hilst
enjoying some awfully nice fish and chips in Robin Hood’s
Bay, I first learned of Wainwright's coast-to-coast walk. Ever since that
day, I have often thought what a great experience it would be.
As an American, I find the way in which one can travel freely
crisscrossing the British countryside an incredibly liberating
privilege. Whilst living in London, as a music student and later
as a young professional, the task of fitting in the two-week
walk seemed an impossibility as far as my schedule was concerned.
It was not until later, by accident, that I found a way to incorporate
the walk into the very fibre of my relationship with Schubert’s
song cycle Die Winterreise (the Winter’s Journey). My girlfriend
and I were walking through some of the greener areas of North
London when she had the idea that I do a walking tour of the
cycle. Seeing as how the protagonist of the cycle is a lovesick
wanderer travelling by foot through the depths of winter, what
better way to get into character than—through means of
method acting—becoming a winter wanderer. It was easy to
see that the canvas on which the journey was to be painted should
be the coast-to-coast walk—casting aside the possibility
of a pleasant walking holiday in June and turning it into a nightmare
journey in January. The worse the weather, the better the performance…or
so the hope goes. Details of the plan for the journey would later
develop that I should have no contact with the out side world
apart from my (thirteen) performances and that in order to ensure
this solitary aspect of the journey I should retire every night
to the confines of a small caravan. As the idea took firmer shape,
I realised that this event was well worth documenting. Thus I
came to the conclusion that my only companion for the journey
should be a film camera that would capture a vivid portrayal
of my lonely travels. I was then fortunate enough to be introduced
to Tom Pollock a film director who was very enthusiastic to take
on the project…and so the journey is set in motion.
hilst
enjoying some awfully nice fish and chips in Robin Hood’s
Bay, I first learned of Wainwright's coast-to-coast walk. Ever since that
day, I have often thought what a great experience it would be.
As an American, I find the way in which one can travel freely
crisscrossing the British countryside an incredibly liberating
privilege. Whilst living in London, as a music student and later
as a young professional, the task of fitting in the two-week
walk seemed an impossibility as far as my schedule was concerned.
It was not until later, by accident, that I found a way to incorporate
the walk into the very fibre of my relationship with Schubert’s
song cycle Die Winterreise (the Winter’s Journey). My girlfriend
and I were walking through some of the greener areas of North
London when she had the idea that I do a walking tour of the
cycle. Seeing as how the protagonist of the cycle is a lovesick
wanderer travelling by foot through the depths of winter, what
better way to get into character than—through means of
method acting—becoming a winter wanderer. It was easy to
see that the canvas on which the journey was to be painted should
be the coast-to-coast walk—casting aside the possibility
of a pleasant walking holiday in June and turning it into a nightmare
journey in January. The worse the weather, the better the performance…or
so the hope goes. Details of the plan for the journey would later
develop that I should have no contact with the out side world
apart from my (thirteen) performances and that in order to ensure
this solitary aspect of the journey I should retire every night
to the confines of a small caravan. As the idea took firmer shape,
I realised that this event was well worth documenting. Thus I
came to the conclusion that my only companion for the journey
should be a film camera that would capture a vivid portrayal
of my lonely travels. I was then fortunate enough to be introduced
to Tom Pollock a film director who was very enthusiastic to take
on the project…and so the journey is set in motion.