From the FFS Archives
The following account was recovered from an undated field report submitted to the Society after a routine walk in the Vale of Wardour. It is reproduced here in full, with only minor edits for clarity and the removal of one entirely unhelpful sketch attributed to Geoff.
Particular attention is drawn to the accompanying Notes for Walkers, which have since been circulated in various forms and are, for reasons that will become apparent, best taken seriously.
The Footpath Inspector
Our small FFS group, out on a casual ramble in the Vale of Wardour using a tried and tested route, unexpectedly came upon a man waiting by a stile.
One moment there was only the stile, and the next there he was, standing in front of it. No one saw where he came from, though his hi-vis jacket made him hard to miss. He watched us approach, glancing occasionally at a clipboard in his hand in a manner that implied it might bite him if he didn’t keep an eye on it.
“You’ll not go further,” he said, sharp and certain, like a man calling dogs to heel. “This path isn’t open yet.”
We laughed because that is what FFS members do when confronted with unexpected authority: we assume it is some sort of attempt at humour.
Sylvia, the walk leader on this occasion, pointed out that we’d walked it many times.
“It’s 47B,” he went on, tapping his board with a pencil. “Too many of you using it before clearance. You’ll draw notice if you carry on.”
“Notice from who?” Sylvia asked.
At that, he leant forward sightly and glanced furtively from side to side.
“From what follows paths,” he said.
Mad Geoff perked up at this.
“Too many crossings,” the man muttered, marking something on his page. “Too much activity before clearance. That’s how they find purchase.”
“Who?” Sylvia asked again, patiently determined to get a proper answer.
This time, he did not reply at once, just looked at his clipboard as if hoping it might provide a less alarming explanation.
When he looked up, he had the face of a man with a burden long kept in check.
“The ones that take to paths that aren’t theirs,” he said at last. “The ones that wait for a way through. The path’s not safe. They’re not safe. We call them…”
He paused, glanced behind him, and lowered his voice.
“Shadow-walkers.”
This should have been accompanied by a sudden thunderclap or a horse whinnying in the distance. Sadly it wasn’t, but something about the way he said it would have made the hairs rise on the back of my neck, if I had any.
The man’s gaze drifted back to the path beyond the stile. Then back to us. He looked quizzically at Geoff, who was grinning excitedly.
“The way is closed,” the man said. “Go back.”
“And you?” Sylvia said. “Who exactly are you?”
He tapped a logo on his hi-vis, and turned the clipboard slightly, just enough that we could see the heading on the paper it held.
The Department of Liminal Paths.
Which, we all agreed later, sounded exactly like the sort of department that should not exist, and therefore probably does.
“We look after the paths,” he said. “And we see that what walks there belongs there. We maintain the paths so that they’re fit for purpose.”
Mad Geoff opened his mouth, presumably to ask what the purpose of a path was if not walking on it, but Sylvia trod on his foot in a way that suggested long practice.
“This path” the inspector gestured behind him, “isn’t supposed to be leaky. Not meant to let things through. We’re securing it, so until we’ve done that, stay away. There are things that listen for the rhythm of a walk and answer it. They follow and keep just out of sight. Match you, step for step.”
His eyes moved across us, counting.
“Until suddenly there’s an extra shadow. And a mess that takes a long time to clear up.”
Geoff looked down at his own shadow, which looked back in the unhelpful way shadows have.
“And if we go on anyway?” he asked.
The man held his gaze for a long moment.
“Then you may reach the end of the path. But you won’t know who else arrived with you. Until it’s too late”
Whilst somewhat vague, this seemed, even by FFS standards, at least a reason to reconsider.
He looked upward.
“Ah,” he murmured. “That’ll be them.”
“Who?” Sylvia asked, ever curious.
But the man only shook his head.
“Never you mind. Names aren’t for you. My time’s up.”
“And yours is better spent elsewhere” he added, pointing his pencil at us in a way that felt both advisory and faintly accusatory.
And just like that he was gone. A slight blur of neon seemed to linger for a split second. There was a faint scent of cut grass and a feeling that something had been tidied away.
For a little while, no one spoke.
Across the stile, the path lay ahead as it always had: narrow, leaf-strewn, perfectly ordinary, and now faintly suspicious.
“Shall we?” Sylvia said at last.
And because we are what we are, we tried.
Sylvia went first.
Her foot found the tread of the stile and slipped off.
She tried again, more carefully, with the same result.
Geoff stepped up next and set his weight down hard. The stile shifted beneath him. He got down off the stile looking very pleased with himself, but found that he was back with us on the same side he started from.
After another couple of attempts, the stile clearly having none of it, Sylvia said “Let’s leave it.”
"Yeah, it's not worth it" agreed Quentin.
No one argued, which may be the most uncanny part of the entire incident. Although Geoff looked a bit cheesed off.
So we did what walkers have always done when faced with uncertainty, mild peril, and recalcitrant stiles: we retraced our steps.
As we went we discussed whether Geoff had, in fact, always been with us. Geoff maintained that he had, which was both reassuring and, in its way, not.
No one mentioned shadows or shadow-walkers. We found an alternative route, which was longer, muddier, and uneventful, and all returned safely to our homes
No one suggested trying again.I expect Geoff will, though. From the way he was talking, he has unfinished business with that stile.
FFS advice for walkers
If you feel a path is waiting for you, consider that it may be waiting for something else as well. And that “something else” may not be something you want to meet.
If you notice your footsteps becoming unusually regular, vary your pace. Stop. Start. Cough. Pause to admire something botanical. Whatever is listening prefers a steady rhythm. You prefer not to meet the listener.
If, while walking, you become aware of an additional presence just out of sight, do not turn to confirm it. Confirmation is, in many cases, considered an invitation.
Should your shadow appear to hesitate when you do not, continue walking. Do not wait for it to catch up. If it is yours, it will manage. If it is not, waiting only encourages it.
If a stile, gate, or bridge refuses to cooperate, accept its decision with good grace.
These things are provided for your safety as much as convenience. That they occasionally exercise independent judgement is to be expected, and they usually know best.
If a strange walker appears to have joined your group and you do not recall when, do not give them your name or ask them to introduce themselves.
At no point should the number of walkers in your party increase (or decrease) without a corresponding and verifiable explanation. Estimates, assumptions, and “it was probably Geoff” are not sufficient.
If advised to turn back, do so promptly and without debate. The correct time to argue about rights of way is later, indoors, and with tea, biscuits, and in the presence of at least one person who wasn’t there.