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Joe: My walking stick. I found my stick in Dartmoor two years ago, stuck in a huge dam of sticks and trees. I remember dragging back the small tree and hacking off all the little branches with my knife, then snapping it with a resounding crack. It took me ages to carve the top, slowly whittling it down until it was a perfectly smooth dome. I’ve whittled down the handle too so it fits to my hand. If I look at the end I see the crack where it got caught in a bridge at Corfe Castle. I love the wood under the bark. It’s amazingly smooth with no knots so my hand doesn’t rub on it. The only blemish is where I’ve burnt my name into it. I held a nail in a pair of pliers then heated it over the cooker and branded it on. Where my name is, the stick is burnt black but everywhere else it’s got brilliant swirling patterns in light brown. I’ve had other sticks but none have ever been as good as this. It’s amazingly light but extremely long. I’ve never got tired walking with it and nobody (even a tree expert) has been able to guess what type of wood it is. One once said the reason it was so light was because it was rotten, but it’s survived so many walks up and down mountains and across moors in drizzling rain (and very occasionally sunshine), I know it can’t be.
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