If a Kit Kat is for the office, then mountains taste of Mars
In the latest in his series, Will Gore reflects on the flavours of places and pathways
What does a walk taste like?
It might depend on the weather. Dry heat, baking fiercely on Dolomitic limestone, has a metallic tang: salt and rock and no oxygen to spare. Autumnal East Anglian mist is damp blanket and soil: flavours at once stifling and yet muffled. Mist in a northern pine forest is altogether different again: like drinking Christmas, but without the anticipated warmth of the festive season.
There are other things that tickle the taste buds unasked: the peaty detritus left smeared across your face after a full-length slide off a wet pathway; blood sucked from fingers left mutilated by an ill-placed grab at what turns out to be a thick-as-your arm bramble. Not all flavours are imposed by external forces or missteps, though.