In which I go back to a place I used to work at a job I used to hate.

When I was in London in September, I spent some time visiting places that were significant to me when I lived there for six months in 1998. This post is about one of those places.

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In the morning, I took the tube to Liverpool station and discovered I knew the way: up the stairs, behind the shops, down the little alley, and there I was. Intuitively, I travelled the shortcut I had used every day I worked in this building, without even realizing I remembered it.

I hated that job. It was a temp job, working for a brokerage firm that doesn’t exist any more, answering phones, typing letters, doing the filing. I hated it – for a bunch of reasons – but I stuck with it for as long as I could, saving my precious pounds sterling (worth much more than a Canadian dollar, especially back in 1998) to go backpacking through Europe later that year.

It was not the right place for me and yet working there taught me so many useful things about myself and about what I wanted to do with my life.

One lesson in particular stayed with me: the knowledge that I want to work at something I find meaningful.

For me, that is NOT brokerage banking. I spent several months watching a few hundred people in a high-stress environment spend their days (and their evenings and their weekends) shifting money from one account to another in the hope of ending up with more money at the end of the transaction.

After months of watching traders ride the highs and lows of the stock market, I realized that money – although nice to have – was not the only motivating factor for me. Making money was not enough: I wanted to do something that created something or helped people or contributed to the world in some way… a train of thought that eventually led me to a career in public libraries.

When I revisited this building, Exchange House, in September, I sat on the steps in front of the fountain, where I used to eat lunch (the fountain has been filled in is and is a grassy stage now). I wrote in my journal and remembered the people I used to work with and some of the things that happened while I worked there. And suddenly, much to my surprise, I was grateful for that horrible job and that experience, because it helped me figure out what the right place for me is.

From September 2-10, 2014, a friend and I walked across England along the line of Hadrian’s Wall, from Wallsend in the east to Bowness-on-Solway in the west. We were not purists and skipped some less interesting parts of the path in favour of blistered feet (mine) or a side trip we wouldn’t have time for otherwise. Even so, we walked more than 100 km, and it was an amazing way to see this landscape.

Later, at home, I was telling someone about the experience and found myself talking about the joy of getting up and walking every day. How it felt strange on the tenth day to wake up and realize there was no walking to do, that all the miles were behind us.

I’ve been thinking about how to share the experience. I’m not sure I can, but I’m going to try, with the help of photos and a few brief words along the way.

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The walk started at the ruins of the Roman Segedunum, located at Wallsend.

Although most of the first day was spent walking through the city of Newcastle, we found ourselves on country lanes by the afternoon.

The second day began with this stretch of the wall. Note the modern road that runs alongside it.

We relished the solitude of quiet paths…

… and took time to notice small wonders.

See the spider webs beaded with morning dew?

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Our journey took us through farmland…

(Yes, there were sheep)

…across rivers…

…and over hills with magnificent views.

I especially loved this hill, shaped like a sleeping dragon:

We made new friends…

… and admired the countryside.

All the while, we followed in the footsteps of Roman troops 1800 years before.

The layers of history were perhaps most evident when we discovered these trees – likely hundreds of years old – growing on the remains of the Roman wall.

Then, nine days later, we found ourselves at the “official” end of the trail:

And then, as I mentioned before, came the morning where there was no walking to do, which felt strange and unfamiliar. I missed the routine I had become accustomed to, of putting one foot in front of the other, of the feel of turf and asphalt beneath my feet, the weight of my day-pack on my back.

Although we walked up to 15 miles a day, it was a slow way to travel, at least by modern standards — we could have rented a car and covered the same area easily in a few days. Yet with the slowness came depth, and tranquility, and peace — and those amazing views.