A phone tells you where you are. A paper map tells you where everything else is. That difference changes how you travel.

On a screen you see a blue dot and the next turn. Unfold a map on a café table and you see the whole valley at once: the river you will cross, the ridge you could climb tomorrow, the village with the odd name you would never have searched for.

Maps also ask you to pay attention. You read the contour lines and realise the short route is the steep one. You notice that the path you planned follows a railway, and that a station halfway along could save your legs on the way back.

They never run out of battery, and they make a good souvenir, creased along the folds and marked in pencil with the places you actually went. I still have every one.