Walking: the alternative mode of urban transportation

Colin Randall

• Last Updated: April 27. 2009 5:00PM UAE / April 27. 2009 1:00PM GMT

Those trains and boats and planes that Dionne Warwick once sang about have been a significant feature of life since my return from the UAE to Europe a month ago.

Among the journeys that needed to be made have been trips up and down the east coast of England, east to Paris and west to Dublin. These were followed by the long trek home, south to the shores of the Mediterranean.

Another mode of transport, no more familiar in Abu Dhabi than trains, has also played a role in the business of getting about: feet.

The streets of the UAE’s great cities were not designed, broadly speaking, with the pedestrian in mind, even though there are parts of the year when it would otherwise make a nice change to walk somewhere. Naturally, I exclude the Corniche, one part of the capital where, except during the fierce summer months, a leisurely stroll can be a pleasant experience. There is nothing relaxing about putting into practice the idea of crossing, say, Airport Road from Etisalat to HSBC on foot.

Metro systems will make a big difference for residents of Dubai and, in the longer term, Abu Dhabi, and it is clear that the promised provision of footbridges will do small wonders for the quality of life. It would help, too, if there were more consideration from drivers towards people trying conscientiously to use designated crossings but afraid to step into the road unless no car is in sight.

In London, I walk contentedly through parks, along suburban roads and even in busy West End streets. It is often noisy and sometimes, in central London, crowded, but always feels viable as a means of getting from A to B.

If most walking is functional, some is enjoyable for its own sake. But perceptions vary according to lifestyle. When I stay in Swaledale, one of England’s most beautiful spots, I amble through fields and by the river before driving back south. A decent two-hour slog, I tell myself. “Oh, that’s just my dog walk,” the waitress serving a hearty Yorkshire breakfast tells me.

As a teenager, I proudly completed the 64km Lyke Wake Walk, also in Yorkshire and a moorland route known to seasoned ramblers the world over. It took me a couple of hours short of the allotted 24; a friend unnecessarily informed me that an amateur athlete hadn’t needed as long to run it both ways.

Back in France, though, I am already demonstrating a healthy intent to put sedentary days of car/desk/couch behind me. My morning regime includes walking down the hill to pick up a baguette and my copy of Var-Matin.

That part of it is a doddle. Coming back, the steep, winding hill has to be climbed. There is a short dirt track, and some steps, to make the ascent seem shorter and on my first shopping errand, just as when I last lived here, I counted those steps to myself in the hope that the climb would somehow pass more quickly.

It didn’t. There were still 128 of them.