That familiar conviction…

From time to time, I forget that kestrels can fly: so used am I to seeing them simply suspended (the majestic puppets of an invisible deity) – tail bowed, almost motionless, even in the strongest blusters – or merely spiralling (a little like a lazy lark): withdrawing upward for a better sighting of their prey. But, on Thursday, making my way by the Avon, a keen example flashed close by me: gliding (a little like a sizable swift) fleet and fluent across a burgeoning field of barley – winging perfectly parallel with the tips of the green fronds (and only a few inches above them) – reminding me that these raptors’ abilities in the air are manyfold and magnificent.

I had found myself on the route of an almost identical (in almost every fashion) stroll to one I embarked on two years ago: encountering (again) not just my first damselflies of the year (banded demoiselles: as always, on these verdant cow-parsley-crowned banks); but perhaps premature butterflies – including bejewelled peacocks and small tortoiseshells: both of which wouldn’t – shouldn’t…? – normally be around (in such numbers, anyway) until July. (Having said that, I did espy a rather pecked and pale mature peacock, today, torpidly sunbathing….)

I was also lucky to spend a few minutes, on my rather leisurely walk – when immersed deep in stippled woodland, shadows, and thoughts – observing both a chiffchaff (which I heard before I caught sight of); and then an almost perfectly-camouflaged treecreeper – speckled with markings that merged with the leaf-filtered dancing dapples of sunlight on bark: demonstrating perfectly its apt appellation with its characteristic entertaining flits and scurries… – before a friendly chocolate Labrador nudged tenderly at my knees in welcome: craving a little attention (with which it was duly rewarded… well, until its much livelier companion spaniel requested the same – albeit a little less politely…)!

I was reminded of all this, earlier today, by another within-reach windhover – displaying more (to my mind) typical movements… – as I mooched up Windmill Hill (exhibiting my own such “typical movements” – i.e. ponderous plodding, and swaying steps). At first, I was more entranced by a solitary red kite: bewraying not one simple flap of its splayed fingers as it traversed the Tysoe-facing slope against the prevalent easterlies; directed only, it appeared, by that inimitable rudder of a forked tail. (Such poise; such beauty; such grace….)

But then the kestrel rose – although not to a great height – directly in front of me: cruel beak and talons noticeably empty. At first, I assumed it would simply drift, habitually, to one of the many power-lines and posts that straddle the hill. But no….

Soon it dived again: a small pause above the ground; and then, this time, victorious… – although the resultant worm, trembling in its beak, seemed a meagre reward for such unsparing skill. As the bird quivered over the tall hedgerow, not far from my path, I lost sight of it; but wondered if this quarry could be (partial) breakfast for one of this year’s progeny.

Later, coming down the hill towards Epwell Road, joining the witless Compton Wynyates ‘road to nowhere’, I noticed (and was grateful) that the rights-of-way here have finally been re‑scribed – albeit crudely, with some form of crop-killing spray. A cynical (rather large) part of me wonders if this would have been carried out at all, were it not for Saturday’s Tysoe Windmill Run.

And yet the more popular, direct footpath from Shipston Road had obviously only been re-instituted as a consequence of those runners’ pounding feet pulverizing the field of clover-rich green manure as they descended. If my fellow wanderers, today, are anything to go by, there is still some confusion as to where the authentic route lies.

By the way, the reason for the lethargy of my loitering circuit of Windmill Hill, this morning – apart from the obvious avian attractions (additionally, rare yellowhammers; the usual truculent rooks, and cheeping dunnocks by the dozen) – was the long tail of a virus which finally floored (well, bedded) me, over the weekend.

I therefore missed the chance to admire the stalwarts taking part in the above event. However, I was delighted to witness (from my bedroom window) the village’s transformation – especially yesterday, in the glorious seasonal warmth – into Bourton-on-the-Water (or some such similar Cotswold tourist hotspot), thanks to the National Garden Scheme (NGS); and the ten kind hosts who welcomed so many visitors onto their becoming plots. Never before have I seen – or had the opportunity to rejoice at – our “small, blessed corner of Warwickshire” so inundated with such a wonderful plethora of checked and striped shirts, oft-inappropriate shorts, and fascinating (mostly straw-based) headgear!

