I’m out here again, tracing a familiar loop around Southam. It’s one of my most frequented walking trails—a three-mile circuit I can almost navigate with my eyes closed. But today, I’m taking it in with new eyes, and maybe with a new purpose. Walking, which has always been a part of me, has taken on a fresh dimension. It’s something more than exercise, more than a commute from Point A to Point B. This walk has become an art practice.

What does it mean, though, to walk as art? It’s a question that’s been unfolding with every step. Walking art, the *dérive*, the drift, is not about getting anywhere in particular. It’s about moving with the currents of intuition, letting each step be guided by the whims of attention. Unlike a prescribed path, this is a walk of curiosity, of following whatever catches the eye, of dipping down alleys and paths I’ve never travelled before. 

For many people, walking has become utilitarian. We move from inside space to inside space, getting from the warmth of home to the shelter of the office, rarely taking time to simply wander. But the dérive is different. It’s about embracing the unknown, treating the landscape as a series of invitations. Each turn, each stretch of path, becomes a chapter in the unfolding story of where I’m meant to go, if only for this one walk.  

I love the psychogeography of it all—feeling into the energy of the places I pass, picking up on the echoes and vibes embedded in the spaces around me. This track I’m on, for instance, is a beloved one among local dog walkers, an afternoon stroll kind of path, a “let’s go get some fresh air” path. But I use it as my thinking circuit, my field for mental wanderings. Here, I work out what’s on my mind, let the rhythm of my footsteps lull me into reflection. This is no ordinary walk; it’s a drift into the landscape of my thoughts.

Today, my thoughts centre around this emerging practice of “walking as art.” There’s something about movement that transcends simply getting from place to place. Walking, I have found, engages mind, body, and spirit all at once. In one walk, I can clear the mental cobwebs, reflect on what’s stirring in my soul, and feel the physical satisfaction of moving through space, of encountering the world one step at a time. 

The idea of walking as art has opened up a new way of seeing each journey as an unfolding creation. It reminds me of performance art—the act itself is the art, and the trail becomes my canvas. I don’t need a destination. I only need to move, to engage with the environment around me, to let my feet lead me where they will. And because it’s a practice, I’ve decided to bring a few tools with me to capture these moments and deepen my experience. 

I have my trusty field recorder, the F2 Bluetooth from Zoom, which is just small enough to slip into my pocket. Its simplicity frees me from worrying about sound levels and lets me capture the experience of the walk hands-free. Alongside it, I’ve got my Meta Ray-Ban glasses to take photos and videos, capturing the landscape from my own vantage point. I also have my Insta360 Go, a small action camera that’s perfect for documenting my wanderings, and, of course, my iPhone. Each of these tools becomes part of the process, helping me document the walk as it unfolds.  

And in some way, these tools feel essential to the practice. They create a conduit for capturing, documenting, and reflecting on the act of walking, helping me map out the journey in new ways. I’m also using an app called Track My Journey that allows me to geotag locations, letting the journey unfold as a kind of interactive map. Along the way, I find myself capturing small details—a decrepit shed that has seen better days, the thick hoofprints of cows that have passed by. These are the things that catch my attention today—the little landmarks of this journey.

One of my favourite stops is the ancient Holy Well here in Southam, a Grade II listed building that carries its own lore and mystery. Legend has it that the well can cure blindness, and I’m struck by the idea of sight—of seeing and being seen, of recognising what we overlook in the world around us. The well has stood here for centuries, since 1761, inviting wanderers like myself to stop and feel into its presence. There’s something profound in these pauses, in seeing the landscape not as a series of tasks to accomplish but as a place to engage with fully.

I suppose this is what walking art offers me: a chance to be in motion yet rooted, a way to tune into both the outer world and my inner landscape. As I walk, my mind drifts. I think about the new life I’m trying to create here, the life where walking itself is an art practice in and of itself, where each step becomes a meditative act, a small way to weave mind, body, and spirit together. This art of walking feels like it holds everything—thought, movement, memory, and place.

In one sense, this whole process has brought me back to my blog, my digital garden at [soulcruzer.com](https://www.soulcruzer.com/). It’s there that I intend to capture this journey, to record my thoughts and experiences, to make this walking practice part of my work, my story. And I’ve come to realise that it’s a practice of tapping into the psyche, exploring our inner world as much as our outer one. I’ve stumbled upon a couple of books lately that have been helpful—Walking as an Art Practice and another on Mythogeography that’s a little more out there, but both point me toward this idea that walking can be an act of self-discovery, a way to understand who we are and how we’re shaped by the spaces we inhabit.

As I walk, I feel myself letting go of productivity, letting go of the need to measure every moment against what it could achieve. In this act of walking as art, time becomes something fluid, expansive, and filled with possibility. I don’t need to reach a destination because, here, the journey itself is enough.  

So here I am, walking through this patch of muddy track I know so well, thinking of all the hundreds of times I’ve walked this path, each time with something new on my mind. If I could capture each of those moments and create a time-lapse of all the thoughts that have surfaced on this loop, it would be pretty cool. And maybe, in some way, that’s exactly what I’m doing now—mapping out the inner geography of my life, one step, one thought at a time. 

For me, walking has become a reminder that we don’t need to be in a hurry and that sometimes the greatest discoveries come when we let the journey be its own kind of destination. This practice of walking art isn’t about productivity or perfection; it’s about honouring the path itself, letting each step create its own small story, adding another brushstroke to the art of being alive.