Can Harry and Meghan escape from the need to feel consequential?

In the latest in his series of reflections about place and pathway, Will Gore finds comfort in communion with his surroundings

A simple brick wall helped a young Will find joy in life’s minutiae (iStock)

I suppose there are times when we all feel a bit isolated. Not lonely, necessarily, although of course the two can go hand in hand. Indeed, a sense of remoteness doesn’t always require an absence of physical proximity to other people. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the present royal rumble, perhaps that is how Harry and Meghan feel right now.

When I was a little boy, maybe five or six, shyness occasionally begat detachment. I don’t recall ever feeling particularly sad about it, but I certainly remember periods when I spent playground breaks largely on my own. To occupy myself I would make slow circuits, just looking at the minutiae of the place.

The school was not large – it only housed three year groups, so probably there were 160 pupils or so in all. School buildings bordered two sides of the playground; on another was a flint wall, over which was the graveyard of the next-door church; and along the last side was a wall of weathered red brick, which demarked the boundary of a neighbouring home.

A public footpath ran alongside that wall, through the playground itself, so from time to time villagers would wander through, sometimes stopping to chat with the kids. (Needless to say, things have changed since those days and a fence now keeps schoolchildren and passersby apart.) On my perambulations I sought out treasures: smooth stones, dried moss, or twigs that could be stripped of their bark to reveal the silky white wood within. Sometimes, random bits of string might be found, and occasionally a button.

But it was the red brick wall that I returned to most often and which would often cause me to pause my wandering. Its russet hue was comforting; on sunny days it would become physically warm. It was very old and was pockmarked with the indentations of generations of infant fingers, which had gleefully rubbed smooth hollows into the brickwork.

I carried on the handiwork of my predecessors, running my small hands across the rough mortar and enlarging the craters in the clay bricks. Some were so deep that you could reach in a good couple of centimetres. I happily lost myself in those depressions.

These memories came to mind this week when I saw a picture that had been posted to Twitter by the writer and fell farmer, James Rebanks. It showed a dry stone wall in close up, covered with lichen and moss – the kind of picture you could gaze at for ages; the kind of wall you would want to explore with your eyes and hands, or lean against gently on a summer’s day – a manmade structure that nonetheless has been brought to life by the organisms which have made it their home.

After all, once we acknowledge our inconsequentiality, it becomes a much easier thing to come to terms with

Why do people find comfort in such small things? There is an argument that it allows us to feel mastery over our surroundings. A small boy who can reach inside a solid brick, or who can keep ladybirds in a jam jar is suddenly in control of a tiny world. When I lean against an ancient wall, or a tree, or paddle in a stream do I feel that I have somehow conquered something?

I’m not convinced by that notion. Seeking out and taking comfort from the minute details of our surroundings is not about control but rather communion, about understanding – and really feeling – our connections to everything that goes on around us. Frankly, it should be a way to ground our ego, not expand it. After all, once we acknowledge our inconsequentiality, it becomes a much easier thing to come to terms with; and to see as a means of release, rather than a cause of despair.

I wonder if Harry and Meghan can appreciate that?