I've just spent three days walking from Grasmere in the Lakes to Orton in the Yorkshire Dales with two friends who are tackling the full Coast to Coast from St Bees to Robin Hood's Bay.I joined for a small stretch of their bigger journey; but it didn’t feel small once we started.
There’s a particular kind of quiet that only arrives when your body is busy and your mind is… not. Not racing, not solving work-related problems, not rethinking your weekly meal plan. Just still. Or at least quieter than usual.
Walking strips things back quickly. After the first few miles, your world becomes simple: keep going. Left foot, right foot. Over hills, into gale-force winds while stuffing delicious fruit cake into your mouth, through hail, snow, past Herdwick sheep who barely glance up as you pass, entirely unimpressed with your efforts.
And then something shifts.
The mind, so used to analysing and planning, starts to quieten. There’s no need to solve anything out there. You just walk. Even in the tough moments, or especially in the tough moments, you just keep moving.
There were flashes of beauty along the way, but it wasn’t dramatic. It was quieter than that. Light on the fells. The rhythm of the wind. Being approached by a random man carrying a puppy through a quaint village like it was completely normal.
And the small things became everything: a chocolate bar after hours in the cold, a hot shower, a good breakfast, the warmth of people welcoming you in.
It made me think about therapy.
Clients often want clarity straight away—the map, the outcome, the “fix.” But like walking, the process doesn’t work like that. Sometimes the path isn’t clear. Sometimes it’s hard, repetitive, uncomfortable. But the task is the same: just keep going until things become a little clearer. Not perfectly, but steadily.
There are stretches that feel like walking into the wind. There are moments where the way forward isn’t obvious. But if you stay with it, something moves. The view opens up, often when you least expect it.
What struck me most was the relief of not having to think so much. Just being in motion, without constant reflection or pressure to “figure things out.”
That kind of gentle mindlessness is rare, and quietly restorative.
After three days, I stopped. My friends carried on.
And maybe that’s true in therapy too. We walk alongside people for part of their journey, not all of it. Long enough for them to find their footing, and trust that they can keep going on their own.
Because in the end, that’s the work. Just keep walking.