Walk on by

I ought to walk more than I do. It’s the best exercise for physical and mental health. Unlike cycling or weight-lifting it’s safe, as long as you don’t: twist your ankle in a pothole; get run over by a tipper truck (the way I feel about certain tipper trucks, they’d come off worse); pick up a tick in the spinney; get cornered by a cohort of curious cattle; or, as happened today, get pooped on by a pigeon. As for me fending off axe-wielding psychopaths, at least the village newsletter would have a gripping front-page story.

Five or six miles is my favourite distance for a local walk, up to 20 per day when I’m on me ’ols. I say ‘up to’, because the actual distance depends on terrain and temperature. Yomping the Pennine-stretch of Hadrian’s Wall in 30-degree-heat meant we had to pace ourselves. Another time, we’d covered 18 miles of the North York Moors before one of the group fell ill. No mobile phone reception of course, so one of us (guess who) had to run two miles in heavy boots, carrying a stuffed rucksack, to the car park where the mini-bus was waiting, to warn the driver the rest would be even later as they’d probably be carrying the poor chap.

Back home, my walks last about 90-minutes, or longer if I stop to chat with farmers, dog walkers or horse riders. If anyone doesn’t want to talk to me, that’s their loss and I count my blessings. Lockdown was hilarious. One old boy almost fell into a ditch trying to keep a ‘safe’ distance from me on a narrow country lane, or maybe he’d heard about my propensity to talk a lot. 

It’s not just people I talk to. With a ubiquitous, “Hello, Beautiful,” I love to greet deer (with or without ticks), hares more than rabbits, buzzards better than kites, lambs at this time of year, wagtails, warblers, dragonflies and bees. But not wasps, spiders or mosquitoes. These three are Mother Nature’s aberrations; she’d be better off without them, as she would without Chris Packham, Feargal Sharkey and Roger Hallam. 

Walking blows away the cobwebs (and hopefully with them those pesky spiders). Whether I have writer’s block, can’t get to grips with an obscure philosophical concept or am simply hungover, my brain works so much better after a walk. Sometimes I practise for an upcoming concert. This May it’s Elgar’s Dream of Gerontius. Belting out "Rescue him" while rolling Rs (I said Rs!) is fine and dandy in the middle of the countryside, as long as nobody’s just around a corner or behind a hedge.

I’ve also been known to throw together the odd verse; I won’t dignify them by calling them poems, although some have potential. I kinda like this one. No idea. It just wrote itself.

Blind Dates

I dated a poet who took me to heaven
    enriching my ego with only his pen.
I dined with a novelist and listened all night
    to the plot and the prose and protagonist’s plight.
I talked with a journalist who took lots of notes
    to colour his features with relevant quotes.
I walked with a playwright who made it is his mission 
    to teach me the basics of timing and diction.
I lived with a critic who scrutinised each
    of my cooking and cleaning and bedroom technique.
I married the poet, and though we’re not rich
    my ego’s recovered from being in the ditch.

More than composing ditties, singing (ok, squawking), chatting or problem-solving, it’s nature I love the most. That’s really why I go for walks. Watching deer bound along the lane, tree blossom dusting the air with hope, hares chasing each other across the fields – like Scalextric on steroids – buzzards tree-hopping to ‘stay safe’, infinite varieties of mushroom and fungi pushing their way heavenward through the ground or clinging to tree-bark, dragonflies hovering like rainbow-morsels over the brook, said brook tinkling or gushing depending on recent rainfall …

What else I love about Mother Nature is that she’s apolitical, non-discriminatory, non-judgmental. She follows science, doesn’t fight it or distort it for a puzzling agenda. She’s adaptable, accommodating, patient, forgiving. She’s pragmatic, not caring who ‘owns’ her, who writes the cheques, who does the work, who might benefit alongside her, as long as she’s loved. She doesn’t bear grudges, turn her back, cut you off. She can lose her temper, boy can she, but who can blame her?

I never walk alone. I walk with my transcendent BFF.