Harriet Dolby

With the days getting shorter, it is time we got our woollen trench coats out of the winter wardrobe. Meanwhile, a peculiar event happens for middle-class dogs: outerwear becomes crucial for even a short trot outside. What happened to personal responsibility? One of my biggest grievances - which persists despite contradicting most of my libertarian principles - is dogs in coats. Before the agricultural revolution, the late Pleistocene hunter-gatherers living in Eurasia started to domesticate wolves – the first step, almost 30,000 years ago, towards having a dachshund to defend against delivery drivers with their ferocious bark. It is fascinating that it is the dogs who happen to inhabit the boroughs of Richmond, Battersea and Chelsea who have a particular penchant for outerwear.

Every tribe has its rituals; mine - Oxford undergraduates in the last gasp of the vacation - is no exception. As Michaelmas term looms, my Instagram feed becomes the site of a curious annual competition, over the whiteness of beaches, the depth of tans and the performativity of poses. This year I chose a different path. I spent a week trudging alone across Norfolk on the Walsingham Way. The Walsingham Way was once among England’s great medieval pilgrimage routes I am not especially religious, but I had wanted to go on a pilgrimage for some time. My Gold DofE, despite my school’s best efforts, had not put me off the prospect of oversized waterproofs and blister-inducing boots.