Walking Boots

My sandals send echoes down the empty hallway. The white, sterile walls and the muzak pressing into my ears, make me feel like I’m walking into that George A. Romero zombie movie, ‘Dawn of the Dead’. I’m not. I’ve just stepped out of the lift into the Pyramids Shopping Centre in Birkenhead. 

We just don’t go shopping any more like we used to do, and judging by the small scattering of people, it looks like it’s the same for most others. A huddle of older folks nattering over coffee; two teens laughing and walking fast, seemingly desperate not to be associated to anything around them; and us.

We’re here to buy me some walking boots. Some proper bona fide ones as opposed to the pair I bought from the middle-aisle at Aldi, and so I need to try some on, which means going to a physical shop instead of ordering online.

The Pyramids and the Grange precinct are at least thirty-five years old, built during the age when city centres were the shopping centres. There are so many closed shutters here now, as the stores have escaped to the retail parks, retreated to the internet or just plain folded. The remaining vendors are desperate for the owners to cheapen the rents to attract more local business, but some of the units are still being leased by the shops that scarpered, and anyway, the owners are some anonymous investment group that doesn’t really care about the stories behind the numbers.

We walk into the Go Outdoors in the precinct and chat to the young man, Jack who’s helping me decide on what boots to buy. He’s knowledgeable but unpushy and I warm to him as he digs out my size in the North Ridge full leather, and the Scarpa Cyrus Goretex

I had thought, after my escapades in Ireland, that I’d go for a proper leather boot, but after walking around in them both, and knowing how long my Doc Martens are still taking to ‘break in’, I finally opt for the Scarpa. These are leather, but something called ‘nubuck’, which is the outer layer of hide super-buffed to soften it up. It’s not quite as waterproof on its own, but the gore-tex coating makes it good enough for me, because frankly life is too short for killing your feet trying to soften up the leather.

Because young Jack has been so helpful, I chuck in a few pairs of walking socks as my ten-year-old ones are seriously too holey. The boots are more than I’d pay for running shoes, and that is saying something, but as I’m walking the West Highland Way next May, I think I ought to give serious consideration to my feet. 

We take my package back out into the precinct, through the echoey Pyramids and back to the covered carpark. I keep checking out for zombies, just in case.