The interview: Iain Sinclair

The rhythm of Iain Sinclair's life has always gone something like this: walk, write; walk, write; walk, write. There have been interruptions, of course. In the old days, before he was a published author, he had to make a living just like everyone else - he painted the white lines of the football pitches on Hackney Marshes, he mowed the grass outside Hawksmoor's London churches - and there were his children (Farne, William and Madeleine) to be fed, watered and generally brought up. Mostly, though, there has just been the walking and the writing, the writing and the walking. His books, sprawling and arcane, would not, could not exist without the walking, which means that to visit him and then fail to propose a walk would be wilfully perverse, like meeting Lucian Freud and turning down the chance to see his studio. So, this is what I do."I thought we'd walk first, and then talk," I tell him when I arrive at his Hackney house in my sensible shoes. "Good idea," he says, as if no one had ever suggested such a thing before. But then I look up at his face, and I can't help but notice that his expression is one of sincere eagerness: I am a tourist, Hackney is Rome, and Sinclair is a guide so ardent he will give me the tour - the full 60 minutes - absolutely free. If only I had brought my camera....