Refried Neurons

Today I met someone new. Lovely woman. We went for brunch — you know, overpriced eggs, overthought coffee — and conversation flowed like wine at a middle-class barbecue. She moved to London fifteen years ago and, by all accounts, adores it. Big fan of the city. But as we talked, it became abundantly clear that she doesn’t actually know London. Or England. Not really.

And she wasn’t even pretending otherwise. We were chatting about why we like living in the UK — and I start banging on about villages, coastal walks, hiking in what I lovingly call the “London countryside”, and she just looked at me like I’d started quoting Beowulf. In Old English.

Now, she’s not the first. Not by a long shot. I keep meeting people who’ve lived in London for years — some their whole lives — and they’ve never really left. Except for the airport. The world beyond Heathrow is, to them, a bit of a myth. Holidays are always in Ibiza, or Croatia, or anywhere with enough sun and cocktails to forget the rest of the year. And look, fine, I sort of get it. There’s an old Polish saying: “You praise the foreign, but you don’t know your own.” Too bloody right. My parents were born in one of Poland’s postcard regions. Proper tourist bait. National parks, forests, lakes — the works. And yet I’d bet my left hiking boot they couldn’t name a single trail. I doubt they’ve even set foot in the national park just 30km away. Holidays are never there. Always some “nicer” place. Warmer.

It’s the same with a lot of Londoners. And I wouldn’t even bet a cold chip on them knowing London itself, let alone the rest of the country. I had a session recently with a personal trainer — nice lad, parents moved here when he was one — so, a Londoner through and through. Works two miles from home. I said, “You know you can cycle to work along the river, right?” He blinked at me like I’d suggested taking a hovercraft to Mars. “What river?” he asked.

WHAT. RIVER.

The same one snaking its lazy, glorious way across half the bloody city, mate. Jesus wept. And then he moaned that London isn’t walkable. Mate, you’d have to be actively trying not to see it. On the other side of his daily metro line is a patch of green the size of a small country. Trees. Meadows. Woodland paths where you can walk 25 kilometres and barely touch pavement. But sure, “there’s nowhere to walk”.

The girl today — back to brunch — didn’t even know what Hampstead Heath was. I mean, seriously? That’s like living in New York and never hearing of Central Park. Okay, maybe not quite as criminal, but close enough to deserve a raised eyebrow and a sigh. In my world, anyway.

I get it though. We all use our own weird internal compass to measure what’s normal. I assume people know what I know. It’s daft. I’ve never been to the Saatchi Gallery. Never set foot in several museums, clubs, or whatever it is people queue outside at 11pm. But what gets me — really gets under my fleece — is when people say they love the outdoors, yet never once considered exploring it here. Not even in London, which, if you squint, is basically a city draped in parks and ancient footpaths.

That’s like being obsessed with modern art, moving to London, and never going to the Tate. Not once. Madness.

The UK is world-class at PR — castles, tea, Hugh Grant in a jumper — and yet somehow forgets to mention its greatest treasure: the countryside. Oddly, the rest of the world already knows it’s beautiful. Ask any woman on Pinterest what her dream home is, and nine out of ten will point to some ivy-covered English cottage without even knowing it’s English. It’s just aesthetic now.

And then I send someone a photo from a walk around London — not even the countryside, just London — and they’re shocked. Locals, mind you. Grown adults born and bred in the city, genuinely gobsmacked that there’s a forest five stops from the Tube.

Let’s take my patch. I don’t think I’ve ever lived more than five minutes from a park. My favourite walk? Hampstead to Highgate through the Heath — dappled sunlight, dogs everywhere, and the odd naked swimmer in the pond if you’re lucky. But my local’s pretty good too. The Dollis Brook flows about a kilometre from my flat. And you can walk for miles — miles, I tell you — to Totteridge, Mill Hill, or all the way to Hampstead without really touching a main road. It’s like stepping sideways out of London into a pocket universe where time runs slower and the birds still win arguments with traffic.

And don’t get me started on the coast. The England Coast Path — look it up — is set to be the longest managed coastal trail in the world. Six thousand kilometres once it’s done, winding around every bay, beach, cliff, and cove like a smug little ribbon. And it’s not a gentle Sunday stroll, either. It goes up and down like a yo-yo on a caffeine binge. But the views? They will make you weep. Beaches straight out of a fantasy novel. Villages with names that sound like a sneeze. Pub lunches. Fresh seafood. And yes, it’s windy. Yes, it’s usually cold. But that just makes that pint by the fire taste twice as good.

So, yeah. If you’re in London — or anywhere in Britain, really — and say you love the outdoors but haven’t explored what’s already here, I’ve got news for you. You’re missing out. And more than that — you don’t even know what you’re missing.