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WALC

Walking Arts & Local Communities (WALC) is an artistic cooperation project, co-funded by the European Union, Creative Europe, starting in January 2024 for four years. With seven partners from five countries, WALC establishes an International Center for Artistic Research and Practice of Walking Arts, in Prespa, Greece, at the border with Albania and North Macedonia, backed up by an online counterpart in the format of a digital platform for walking arts.

Walking and writing

We are celebrating Writing About Walking. For the last 5 years we have run annual poetry and flash fiction writing competitions on different themes. During 2026 we will be spotlighting shortlisted works from each of these by including one in each of our weekly newsletters.

This week we have chosen Carn Ingli, Mountain of Angels by Isabella Mead Husain, which was shortlisted in the 2023 competition on the theme of Walking A/way.

The sheep-tracks were secrets until we were upon them,
rambling twists of heather and gorse
punctuated with rocks from a scattered fort.

Don’t bear left too soon or you’ll hit the steep bit,
summit the lower part and walk along
– said Grandad, every year, but we’d still get caught

and end up in jagged loops round the top,
scrambling back and forth. The sheep would stare.
At the top of the outcrop we’d survey the horizon

down to the yellow and blue of the bay.
No angels would land but sometimes sent mists
with exquisite sunlight filtering through.

We would have a picnic and sketch the rocks,
the leaning grasses framing the sea,
the hut circles and wild horses,

the meandering course of the bay to the estuary
where Grandad would unlock his binocular case,
focus the lens and look for herons.

Carn Ingli was a dream of green and purple
clustering over ancient ruins, and always
another unravelling path to discover.

One year Mum told us this was where my sister was conceived
and we both looked at her in horror.
We didn’t fancy picnics there after that

or, in the years that followed, mention the flow
of the estuary where Grandad’s ashes were thrown.
We’d be silent, staring into middle distance,

while a lamb might skitter up the scree towards us
or an old ram descend to the bay,
straightening out the secrets of the sheep-tracks,

sweeping the pathways clear.

Want to read other long and short listed pieces under this theme? Go here.