Yesterday - the Unintended path

The Unintended Paths


Yesterday, my intention had been to go to the Naturist Foundation. I had already booked and paid. The plan was simple — swimming, a woodland walk, time to sit, eat, and just be.

The weather, however, was misty and murky, with no real sign of sunshine. I felt a quiet apprehension about going, though part of the intention was also to meet others — people who might be similar to me. The Foundation is one of the few places where I can be myself without fear of judgement. Still, there was a nagging feeling sitting underneath it all.

When I called ahead, I found out the swimming pool was out of commission, and the café was closed. That shifted things immediately. No swim, no food unless I brought it myself, and with the weather as it was, the options felt limited. The woodland walk there is short — perhaps twenty minutes — and suddenly the whole day felt diminished.

So I took it as a sign. Not resistance, but redirection. This was not the time to go.

Instead, I returned to Park Wood near Hailsham. I wanted to gather some fallen branches for my sanctuary space, and also to explore the woods in quieter conditions. When I arrived, there were a few people about, but not many. Within ten minutes of leaving the main path, I was able to walk barefoot and naked without encountering anyone.

The woods in the mist held a different presence — softer, more concealed, almost veiled. The air hung between the trees, and the ground beneath my feet was damp and forgiving. Not muddy, but soft enough to absorb each step, cool to the touch. There is something about that contact — direct, unfiltered — that changes how you move, how you think, how you are.

I hadn’t planned for a walk, so I hadn’t brought my flutes or my staff. Walking without my staff felt strange — freer in one sense, but also like something of me was missing. It has become more than an object; it is a companion, a symbol, a part of how I move through the woods. But perhaps that absence was part of the lesson too. Not everything needs to be carried all the time.

I explored the ghyll further, drawn as always to the water. It looked cool and inviting, though I didn’t find anywhere deep enough for a proper dip. That may come with more exploration. I passed a couple of men on the path, but stayed present and continued walking. Nothing was said. Increasingly, that seems to be the pattern — either silence, or something neutral, even positive.

I walked for over an hour, barefoot and naked the entire time. There comes a point where the awareness of clothing disappears completely, where the body simply exists as part of the environment rather than something separate from it. That state — relaxed, grounded, unguarded — is difficult to describe, but unmistakable when it arrives.

And yet, there is still that quiet question that lingers. Why do I never see others out like this? Not necessarily naked, but barefoot, still, present. Sitting in the woods, not just passing through them. There remains that small hope — perhaps even a fantasy — that one day I will simply cross paths with someone who understands, and that recognition will happen without effort. But not yet.

On the way back, I gathered ten fallen branches — all groundfall, already shed or cut. These will become part of the structure in my garden sanctuary. Carrying them felt purposeful, a physical extension of the walk itself.

Further along, I encountered the same two men again. This time one of them commented — not on the nakedness, but on my bare feet. “Your feet must be tough,” he said. I replied simply that you get used to it. Which is true, though not in the way people think. The skin doesn’t become thick and hardened; instead, the body adapts. The mind recalibrates. The foot begins to read the ground in a way that becomes almost subconscious. There are still things that catch me out — sweet chestnut husks being the prime example — but overall, it becomes easier, more natural.

Barefoot walking also slows you down. It resists the urge to rush from A to B. For many, walking is about distance, speed, completion. For me, it is about presence.

That thought stayed with me as I walked. Most people keep to the main paths — the maintained, predictable routes. Few step beyond them. It felt like a reflection of something wider. The tendency to stay within what is known, what is accepted, what is easy. To follow rather than explore.

I tend to wander off those paths — onto deer tracks, into the less defined spaces. There are risks in that. The occasional thorn, uneven ground, uncertainty. But over time, the body adjusts, and the woods become familiar in a deeper way. Not just seen, but known. Mapped internally. Their patterns, their rhythms, their quiet pathways becoming part of me.

The trade-off, perhaps, is that you meet fewer people out there.

Turning a corner on the way back, I almost walked straight into another man. There was no time to reach for my wrap. He simply smiled and said, “Well, there’s a first time for everything — first time I’ve seen that,” and carried on. Another neutral, even positive, encounter.

It made me question whether my expectation of negative reactions has been overestimated. Each of these moments seems to shift that perception slightly, making me feel more at ease, more open, perhaps even more emboldened.

Further on, I passed two women with a large group of dogs — easily ten of them, running freely. The quiet of the woods fractured instantly. Given I was nearing the car park anyway, it felt like a natural point to leave. That sense came again — not forced, just recognised. Time to go.

I had lunch in the car. A simple ham and cheese sandwich, crisps, coffee, and a piece of chocolate. Nothing elaborate, but deeply satisfying after the walk.

From there, I drove to Abbotts Wood. It tends to be quieter, and that proved true. Again, within ten minutes, the paths emptied, and I was able to continue as before — barefoot, naked, unobserved.

This time, the sun had broken through. Sheltered from the wind, the warmth settled into the woods, bringing a different energy altogether. I walked my usual route — around two hours — without seeing anyone.

In the distance, I could hear forestry machinery. A reminder that the woods are not static — they are worked, changed, shaped. There was a sense of loss in that, but also an understanding. Clearance creates space. What looks like disruption also makes way for renewal.

At one point, I found a clearing surrounded by tall pines. The ground was thick with soft moss, the air alive with birdsong, and sunlight filtered through in shifting patterns. I laid out my wrap and lay down. Sleep came easily.

I woke to a strange sensation — a tingling in my groin. A group of wood ants had found me, and one had latched onto my scrotum. Not painful, just… unexpected. I couldn’t help but laugh. It struck me as one of those uniquely specific experiences that very few people are likely to share.

There was no annoyance in it. I was in their space. I removed the ant and watched the others move about, clearly disturbed by this sudden intrusion. It felt only fair to move on.

From there, I made my way back to the car, again able to walk freely until the final stretch. Then home, dinner, and a quiet evening.

Yesterday didn’t go how I had planned. But looking back, it felt more aligned than if it had. What began as hesitation became clarity, and what felt like a missed opportunity became something deeper, quieter, and more my own. Perhaps not finding others out there is part of it too — learning to be fully at ease in my own presence first, without needing it to be mirrored. It feels like I am beginning to trust that quiet redirection more, that subtle shift away from what was planned and towards what is needed. The connection is there, just not always in the way I expect it to be.