It all started about three years ago, when I met up with my son in a park. He’s very outdoorsy and it was the first time I’d seen him barefoot – he likes the way it feels on grass, but doesn’t do it all the time. I found it funny, so I took my shoes off to give it a go. It was as though I’d discovered an extra sense. Afterwards, I wanted to keep it up, but not only in parks. I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy.
The plan was to go without shoes for as long as I could, at least from spring until mid-October when it got too cold. But we had a very mild autumn last year and I love a challenge, so I thought: can I keep going?
The snow last December was the first big test. I covered my feet in Vaseline to keep warm; it’s what cold-water swimmers do in winter. It kept them insulated, provided I didn’t stay still for long. Then we had frost. I’d wear gloves and all these layers, but no shoes, and again found it was fine as long as I kept moving.
I’ve been barefoot in London every day since March last year. Living in a city, I love the element of the unexpected. Travelling on the tube barefoot was a novelty at first because there are so many different surfaces: the corrugated escalators, smooth platforms, ridged circles before the yellow “Mind the Gap” line. It’s as if I’ve reached a new dimension most people normally never experience.
I grew up in Chobham in Surrey before joining the railways in the 1970s and training to be a locomotive fitter. I took early retirement with a good pension in 2009. These days, I do a lot of community work. When I was delivering pharmacy prescriptions across south-east London during the pandemic, I went to a block of 50s flats in Peckham Rye. They’d resurfaced all the walkways, which felt absolutely amazing on my bare feet. It was like walking across very fine sandpaper.
Being outside, being barefoot, helping people – I’m sure it’s all connected. I’ve been diagnosed with depression and have made three suicide attempts. I discovered that being involved with the community and being in nature really assisted with my recovery. I’m a volunteer for a community garden in Forest Hill and have also helped construct a guerrilla-style garden in Brockley.
I bring a pair of slippers with me everywhere in case I need to put them on. Ridiculously, I’m permitted to go shoeless in Forest Hill library but not Lewisham library due to “health and safety”, even though they’re run by the same council. Most independently owned venues have no issue with people being barefoot, but Wetherspoon’s doesn’t allow it. The only time I properly wear footwear is when I go clubbing – I regularly go to Fabric nightclub in London – because security insists. When I take my shoes off at the end of the night, my feet feel as if they’re on fire.
I hate conforming and have always worn a lot of bright colours – that gets me a lot of attention as a 64-year-old man anyway, but I could write a book about the range of reactions I get about my feet. Some people get it, others less so. The most common question is: “Where are your shoes?”
Four people offered me shoes in the space of a week during the last cold spell. I always stay calm and tell them it’s a lifestyle choice. It certainly starts interesting conversations and at least people are curious, even if they think it’s weird behaviour.
I have to care for my feet because, although they’ve become tough, the skin does crack. I’m still trying to find the best way to look after them: I use TCP antiseptic, Sudocrem and lard to help prevent the soles from breaking. The worst injury I had was from standing on a one and a half inch nail while gardening. There are also some challenging surfaces, including an unavoidable part of the South Bank in London, which is painful to stand on but satisfying to get over.
Being barefoot makes me feel more grounded and helps with my wellbeing. Hardly anyone else seems to have an idea how incredible it feels and it’s most interesting when done in a city. I’ll never go back to wearing shoes again.
• As told to Chiara Wilkinson
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