be reminded that change is allowed, that new directions can begin with a single, uncertain thought at the top of a long hill.
Looking back, I realize the journeys didn’t end when the walking stopped.
In many ways, they were just beginning.Walk 12 Months 12 Journeys 1200 Miles: a heartfelt adventure on foot and withinWalk 12 Months 12 Journeys 1200 Miles: a heartfelt adventure on foot and withinWalk 12 Months 12 Journeys 1200 Miles: a heartfelt adventure on foot and withinCarol Fennell
It might not seem that way—twelve months, twelve paths, miles unfolding beneath my feet—but out there, on the trail, everything felt clear. Step by step, the days revealed themselves. The body knew what to do. The mind softened. The world, in all its beauty and unpredictability, met me exactly where I was.
But sitting down to write it—to gather those miles into words, to choose what to hold onto and what to let go—felt entirely different. It asked something deeper of me. It asked me to be still in a way that walking never did. It asked me to remember, to feel again, and most of all, to be vulnerable.
I never set out to write a book when I made the challenge.
I can still picture the moment the idea first arrived, almost uninvited. We had just climbed what felt like an impossible hill along the Cotswolds Way in England. My legs were tired, my breath uneven, and when I reached the top, instead of triumph, questions settled in.
I considered my art—if what I was making made a difference. I questioned whether anyone would notice if I shifted, if I tried something new, if I allowed myself to change direction. The thought came so unexpectedly: What if I wrote a book?
At first, I laughed it off. It didn’t feel like me, or at least not the version of me I had known for years. But the idea lingered. As the miles continued, I began to see it differently.
The trails had given me so much. They had offered beauty in ways I hadn’t expected—light across fields, the rhythm of footsteps, the kindness of strangers. They had connected me to places, to people, and to parts of myself that had been waiting patiently to be noticed.
It began to feel natural, almost necessary, to try to hold those experiences not just in images or memory, but in words. To pair language with the visual stories I had always told through my art.
And so, slowly, the book began.
Not as a plan, but as a collection of moments. Not as something polished, but as something honest.
Releasing it into the world has been the hardest part. Because once it leaves your hands, it no longer belongs only to you. The quiet, personal reflections become something others can see, interpret, and hold in their own way.
There is a tenderness in that. A letting go.
And yet, there is also a hope—that somewhere, someone might find a piece of themselves in these pages. That they might feel invited to step outside, to walk, to notice, to reflect. That they might be reminded that change is allowed, that new directions can begin with a single, uncertain thought at the top of a long hill.
Looking back, I realize the journeys didn’t end when the walking stopped.
In many ways, they were just beginning.Walk 12 Months 12 Journeys 1200 Miles: a heartfelt adventure on foot and withinWalk 12 Months 12 Journeys 1200 Miles: a heartfelt adventure on foot and withinWalk 12 Months 12 Journeys 1200 Miles: a heartfelt adventure on foot and withinCarol Fennell
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