The joy of slow hiking

The Guiness Book of Records is filled with fastest hikes from A to B. Last year 31-year-old American woman Tara Dower hared across the 3535km mountainous Appalachian Trail in 40 days, 18 hours and 5 minutes, slicing a whopping 13 hours off the previous record held by Belgian hiker Karel Sabbe.

Sabbe dubbed "the Michael Jordan of hiking" earlier this year broke the record to hike New Zealand's longest trail - Te Araroa - completing the 30054km trek from Cape Reinga to Bluff in 31 days, 19 hours and 41 minutes, beating the previous record by 17.5 days. He ran 96km - more than two marathons - a day.

As far as I can tell there are no records held for the slowest hike.

Related stories:

I think about this as we approach the first hill on day one of the Pahi Coastal Walk at the northernmost tip of the Coromandel Peninsula. The hill is not steep by mountaineering standards, nor even by those of the black Angus cattle and Romney sheep that graze its slopes. But the combined age of our party of three is more than 231 years. The walk is 33km over three days, with higher hills to come. On each of the first two days, we will climb to 550m. While we are fit for our age, we are not without twinges. I know we will take it gently.

A slow hike is beautiful.

It's hot walking uphill and we have peeled off layers as we have climbed. At each fence line, we stop for a breather and take in the views of the Hauraki Gulf and Great Barrier Island.

The livestock watch us as we watch them. "Don't worry about the bulls," our hosts said before we set off. But we are intrigued by the way the cattle gather in groups and call to each other. A black bull, broad across the shoulders, stands on a high ridge bellowing across the valleys.

At this pace, there is time to talk. One of our party is a visitor from England. We discuss the things we have in common and the things that are different. I try to explain the issues surrounding Te Tiriti o Waitangi and my hope this won't become a dividing point in Aotearoa. She talks about her frustration over Brexit. Trump is barely mentioned.

A stand of native forest is a deep contrast to the pastures. The foliage is dense and we stop to admire the understory plants like kawakawa and mingimingi and the young saplings waiting for older trees to die so they can grow tall. Some trees are overtaken by rata and supplejack, others have collapsed like drunken sailors against another tree. An ancient Pūriri tree is too wide to circumvent with our joined arms. We have lunch beneath it.

As a younger hiker, I was always keen to see what was around a corner I took pride in bouncing from rock to rock without poles. In later years, I have realised I don't have to do "fast". My grandchildren have taught me walks are for noticing: a rock could be a fossil; a cloud a dragon breathing fire. In Italy, working as a Woofer (Willing Worker on Organic Farms), I walked at the pace of animals on a transumanza, shepherding sheep and goats from their winter lodgings in the valleys to the sweet summer pastures of the high country in the Apennines. We napped when the flock grazed.

On the Pahi walk, I take in sounds, sights and smells I would have missed in earlier years. A flock of wild turkeys is camouflaged by the undergrowth; the sound of heavy wings most certainly is a kererū, although the canopy is too thick to see its white breast. On a more mundane note, we retrieve a pair of intact designer sunglasses half-buried in mud and a water bottle dropped by faster hikers on the trail.

Slow hiking is not for everyone. On some of New Zealand's Great Walks, pace has to be maintained to pitch a tent or reach a lodge before dark. For many, slow hiking is painful and frustrating. For them, there is joy in striding up a hill; downhill is a chance to speed up and run. On our walk, a group of women in their forties set such a cracking pace they finish hours before us.

But farm walks are perfect for those who prefer silence to the sound of their heartbeat ringing in their ears.

On day two I share a downhill stretch with a German therapist - a much younger woman - who tells me slow hiking sustains her mentally to do her work.

Modern life is hardly possible without hurrying to do all that needs to be done. Slow hiking is a chance to clear one's mind of the responsibilities of daily life and take in what surrounds us. "What is this life if, full of care/We have no time to stand and stare?" wrote Welsh poet WH Davies, who spent much of his life travelling on foot.

Proponents may not make the Guinness Book of Records. However, I do have one thing in common with US Appalachian recorder holder Tara Dower. She reportedly wailed at the sky during the final stages of her hike. I also let out a triumphant whoop at Pahi as I climbed the last stile.