There is a speed at which a place starts to speak. Below it, you only pass through. Above it, you never notice it was there at all.

Walking finds that speed without trying. The path decides the pace, the weather decides the rest, and the mind follows a little behind.

On the third day, the lists stop. You no longer count the kilometres or the hours. You count the colours of the moss, then you stop counting those too.

A town seen on foot is a different town. You learn where the bread comes from, which café opens first, and which bench is warm at four.

None of this is efficient. That is the point. Attention is not something you save; it is something you spend, slowly, on purpose.

When we came back, the city looked the same. We did not. For a week, we walked everywhere, and arrived everywhere a little late.