Want a new outlook on life? Watch the bees

Tracking Back: In the latest in his series of reflections on places and pathways, Will Gore wonders whether miles matter when we measure our steps

‘Each was going about its own business, seemingly ignorant of the many competitors for the hebe’s pollen’ (AFP)

Distance offers perspective, but less so when it is an obsession.

Family holidays began to revolve around hiking before I even noticed it: walks led to rivers we boys could splash in; or rocky outcrops where we could pretend to be soldiers. But it wasn’t long before the walking became an end in itself.

Thereafter, mileage became crucial. Height was of interest too – and could just about excuse a lesser distance covered – but miles ruled. Any walk under seven was disregarded as being almost an embarrassment. If we ever did a three-mile jaunt along a valley it had to considered as a rest day, useful only in the final vacation tally.

Likewise, when we climbed mountains, views were examined not only aesthetically but in terms of how far we could see. If, on a clear day, you could make out the mountains of Snowdonia from the summit of Scafell Pike, then it was if you somehow had mastery of them too, and everything in between: distance equalled power.

Things change though.

I noticed it first when walking out from Loch Ossion’s isolated youth hostel, to Dalwhinnie station via Ben Alder and Loch Ericht. The day began wet and the walking was tough, but exhilarating, views shifting in the gloom. By the time we reached the loch the clouds had cleared and as we trudged along the dull track just above the shoreline it became ever hotter.

With seven miles still to walk, I realised I didn’t want to do them. If that meant a less impressive mileage, who cared: after all, it was only of interest to me anyway. When a forestry worker came bumping along in a battered Landrover and offered us a lift, we accepted gladly. It did not feel like defeat.

Last week, after a stifling day in London, I arrived home and went into the garden. I walked through our tiny patio, past the kitchen window and up the eight steps – their mortar crumbling – to the patch of moss- and daisy-filled grass which lies at the garden’s peak.

I sat on the low wall and gazed at the large hebe which was here before we were and which was in its fullest bloom, purple flowers, some fading to white, arranged in pointed inflorescence. Bees of many varieties were massing on it: common carders, white-tailed bumbles, honey bees in droves, and what looked like a few masons and tree bumblebees.

Each was going about its own business, seemingly ignorant of the many competitors for the hebe’s pollen: there was, I suppose, plenty to go around. From time to time, one would disappear, another arriving as if from nowhere. Some of the honey bees must have come from the nest in next door’s chimney, where a colony has lived happily for at least the decade we’ve been in residence.

So much to look at, and so much life, in such a small vista; and reached after a walk of no more than 10 yards.

As we age perhaps our horizons narrow – but we may see better what is right in front of our eyes; and we may also realise that perspective can be gained from a distance that has nothing to do with how far we travel.