One of the rediscovered texts of J.L. Borges, concerning the poetic currents of Buenos Aires, states in one chapter: "School of well-practised sunsets or of walks toward the north-east". The subtle irony of the definition says much about the danger of reflecting and writing on certain subjects: it is easy to slip into the blatant sentimentalism that busies itself with reflections on "walking", especially when one does so from an angle entirely foreign to the sporting or health-related one, which here finds no place. On the other hand, it is a comfort to know that Borges then states: "this classification, as one can see, leads nowhere", whereas we, by contrast, would like to lead somewhere, or to one of the thousand somewheres that the act of walking undoubtedly entails.
Walking, this simple and natural gesture, in the city or in the countryside, occasional or methodical, expresses in itself an affirmation of presence, a sign of choice and opposition, an individual and collective way of marking out values and experiences.
Lastly, it is always a powerful metaphor too, because it dilates time and space, giving manifold possibilities of observation, of mental and psychological digression; a real experience that draws on concreteness and imagination, sensation and perception.
In one of the finest short stories of the twentieth century, "The Walk", Robert Walser, speaking in the first person, begins by leaving the house and by describing the route and the encounters, as though the beginning of the walk and of the writing were simultaneous.
This device, not even so very hidden, since the spoken style is strongly marked by a formal grace, by a conscious and reasoned detachment, makes plain one of the strongest meanings of going on foot: a way of being in the world, of representing it and of establishing a contact, no matter how lasting and tenacious, because the spontaneity of the step, its naturalness, even an aimless wandering, always leads to a belonging; a centring, one would say today, achieved through observation, attention and surprise.
Even the tiredness that slackens one's pace leads to something interesting: a distraction that recalls the mirror-form of attraction, because in walking one does not escape the thousand details of the landscape, and everything presents itself with a discreet clarity, offered at the right time, at the pace of our perception. And if attention is then turned upon ourselves, then everything around us flows by, silent but not invisible.
When a friend of Walser's, almost every Sunday, would go to visit him at the asylum in Herisau in the last period of his life, and the two would then set off on foot for the whole day, roaming the region of Appenzell, with pleasant stops in the taverns, the destination was seen rather as a means than as an end, a pretext for enjoying the freedom of wandering, in which memories, encounters and literary images accompanied the conversation between the two friends; and Walser, walking vigorously, reaffirmed with his steps his experiences of life and of writing.
Indeed, not only are "women's legs compasses that draw the world", but going on foot defines a way of being in the world and of experiencing it. An active form of meditation that engages all the senses and allows one to perceive one's own existence in a simple way, in a direct and slow relationship with everything that surrounds us. A quiet form that leaves behind the cars and the frenzies of working and holiday time, the other face of the "productive" lifestyle; walking is a simple and quiet way of reinventing time and space, a way of bringing their immensity back to the dimensions of the body, to the rhythm of the step, to the need for pause and contemplation.
The gait becomes a great mixer of memories, thoughts and sensations for those who immerse themselves in things, observe and listen, and the complexity and importance of the place does not matter, because the "detail" within a person's reach always offers so many possibilities in relation to the light, the season, the disposition of the one who looks.
This changes one's relationship with others. To see a person means to draw near to them, and even if our habits of anonymity persist, a crack is nonetheless felt when a route is habitually shared or an encounter takes place in the solitude of remote spots; each person appears unique: "the neighbour", even if only for a moment; "the visitor", even if just passing through.
Someone has said that a walk is not necessarily the prisoner of a vast geography; it can also be accomplished over small distances and spaces, because what matters most is the quality of the lived experience. To close the door behind oneself, to go out deliberately ignoring the mechanical means of reaching a place or seeking it, means a choice for which distance and duration have no particular importance, one that bears rather on the definition of "journey"; a journey certainly implies a geographical space, but not in a single sense, the inner journey being a journey too and, as we know, duration and distance may in this sense prove uncertain.
If we were to formulate a lexicon of the subject: to walk, to make a pilgrimage, to wander, to stroll, well, we might discover infinite possibilities and nuances, reading into going on foot a way of "working at the mystery of the world", of knowing it in order to change it and to change ourselves in mutual harmony.
All this is perhaps a source of nostalgia, of something lost and forever sought; every small or great journey, step after step, discovery and abandonment, forgetting and rediscovery, turns out to be the effect of the "awareness of the estrangement from nature that technical progress has induced in the life of man, and an attempt to restore the balance through artificial reconnections"; so wrote Massimo Mila, musicologist and mountaineer, who recovers the custom of the "return to nature", speaking with regard to certain musical works of the twentieth century.
Aware of the distance or not, observing the succession of faces shut up in cars, dulled or enraged, those hurried figures of shopping and errands, resigned to the loss and the condemnation of time, the conviction of how much the choice to go on foot is worth appears strongly.

