My boots were made for walking, but how much further can they take me?

Shoes are surprisingly memorable things. A poorly-fitting pair can be so painful that the memory is burnt into our souls, and soles. A comfortable shoe makes walking so pleasurable that you never want to take it off.

As a young child I had particular love for my blue sandals. And at the age of seven I had the coolest grey trainers with a single, wide Velcro strap. They had a very close tread, and I remember my distress when once I stepped in some dog crap that was almost impossible to clean off.

In my early teens I had several successive pairs of a light brown, nubuck number, branded “Trucker”. I thought they were the best, especially when worn with slightly baggy jeans. My friends took the piss, but it didn’t stop me buying them again and again.

At university I coveted a friend’s Ellesse trainers: they were predominantly blue, named Komodo, and were out of stock when I went to buy a pair. I ordered them in and, when they arrived, I was too shy to tell the shop assistant that they were slightly too small. I wore them anyway, curling my toes and hoping they would stretch. They never did, at least not enough.

As in so many things, I usually followed shoe trends once they were on the wane. I had some Adidas Gazelles which were a hand-me-up from my younger brother, when everyone else (including my sibling) had stopped wearing them. And I got my first pair of Converse about a decade after Britpop had made them de rigueur.

The best footwear I’ve ever had are my walking boots. They are nearly 20 years old, bought in London ahead of my first visit to the Highlands, when I realised my previous pair had somehow been mislaid.

I remember being glad to get some new boots; the last lot hadn’t been much cop and I’d even had to borrow an ill-fitting old pair from my dad. On the other hand, I have hated the process of actually trying on multiple shoes of any sort; and since these were going to be costly I wanted to make the right choice, so I braced myself for a tedious half hour.

The guy in the shop, however, knew what he was doing. I’d had some terrible canvas boots in my mid-teens, wrecked when I wore them in the local river during a geography field trip, so I told him I wanted leather, and fairly heavy-duty at that. Meindl would be a good bet, he suggested, and I tried a few. Sure enough, one was perfect: a Cinderella moment for hikers.

Still, my boot man wasn’t convinced. Looking critically at my instep he told me I would need a rigid insole, which he chose from a shelf and popped in. I put the boot back on and it was like Cinderella after a glass or two of Pouilly-Fume.

Two decades on, I fear my much-loved boots are coming towards the end. The beauty of the fit is undimmed, and the uppers remain largely in decent order, having been lovingly cleaned and waxed at regular intervals. But the tread is hideously worn and the rand is knackered.

Such are the advances in boot technology, that I’m sure I could find a fabulous new pair with ease. And yet I can’t bring myself to do it. And it isn’t just that my current ones surround my feet with such comfort, it’s the history that they carry with them.

They have taken me into breath-taking Scottish wildernesses where I made a life-changing decision; they have helped me transport my children up Spanish mountains; they got me through snowstorms to work and back; and have trodden mile upon mile of Chiltern pathway as I have made the landscape my home. They have carried me from the second adolescence of my early-twenties, to the responsible adulthood of my forties.

I realise of course that this might all sound like sentimental cobblers. Then again, perhaps that’s exactly what I need.