Why are we strangers in cities, but comrades on mountainsides?

It’s hard to be anonymous in a village. Not impossible – but attempts at obscurity tend to stick out in small places, which rather defeats the object.

The village I grew up in was a fair-sized one. These days it probably has close to 5,000 residents, which in some classifications would make it a town: but it doesn’t feel like one, even now. Still, with more people and the rise of in-home entertainments, it may be easier to go unnoticed than it once was.

As a child, it felt as if everyone knew everyone, at least by sight. Schooling in the village went all the way up to 16, the churches were active and there were plenty of pubs and clubs. Even the people whose names you might not know would say “hello” when you passed in the street. I assumed that was the done thing.

I was gradually disabused of that notion by going to sixth form college in Cambridge, then leaving home altogether, first for university and then for work in London. In the capital, a cheery “good morning” to fellow commuters on Waterloo Bridge is unlikely to be met with a response in kind. Strangers stay silent in cities.

Out in the countryside, on footpaths and byways, things are different again. Greetings are exchanged not by people who recognise one another from previous meetings or sightings, as they might in a village, but who recognise in each other the shared endeavour of, and love for, walking.

When I was a boy, my father had a particular way of saying “hello” to people we met when out hiking, the word almost swallowed – more like “hullope”. Nowadays you’re as likely to hear a “hi” as a “hello”; “good mornings” are certainly more common than “good afternoons”. I have always been fond of a “how do?”, which of course requires no answer aside from a “hello” or a “how do” in return – although it doesn’t really work in a southern voice (“alright?” sounds better from southerners and carries the same sentiment, but always reminds me of being a teenage boy).

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On steep mountain inclines, greetings can be noiseless – a nod of the head or a brief raising of a hand. I admire people who can tip their hat without looking like a plonker; as much depends on the style of headwear as the hand movement.

I love all of these greetings, especially off the beaten track. They create instant camaraderie in the most remote of places, yet it is a kind of anonymous kinship, which creates no obligation for further discussion or contact. That can happen of course – on mountain tops I have occasionally fallen into conversation with fellow travellers over the question of best routes down, or weather prognoses.

And crucially, I have both given and received updates on cricket scores. Few things give me greater joy than standing at the top of a mountain and finding another walker has managed to get enough phone reception to discover that England are 380 for 2.

My favourite of all mountain greetings is the one you hear in southern Germany and Austria, “gruss Gott”, meaning “(may) God bless (you)” (or literally “(may) God greet (you)”. It appeals to my Anglo-Catholic sensibilities; but more than that, it can underscore the sense of majesty that is easy to feel in places of natural wonder – whether you believe in God or not.

The coronavirus crisis has given many people cause to wander further afield than they might once have done. Let’s say “hello” when we pass one another, and share the endeavour.