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Robert Louis Stevenson’s Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes chronicles a journey that is both physical and spiritual—an account of the writer hauling his obstinate donkey, Modestine, through the rugged French mountains. It’s a charming, introspective travel memoir and a 12-day odyssey through the Cévennes along a journey that reflects not only the rocky landscape but also the contours and seemingly dark crevices of the spirit. With wit and unflinching honesty, Stevenson reveals both the triumphs and trials of solitude—how it fosters resilience, connection, and the transformative clarity of movement. The book endures as a timeless testament to the strength we can and should uncover when we wander uncertain paths in our lives.

I’ve sought my own version of solitude, or as close as I can find, in urban Southeast London. My retreat lies in Dulwich Woods, with my dogs as quiet companions. It offers its own kind of wilderness—a daily reclamation of space for stillness. Here, away from the hurly-burly of city life, I wander off the pre-laid trails, taking the higher, rockier routes past old ruins and a cave-like structure where a young man hides in his own solitary sanctuary (quite literally a man cave), watching my dogs chase the scents of foxes, disappear into tangles of undergrowth, and scatter squirrels as they go.

It becomes my playtime too. In these moments, the constant noise of the world fades. I hug a tree, pause to admire the elders of the woods whose gnarled, steady energy seems to ground me as I pass by; sessile oaks, ash, hornbeams, and pines—shedding their winter cones—line the paths. Holly and ferns grow resolutely beside dormant yet hopeful lilies near a still and peaceful pond. One tree grows nearly horizontal to the earth, as though stunted or oppressed in its earlier life, before it had found the strength mid-way to rise—tall and proud. A robin keeps pace with me, darting branch to branch as though sharing my journey. The woods come alive the more I visit; their aliveness is mirrored within me. I feel less like an intruder and more like a friend.

Gradually, as I walk this South London refuge, something else emerges—a quiet reconnection to my inner self, and the eternal guide buried beneath the weight of responsibilities, expectations, and the ever-present need to produce. It feels like coming home. But I’m not alone. The wildlife observes me. I’m certain it does. It would be foolish to think I give the woods anything in return, yet I’m certain of what I receive—a calm, sense of wholeness.

Stevenson’s journey wasn’t glamorous. It was peppered with hardship: a donkey more inclined to stop than to go, rain that soaked both clothes and spirit and the heavy loneliness of nights spent under the stars. And yet, through it all, he found peace—grace gifted by solitude. He wrote with humour and raw honesty, so much so that you feel the weight of his pack, the aches, the chill of mornings. His story is of surrender, trusting the Universe through the slow, steady process of discovery.

I think of Stevenson often on my walks with my dogs. I don’t have a Modestine—though, at times, my companions are just as wilful—but I, too, find something deeply grounding in the rhythm of steps. My dogs, like Stevenson’s donkey, share the journey without demanding explanations. It becomes about the steady forward motion and ability to shift what feels unshakable. Even with the challenges of unpredictable health—or perhaps because of them—these walks become acts of resilience. Each step is a triumph. Each breath a reminder of the now. And now. And now…

Stevenson’s path through the Cévennes was rugged but meaningful. Fleeting human connections punctuated his moments of solitude: a farmer offering directions, a child curious about the man and his donkey. Similar brief encounters punctuate my urban walks, perhaps a stranger’s nod on a quiet trail or the wag of a dog’s tail. A sign I am not alone, though I’d be foolish to think I ever was for the trees observe me like friends rediscovered at a reunion.

“I travel for travel’s sake,” Stevenson wrote. “The great affair is to move; to feel the needs and hitches of our life more nearly; to come down off this featherbed of civilisation, and find the globe granite underfoot and strewn with cutting flints.”

Walking strips away the pretence. It’s you, the earth, and the steady cadence of motion. Walking through rugged terrain does indeed soften the blow of adapting to society.

And then there’s Modestine—stubborn, slow, and comical in her maddening refusal to match Stevenson’s pace. There’s something deeply human in her stubbornness, her objection to her burdens. Stevenson’s patience is an acceptance of the new pace of life, and to embrace the pauses it demands. Often it is within such pauses that we feel most connected to the landscape, to ourselves, and to something greater.

Whether adjusting Modestine’s load under the open sky, gazing across the rugged hills, or writing by the flicker of firelight, Stevenson’s journey was one of discovery—of the terrain, but more so of himself. Isn’t that what all paths ultimately offer us? Whether through the Cévennes or an urban wood, whether accompanied by a donkey or by loyal dogs or in solitude, walking has a way of alchemising the world’s weight into something lighter, more comprehensible. It, in turn, returns us to simplicity—the flight of birds overhead, the persistent growth of trees, and the unspoken companionship of creatures. The faithful business of it all.

Travels with a Donkey reminds us that life’s grandest adventures are often the simplest: a walk, a companion, and a willingness to embrace the unknown. Transformation lives in these ingredients, carried forward by humour, resilience, and the quiet acceptance of the world as it is. Each step, for Stevenson was a small but profound act of belief. He instinctively knew that immersion in nature shapes a writer’s craft like little else, isolation deepening a writer’s self-awareness. Alone, thoughts rise untangled by the noise of life, for it is in solitude that ideas emerge and take shape. Nature is the writer’s garden.

And so walking and writing—those twin pursuits—move hand in hand and pave the ultimate path of coming home to oneself.