Heroes Walk Among Us

Does the popularity of superhero movies have something to do with a gap where we would expect or hope for moral and empathetic leadership? And what about the way the word ‘hero’ has been used recently? People like to say ‘You should never meet your heroes’, but seven years ago I did just that when I spent a day walking the South West Coast Path with Simon Armitage. I hope you enjoy it.

It was late summer, so it must have been August. One year earlier, at the London Olympics, heroes galore had emerged to thrill and unite the country. Grexit had entered the lexicon, but Brexit? The word didn’t exist because it was unthinkable. On a remote coastline not far from where Somerset gives way to Devon, Lynton car park was as deserted as you would expect at half past seven on any morning, even one during the long holiday. I sauntered along streets as empty as they would be in December. In seven years we would have all but left Europe and every town would be a ghost town from March to June. But for now, we could go wherever we wished, spend time with whomever we liked, and if we wanted and they let us we could shake hands with our heroes. We could meet up, converse, share food and walk together. A poet could invite people to join him on a journey and ask strangers to let him into their homes to use their spare bed for the night. The troubadour could read in village halls and pass a sock around so that he could pay for his supper. His audience could put cash in the sock, which had not been configured to process contactless transactions. We could be excited and inspired and we did not have to feel afraid about what might happen next.

I turned a corner onto Lee Road and spotted Southcliffe B&B on a row of three or four storey buildings that had probably been guest houses since the Victorians travelled to these parts on a long-forgotten branch line. How close should I wait? I had arrived over half an hour before the time given on the email, so I walked around the block and settled on a wall opposite. My thoughts wandered towards uncertainty: was this such a good idea; is anyone watching me; why is no one else waiting; and do I look like a stalker? I had met him before and I was confident I knew what he looked like, but I couldn’t get a view of the face of the man in the hat who strode purposefully through the gate, followed by a woman who was struggling to keep up. He was carrying some kind of wooden staff, which is what you would expect of a poet or wizard. Was this him? Was this Simon? I wanted to shout out, but my voice would echo and I’d wake the neighbourhood and draw attention to myself. I hitched up my backpack and followed.

During the 1990s, while working at Waterstone’s, I met a lot of my heroes. I chatted on a doorstep with a very patient and charismatic David Attenborough while we waited for his car to arrive; I talked football with Nick Hornby; and we were all charmed by Stephen Fry, who took a cigarette break on the roof of our bookshop with the woman who I would marry. Sean Hughes was troubled, but kind and quiet and I could sense his genius. The Two Fat Ladies (not my cup of tea: I don’t eat meat) provided the following quote for the local newspaper: ‘all vegetarians are bigots and fascists’ and Terry Pratchett was not happy when I took a break and left him alone with his public. A group of us made merry with Will Self in Sheffield’s All Bar One and we did the same, more than once, with Simon Armitage.

I remember Ian Botham taking long walks, with quite an entourage, when I was a teenager; Eddie Izzard ran his marathons; and there’s always a cycling challenge for Comic or Sport Relief. Perhaps the writers and artists of long ago who trekked across hills and moors and sought out paths along rivers and coasts were the heroes of their day. But while everyone knew about Wordsworth’s wanderings and kept up with Byron’s adventures, I don’t remember poets making much of an impression on the news back in 2013. Writing is a solitary and sometimes lonely pursuit and perhaps that’s why I have always been fascinated by writers and poets in particular. My mum loves poetry and she passed that on to me. I thought of poets as enigmas: naked and exposed in word, but untouchable at the same time. Thirty years ago, inspired by a poem which seemed to speak directly to my recently broken heart, I wrote to Roger McGough and received a hand-written reply. I still have it somewhere. I went to readings, but never took the opportunity to say more than a quick hello. What would I have to say to someone like that? But Waterstone’s changed all that, because I had to entertain and accommodate visiting writers. Who knew they were human, with foibles and fears like the rest of us? They were ordinary people, not heroes.

