For Jane Austen's Heroines, Walking Was More Than Pastime–It Was Resistance

In Pride and Prejudice (1813), when heroine Elizabeth Bennet arrives at Netherfield Park with “her petticoat six inches deep in mud”, she walks not only through the fields of Hertfordshire, but into one of literature’s most memorable images of women’s independence.

Her decision to walk alone, “above her ankles in dirt”, is met with horror. “What could she mean by it?” sneers Miss Bingley. “It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence.” And yet, in that walk – unaccompanied, unfashionable, unbothered – Elizabeth reveals more about her spirit and autonomy than any parlour conversation could.

For Austen’s heroines, independence – however “abominable” – often begins on foot. Elizabeth may be the most iconic of Austen’s pedestrians, but she is far from alone. Across Austen’s novels, women are constantly in motion: walking through country lanes, walled gardens, shrubberies, city streets and seaside resorts.

These are not idle excursions. They are socially legible acts, shaped by class, decorum, and gender – yet often quietly resistant to them.

Fanny Price, the often underestimated heroine of Mansfield Park (1814), is typically seen as timid and passive. Yet beneath her reserved exterior lies a quiet but determined spirit.

“She takes her own independent walk whenever she can”, remarks Mrs Norris disapprovingly. “She certainly has a little spirit of secrecy, and independence, and nonsense about her.” Austen’s choice of “nonsense” here is revealing: Fanny’s desire for solitude and self-direction is not revolutionary, but it is gently subversive. In a world offering women little room for self-assertion, her steps become acts of resistance.

When Jane Fairfax, constrained by class and circumstance in Emma (1815), declines a carriage ride, she asserts: “I would rather walk … quick walking will refresh me.” It’s a seemingly modest decision, but one layered with significance. To walk is to control your own movement, to maintain autonomy and resist the genteel suffocation of being constantly observed or helped.

In Persuasion (1817), Anne Elliot’s story shows walking as a path to renewal. Reserved and long burdened by regret, Anne finds restoration in the coastal air of Lyme Regis. As she walks along the Cobb, Austen notes that “she was looking remarkably well … having the bloom and freshness of youth restored by the fine wind … and by the animation of eye which it had also produced”.

Her emotional reawakening is framed as a physical one. Walking becomes not only therapeutic but transformative – a way back to herself.

Not all of Austen’s walks are reflective or restorative. Some are decidedly social. Lydia and Kitty Bennet’s frequent walks to Meryton in Pride and Prejudice, for example, are driven as much by shopping as by the hope of romantic encounters.

Austen notes the “most convenient distance” of the village, where “their eyes were immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers”. These girls were more interested in uniforms than in bonnets.

Yet even this behaviour hints at something subtler. For young, unmarried women, shopping and social errands were among the few socially sanctioned reasons to move independently through public space. These excursions offered moments of visibility, mobility, and the possibility of courtship – however frivolously pursued.

Catherine Morland of Northanger Abbey (1817), a devoted reader of gothic fiction, fuses her walks with imagination. As she strolls along the Avon River with the Tilneys, she muses: “It always puts me in mind of the country that Emily and her father travelled through in The Mysteries of Udolpho.” Walking becomes an act of imaginative projection, where the boundaries between fiction and reality blur in the mind of a heroine learning to navigate both the world and herself.

Jane Austen the walker

Austen’s fiction draws much of its vitality from her own experiences. She was, by her own admission, a “desperate walker”, rarely deterred by weather, terrain or propriety.

Her letters, written from Bath, Steventon, Chawton and elsewhere, capture the physicality and pleasure of walking in vivid, often playful detail. These glimpses into her daily life reveal not only her attachment to movement but also the quiet autonomy it afforded her.

In 1805, Austen writes from Bath: “Yesterday was a busy day with me, or at least with my feet & my stockings; I was walking almost all day long.” Several years later, in 1813, she reports with unmistakable relief: “I walked to Alton, & dirt excepted, found it delightful … before I set out we were visited by several callers, all of whom my mother was glad to see, & I very glad to escape.”

Perhaps most revealing is an earlier letter from December 1798, in which Austen describes a rare solitary excursion: “I enjoyed the hard black frosts of last week very much, & one day while they lasted walked to Deane by myself. I do not know that I ever did such a thing in my life before.” The comment registers the novelty and boldness of a woman walking alone.

In an age where walking is once again praised for its physical and mental benefits, Austen’s fiction reminds us that these virtues are not new. Her characters have been walking for centuries – through mud, across class boundaries and against expectation.

They walk in pursuit of clarity, connection, escape and self-hood. Their steps – measured or impulsive, solitary or social – mark turning points in their lives. And in a world designed to keep them stationary, their walking remains a radical act.

Article by Nada Saadaoui, PhD Candidate in English Literature, University of Cumbria, first published in The Conversation.