Occasionally I go bush with a friend, and as we walk she will—with little apparent effort—take in the lie of the land. When we break to catch our breath, or to check our ankles for leeches, or to fix an undone shoelace, she will have counted how many creeks we’ve crossed, will have noticed how the steep cliffs and undulating valleys correspond to the contours of our map. With a swivel of her head along the ridgeline, she’ll be able to establish roughly where it is we now are. As though thumbing back through the pages of a just-read chapter, she might trace with her finger the passages we’ve covered: ‘that must be that section of blue gums’ or ‘that’s back where that landslide was’ or ‘here’s when we made a turn for the east’. I, meanwhile, might have noticed globules of blood-red resin weeping from the base of a tree, or have been startled by a black cockatoo winging itself across my path and scoured the ground afterwards for its feathers … but I will mostly be oblivious. The overall shape of the land we’re passing through will remain a blur to me.

I am not exactly what you’d call the ‘outdoorsy’ type. Unlike some other bushwalkers I’ve met, I don’t get excited by camping equipment, and I don’t know how many grams my sleeping bag weighs. I don’t like scroggin (even the word is ugly), and I don’t see the point of those complicated water bladders with their unnecessary tubes. Beyond wattle, grevillea and banksia, I know embarrassingly few names of native plants and have little inclination to learn them. If I’m honest, when setting out for a walk, the thing I take most care in is choosing which novel is to accompany me.