Still, my heart pounded and my nerves jangled as I chased the man in the hat down the road. Part of me hoped I had missed him and this was just another walker heading out for a day on the South West Coast Path. But as he stopped in front of a group of four people who looked as excited and uneasy as I felt, I recognised first the voice and then the face. I took a deep breath and joined the gang. I don’t remember the introductions and I don’t recall if he remembered having met me, but Simon and his wife Sue (joining him for this stretch of the odyssey) were as charming and welcoming as I had hoped. Only two of us, apart from Simon and Sue, were intending to walk the whole thirteen and a half miles. I was the only one who had completed the walk before and therefore knew the way: it felt good to be useful; and more than that, my involvement seemed validated and it was possible that I could enjoy this experience without making a fool of myself. Assuming I didn’t get us lost.

What possesses a person to rise two hours before dawn to drive across Somerset in order to walk a stretch of the Exmoor coast with a group of strangers, get a ride to pick up their car and return to the ending point of the walk for a poetry reading and a night in the village they had left months earlier? It wasn’t the gruelling hike, even though it was satisfying in a challenge-well-met sort of way; and it wasn’t a desire to meet strangers. The reason is a simple one and it’s why people camp out in front of hotels or concert venues; it’s why people hang around at stage doors; and it might be why Twitter is so appealing. We want to meet our heroes.

We settled into a steady pace and broke into small groups. Members of walking clubs will recognise the format. You move from group to group as conversations flare and burn out. You fall in with whoever is walking at your pace. You look back impatiently when you’re at the front and when you’re lagging behind you wonder why everyone else can move so fast. This day was different though, because everyone wanted to talk to Simon. We were all there to walk in the footsteps of or alongside a literary giant. We had an opportunity to breathe the same air and share a picnic (well, a packed lunch) with our hero. In our own way, we were taking part in something that would become history, since Simon was writing a book about it. We were doing something for the hell of it, and in my experience poetry fans don’t do a great deal for the hell of it. We are quiet, admiring and circumspect. We are the sort of people who like the idea of talking to our heroes, but when push comes to shove, we’re too shy to do so. Well, there were no hiding places on Exmoor.

You hear a lot about heroes these days and you are never far from one. Hollywood has created and continues to feed an obsession with daredevils, swashbucklers and immortals. Governments have got in on the act too. In this frustratingly binary age, there are heroes and there is everyone else. For me, this is needlessly reductive and furthermore I fear it provides us with a convenient get out: I couldn’t possibly make a difference; only Gods can save and change lives; I’m not good enough, so I won’t try. No one needs reminding of the recent narrative around heroes and while I understand why it came about, I think it’s time to move beyond it. What is an act of heroism but an ordinary person taking extraordinary action in an exceptional moment? No one is born to that and many of us will never have to face that singular instant when we can freeze or push on, but I suspect the ‘heroes’ are those who don’t give it too much thought and try their best to do what needs to be done. It’s not so out of the ordinary when you put it like that.

During our hike, we chatted about life, work, holidays, books, films, friends and acquaintances we had in common. I told Simon the story of and showed him the spot where I came across a stag’s head spiked on top of a signpost. He told me about a Greek boat owner who welcomed the Armitage family onto his ship every summer. He spoke about poetry, readings, the publishing industry and many of the things a budding writer would want to hear about. With our group whittled down to four, I pointed out landmarks and scenery of note, promised flat stretches after long, tough hills and told a few stories about Combe Martin, our destination. I spent time walking and chatting with Sue, a radio producer, who, like her husband, was just as interesting as she was interested in me and who was wonderful company. The fourth member of the group, my fellow fan boy, was John, a charming school teacher who had cycled over three hundred miles from Norwich to walk with his hero. John covered the thirteen and a half miles with his panniers slung over his shoulder as though he did so every day. I suppose we were a strange mix of people, but that’s life, isn’t it? We get thrown together at random and we make the best of it. We communicate with the people around us and when we do so we discover they are more or less like us. Even our heroes.

I’m confident that the current Poet Laureate would never want to be described as a hero. What I learned while we walked was that he is someone who does his job to the best of his ability. He is dedicated and professional. He is passionate about what he does. He is a dreamer. He examines and explores. He takes journeys and records what he sees and learns and how he feels about it. You could do it; so could I; and so we should. When I look back on that day, the moment I remember with greatest clarity is when Simon turned to me and asked ‘What about you Rob, do you write at all?’ This was the moment for me to confess and admit my dreams, to let the genie out of the lamp and to give myself permission to follow in the footsteps of the man with whom I had been walking on equal terms. I shook my head and said ‘No’. The moment passed and we moved on. Three more summers would pass before I found the courage to pick up a pen and write.