The Crumbling Of The Salt Path, A Metaphor For Modern Life

Why the cracks in the story mirror the cracks in our post 2020 world

“Salt Path? More like sugar fucking mountain”

I quipped recently as I entertained the notion that the well received book might not be all it was initially made out to be.

That Raynor and Moth’s lauded coastal ramble had a touch of ‘Stone Soup’ about it.

For those who don’t know the tale of ‘Stone Soup’ (I loved the John Hurt ‘Storyteller’ adaptation in the 80s), a wily beggar convinces a cook he is able to create a hearty soup from just a stone. He requires only a little seasoning and a few other bits and bobs to complement it. The soup is a success, but not because of the stone but rather, the supporting ingredients.

Not to stir the pot, but emerging evidence regarding ‘The Salt Path’, now points to a similar case. That our plucky protagonists’ plight is a belly filler made from a barrow full of bare bones.

Less hand to mouth, more land of milk and honey. Bit of artistic license, change the names so they sounded like a couple of Swampy’s mates, and it was bound to be a WINN-er.

Why do I care?

Well, I’ve mentioned in the past that ‘The Salt Path’ was the book that got me through 2020.

As much of the world shut down and many became too scared to socialise, I’d experienced strong feelings of claustrophobia and isolation.

I’d felt suffocated by the new reductive labels and paradigms that sprang up, fully endorsed and encouraged by media and government.

✅mask wearer = thoughtful citizen

❎no mask = disease spreader

These would later extend to

✅vaccinated = good person

❎ unvaccinated = terrible person

And so on.

You see, I was one of those dreadful, dangerous, irresponsible ‘conspiracy theorists’ the telly warned you about. You know, someone who challenged official narrative, asked questions about ‘the science’. One of the nasty folk you were supposed to treat like an HIV carrier in 1986.

Yeah, those.

I eventually found like minded lepers souls, but prior to that, ‘The Salt Path’ offered much needed solace.

I had an audio copy and during those balmy, barmy days of Spring and Summer 2020, I couldn’t wait to sit on my sun chair and get lost in their inspiring adventure. To feel relief from the toxicity and division that media coverage was fuelling.

If it all eventually got too heavy, I comforted myself that I could not so much ‘do a runner’ but rather a ‘Raynor’. If government overreach became unbearable, I could bugger off to the seaside and hand myself over to the mercy of the elements.

Anyway, back to the book. I don’t want to speculate as to what is or isn’t accurate. After all, there are plenty of budding Velmas and Daphnes already knocking about.

Nor am I going to focus on how this episode hit Guardian readers hard because it shone a light on the worst fears of the middle classes - losing the cherished country pile and getting sick.

I identified with none of that malarkey.

My English cottage is a tiny terrace not a swanky farm house.

I don’t have a partner with a long term illness.

I don’t consider myself ‘middle class’.

I’m not even that into walking. I like it but I’ve never understood that ‘blister pride’ thing a lot of em have going on.

So, I wanted to ask myself why I personally felt so deflated and duped about it.

What was it?

Only a book, right?

The more I examined my disappointment, the more I came to realise it was born of a deeper sorrow.

As I saw it, the controversy over ‘The Salt Path’ symbolised a greater truth about modern life.

And that is….

No-one knows what to believe anymore.

When it is revealed that an author who pens a book about hiking happens to have the real surname ‘Walker’, my senses immediately prickle. The phrase ‘in plain sight’ comes to mind.

Whether the Winns walked ‘The Salt Path’, a crooked mile or walked us all up the garden path, this wasn’t the first time many of us had felt cheated by something we’d bought into.

It happens almost daily now.

Personally, I feel like I’m living in ‘Strawberry Fields’

Why?

Because ‘nothing is real’ anymore.

Or maybe some of it is.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Often, we can no longer tell the difference.

Reality and fantasy are so closely woven and interchangeable these days, that life in 2025 feels like one big acid trip.

We approach every news story with a scepticism, cynicism and caution we never used to have to employ.

• We can no longer be sure which US politician is a dangerous predator because of ‘deep fakes’.

• We no longer know who was born the opposite sex because gender ideology and AI has skewed perception.

• We wonder whether social media personalities we thought we knew are real people and which convicted criminals could be hired mouthpieces.

• We question catastrophic events, because we know that ‘rent a crowd’ and ‘crisis actors’ exist.

• We fall for parody accounts because truth is so often as absurd as fiction.

When it comes to deceit, we no longer ponder the question;

“Would they ever do that to us?”

Because 2020 and its devastating aftermath and subsequent revelations taught us

“Yes, yes, they absolutely would!”

We have been gaslit time and time again and it’s all a massive head fuck.

The fall out and discrepancies over the ‘The Salt Path’ exemplify this crisis of trust.

We read it.

We wanted to believe.

We now feel like dicks.

Taken in. Naive. Confused.

And no-one wants to be had, do they?

We consider ourselves to be discerning, to not have wool pulled over our eyes. Not so green as we’re cabbage looking.

But falling for lies and exaggeration can happen to the best of us.

When narratives regularly crumble like chalk, it’s a reminder to back away from the distracting scenery.

To forget the roads to nowhere, roads to hell and roads to ruin.

To stay focused on one path only.

Our own.

Photo my own, taken in Dorset this year.

PS: Well aren’t I the hive of writing activity at the moment? I’m sure I’ll crash soon 😉😂

Subscribe should you wish but do bear in mind, I’m a mood writer so you could end up with anything. Thanks for reading x