If a Kit Kat is for the office, then mountains taste of Mars

In the latest in his series, Will Gore reflects on the flavours of places and pathways

We should not worry about walking with our mouths full (Getty)

What does a walk taste like?

It might depend on the weather. Dry heat, baking fiercely on Dolomitic limestone, has a metallic tang: salt and rock and no oxygen to spare. Autumnal East Anglian mist is damp blanket and soil: flavours at once stifling and yet muffled. Mist in a northern pine forest is altogether different again: like drinking Christmas, but without the anticipated warmth of the festive season.

There are other things that tickle the taste buds unasked: the peaty detritus left smeared across your face after a full-length slide off a wet pathway; blood sucked from fingers left mutilated by an ill-placed grab at what turns out to be a thick-as-your arm bramble. Not all flavours are imposed by external forces or missteps, though.