sign to sign: an amble through every street in hollin hills

by seth styers

One fateful day in 2024, Seth Styers — just an ordinary mortal like you or me — set out to accomplish what no one in recorded history had ever attempted: to walk every street in Hollin Hills in a single morning.

What he discovered on this epic journey will astound and amaze you.

It’s 9:56 in the morning, and I’m standing in front of the Hollin Hills entry sign at Sherwood Hall Lane, dressed in neon orange shoes, mid-calf compression socks, running shorts, moisture-wicking t-shirt, CamelBak, sunglasses, and hat. I look loonier than I mean to.

I’ve worn this uniform on a score of urban saunters. I’ve trekked the length of Manhattan, hiked the width of San Francisco, seen Monaco end to end. Hadn’t thought about the fact that, this time, I’d be walking by people I’d see at the pool later.

But my ride just left me, and there’s a chance of rain today. So the Amble begins.

The start: the entrance at Sherwood Hall Lane

Pre-Amble: Mapping, packing, preparation

Some months ago, I wondered: Has anyone ever walked every street in Hollin Hills in one go? Probably definitely. Walking is a pastime for Hillers. But if they have, it’s not in the public record. So I devised a walkabout of sorts — the Maybe-First Annual Hollin Hills Amble. And I thought I’d bring you along.

There’s no obvious circuit that covers every street in Hollin Hills. Roads transition into other neighborhoods. Double-backs are unavoidable. Streets curl onto themselves. Goodman and Davenport deliberately designed this place for slowness, and it works. 

After a few attempts, I mapped a reasonably efficient route covering eight and a half miles. I figured at a brisk pace, factoring time for photo taking and note writing — I’m a citizen journalist first, a flâneur second — it’d clock in at about two and a half hours.

I set off on a sunny Friday morning. Not too humid and well before the high summer heat. I marked my route, readied the Notes app for observations, and packed one (1) apple for snack and one (1) half-gallon bladder of water.

Miles 1-3: Davenport, Elba, Daphne, Brentwood, Nordok, [deep breath], Nemeth, Lisbon, Range, Hopa, Mason Hill, Whiteoaks, Saville

Davenport to Saville and everything between is a breeze. Sidewalks, level ground, and easy little branches of cul-de-sacs and double-backs. As I settle into stride, I do a double-take at my first great sighting. There’s a cow in a yard on Elba. And it’s wearing a red Nationals baseball cap.

I do a triple-take, and realize it’s a statue. Because obviously it’s a statue — and real cows don’t wear hats very often.  But also, how’ve I never noticed that life-size cow statue before?

Real hat. Fake cow.

That’s the sort of thing that happens when you slow down in a familiar place. Your senses come alive, and your mind has the luxury to consider what’s around you.

Like maybe, for the first time, you take a moment to appreciate each Hollin Hills home’s precise siting. You imagine their views. Then you imagine their views are better than yours, and you get envious. Then you feel bad because these are your neighbors and friends, and you begrudgingly applaud their better views while angling for an invite to enjoy them sometime soon.

I make short work of Daphne and Brentwood. There’s a heavy, sweet smell in the air, and the birds are going wild. I hear the distant sounds of children at play at Hollin Meadows. I see …

A phantom floating in the trees along Nordok. Pretty out of place at the edge of summer. How long has this wooden ghost haunted the copse? What’s the story here? I make a note to ask around.

I work my way up Elba, darting down Nemeth and Lisbon. Along Range, blackberries, I think, grow alongside the road. I consider picking some, weighing (a) whether they’re really blackberries and (b) whether I should take them from my neighbor. I land on: probably so, and probably not.

On Mason Hill there’s a metal screen on the second story of a house. Something else I’ve never before noted. It’s artful and practical. I love it. I need it. Even though I don’t. I need another Hollin Hills home because I need a reason to need this screen.

As I make my way down Whiteoaks, I gird myself for Rebecca. The hills await.

The haunting of Nordok Place

Miles 4-6: Rebecca, Kimbro, Glasgow, Paul Spring Act 1, Pickwick, Beechwood, Other Glasgow, Popkins Act 1

I’m not a hundred feet up Rebecca before my calves start to feel it. I curse my route. Why take the hills midway through? Why take them at all?

I’m pleased to turn so quickly onto Kimbro, where I’m treated to a mystery: the three-dimensional outline of a vintage truck hiding beneath a protective cover. I’m tempted to pull it up and take a peak. I don’t. I’m sort of new here, you know. [Writer’s note: The truck’s still there. There’s still time.]