"One can come to know a landscape truly only on foot. To measure distances on foot! That is why I travel on foot all the decisive routes of my life… and the distance does not matter"

W. Herzog

In walking, the labyrinth of the world and of the mind traces the best path.

A few places, among the many, from which to set out in the daily gesture of closing the door behind oneself:

Perugia: in the historic city, using the network of alleys and stairways, guided by glimpses of gardens and vegetable plots, cobweb-like walks that can be taken up from any district or quarter. Since there must always be a beginning, well, one sets off from the Giardino del Frontone, which looks out over the valle del Tevere and takes us, perhaps by way of via del Cortone, to the Ripa di Meana; almost immediately after, the Parco Villa Massari toward Monteluce. At the top the walls and via S. Antonio, but along the pedestrian path that offers views of many peaks of the Appennino in the changing garb of the seasons. Then from the Bulagaio, the recovered route to Parco S. Angelo, and we are at the Tempio S. Angelo, at the Torre and Monastero di Monteripido. Along the tree-lined via delle Mura and Piazza dell'Università with its gardens, toward S. Francesco al Prato, where here we find one last little corner of rural flavour: salita S. Sebastiano, which leads to the centre, to the Rocca Paolina, Porta Marzia and finally Borgo XX Giugno, to close the geometry of the route and of the elegant garden.

Gubbio: how many possibilities this "vertical" city offers on the slopes of monte Ingino! One need only pass through the Parco Ranghiasci and lose oneself there, or cross the threshold of one of the ancient gates, and then climb the hairpin bends toward S. Ubaldo. Less well known, from the S. Martino district, is the steep little lane that leads discreetly to the eremo di S. Ambrogio, clinging to the crag of the gola del Bottaccione, from which one may read the weave of the roofs, towers and walls of the city.

Spoleto: a city from which to step out directly into the woods across the Ponte delle Torri, along a kind of ledge that climbs the whole of the Valcieca, rich in vegetation and waters, as far as Castelmonte, a spot that opens onto the mountains of the Terni side; it is an ancient and direct path for descending into the Valnerina. From here to Monteluco, and then beside the Franciscan convent, down through the holm-oak wood, passing in front of evocative historic villas immersed in the scrub, until the return, right in front of the Ponte delle Torri.

Orvieto: the Percorso della Rupe, perhaps setting out from the necropoli del Crocifisso del Tufo, which allows one to enter into the evocative power of the Etruscans' symbolic relationship between the upper and the lower world, in contact with the skewed masses of the warm-coloured rock. The route is of course circular, and so too is the view over the Orvieto basin, between openings onto the horizon and nearby wooded slopes.

"It matters little to know how to find one's way in a city; but to lose oneself, as one loses oneself in a wood, requires an apprenticeship"

W. Benjamin

Losing oneself brings the labyrinth to mind, a going in every direction, opening infinite possibilities that always lead back to ourselves, because the journey on foot is the most internalised, the one in which elemental man is reborn.

Angela Margaritelli works at the Centro Studi of the Teatro Stabile dell'Umbria. An expert in the performing arts, she has long been engaged in the promotion and dissemination of art and culture.