Further along, I see a collection of decorative orbs perched in the foliage. How I admire the puckish lawn ornamentation of our neighborhood, where just about anything —

Wait. As I close in, I realize the orbs are just basketballs. Different colors, different sizes, a rainbow of basketballs. But, what! This is Hollin Hills! Maybe this is an installation. A commentary on the crude displacement of art in favor of sport in America. I determine this is the case. Fine work.

But is it art?

Back onto Rebecca, the sidewalk disappears, and I’m transported. Homes roosting among the trees, looking down on me. I look right back up at them. I’m thankful to the fine residents of Rebecca for showcasing their art and their lighting for my personal benefit. In all seasons, it’s an inspiration, spurring me to greater heights. Thank god, because this incline is killing me.

I crest and enjoy the downhill and respite on Glasgow. But as I turn onto Paul Spring, my belly rumbles. It’s a little early to eat my apple. I rue the decision to leave a second apple on the counter at home. I think about the other apple the entire time I eat my apple. I think maybe I should’ve picked some of those blackberries.

At Pickwick and Beechwood, I pause to sympathize with a fire hydrant being overtaken by ivy. The ivy! It comes for us all.

Along the curve of Other Glasgow, I admire, as always, the foot bridges that span the gulf between the street and some of the houses on the downhill slope. I could go for a foot bridge myself. But alas, I have no gulfs to bridge.

The ivy comes for us all

Miles 7-8.5: Marthas, Recard, Stafford, Popkins Act 2, Bedford, Paul Spring Act 2, Rippon, Drury

By now, the sun is high, and I’m thankful for the cooling effect of the canopy. Have you ever looked at Hollin Hills on the satellite view of Google Maps? More importantly, have you ever showed a friend, colleague, or grocery line stranger Hollin Hills on the satellite view of Google Maps? It’s an island of green in the Great Gray Suburban Sea.

I live on Rippon, and what remains of the Amble is my domain. I start thinking about this article. You've come this far with me, I want something to share, some new observation. Some insight into the nature of existence, maybe. Or an idea so profound — yet so deceptively simple — that it might just change the world.

Naturally, my mind goes blank.

Then a family of foxes dashes in front of me on Marthas. It’s rumored on the Forum that they’ve recently subscribed to the Post. The kits are dropping their gray, their coats increasingly brilliant. They take to the opposite side of the road, and march off to their den. To catch up on the news, presumably.

On the Marthas loop, success! A house number font I hadn’t noticed before. It reminds me of the font at Dulles, which I’ve always loved. I want that font. I’m envious again. It’s a joy being envious here.

I navigate past the bewildering intersection of Marthas Road and Marthas Road, and make my way down Stafford. At Paul Spring, more fauna. A snake rests across the path. I trust my suddenly-extra-stomp-y footsteps will startle it along. As I draw closer, I trust my voice will spur it to action. As I give it a wide berth, I trust it will at least acknowledge my presence because c’mon! It flits its tongue. I flit mine back. Two can play at this game.

I tag the Fort Hunt sign. I’m not quite finished ambling, but the article title is already written and I like it. Turning onto Rippon, I hear a comforting cadence: thwack, thwack, thwack, “WOO!” The pickleballers are ever at it. If my eyes were closed, I’d know I’m nearly done.

Then, I’m done.

Font of beauty on Marthas

The finish: the Fort Hunt entry sign

Post-Amble: Finish lines, forgotten fruit, final words

I cross the finish of the Maybe-First Annual Hollin Hills Amble at 2 hours and 16 minutes. Solid time if this were a marathon! Waiting for me: Christine (spouse) and Evie Bean (daughter), cheering me on. I rush inside and inhale that second apple on the counter.

My take? Do it. Walk every street in one go. Dress absurdly. Pack more snack than you’ll eat. And as you amble, I dare you not to encounter a family of foxes, a lazy snake, gabbing birds, a mysterious rustling in the bushes, gardeners, wanderers, walkers, runners, blackberries, butterflies, bees, smiling faces, wooded places, and haunted forests.

And maybe, if you’re lucky… a cow wearing a baseball cap.

seth styers is a writer who lives in hollin hills. by day, he's the editorial director of betterment, a financial technology company. by night, he writes short stories, articles, and the occasional limerick.