The Good Lady Bard – who toured the gardens in yesterday’s sunshine (summoned by a full peal of bells); passively gleaning only complimentary reactions: not only to the individual plots, but also to people’s discovery of the wonder that (we, of course, know) is Tysoe… – was exceeding impressed with both the horticultural talent and passion on display; as well as the obvious skill and effort that had gone into organizing the whole shebang.

Huge thanks, therefore, to the marvellous Julia Sewell: whose idea I believe this was; and to all those volunteers whose implementation of her plans was impeccable.

At last, it feels like summer has truly arrived…!

Wary of the furrows that we’ve churned…

Who can tell me where I am…?

Having worked in agriculture, I struggle to understand those landowners and/or farmers who plant a crop, and then force people to tread all over it, willy-nilly: damaging the young seedlings; flattening the ground; and, ultimately, reducing the yield. Try walking up to Tysoe Windmill, at the moment, and play a jolly game of ‘spot the path’ on your ascent. (Fun for the whole family!)

This is not a path; this is not a stile…

If you’re like me – badly disabled – you may be tempted to take the route of least resistance: looking for a gap in the next hedge, and heading for it as straight as the crow flies (although not today: the northerly wind was buffeting them like a mainsail rounding the Orkneys…); crossing your fingers that a gate or stile lurks there. However, if you’re really like me, and have innate, well-developed sensitivities about these things, you will try and follow the tractor’s elephantine depressions in the soil, tiptoeing gingerly between the green sprouts, and trying to minimize the spoil.

Probably pining for the fjords…

That such a strategy led me to encounter the stiffened, stripped corpse of a young badger seems strangely apposite. If it had been trapped, I suppose it would have been removed. However, rendered paranoid by the deterrence of erased trails – and a pair of rusty spikes seemingly designed to carry trespassers’ severed clotpoles… – I wondered if this too was a warding-off, even a poisoning? The rigid death-pose looked highly unnatural; and I can only pray that the resultant scavengers were more fortunate, if so.

Enter Guiderius with Cloten’s head…

Legally, paths have to be reinstated within a fortnight of ploughing and planting – but, of course, some (I feel I must be allowed to call them) capitalist bastards prefer you not to access their land at all: and will therefore string barbed or electrified wires across defined rights-of-way. Anarchist that I am, I am more than happy to smash these illegal (and anti-social, of course) blockages with my handy walking stick: until I can pass without fear of major bodily harm (and the subsequent Bard-invoked lawsuit).

Theory, one; reality, nil…

Such routes have either been hard-fought-for; or have existed as byways for many centuries. Why should the greed of a few spiteful individuals ruin – as they did today – my enjoyment of fresh air and public access: especially when I know these are effective treatments for both my chronic pain, as well as my PTSD-originated depression? (I therefore returned home more miserable than when I had set off… – my many rude mutterings causing the local, wind‑hovering buzzards to mew in dismay; the chattering chaffinches to blush; and the truculent rooks to welcome me with open wings….)

Round like a circle in a spiral…

Packwood House – what a real path actually looks like…

What a contrast, though, from yesterday! Not only the weather: but every footpath I traversed between Baddesley Clinton and Packwood House was clearly marked, and well-maintained. You feel welcomed (and even appreciated); and you therefore relax (despite, in my case – after a long, enforced bout of rest – setting too high a target; and not doing myself any physical favours – hence the re-stretching of limbs, today…).

Bluebells – you wouldn’t have known, otherwise would you…?

This was strong, sweet medicine, which required no sugar to swallow: especially as the wildlife also seemed happy in the surprising warmth. (My fleece stayed on for only a few hundred yards; and even a thin, technical T-shirt felt too much! Today, a thick, hooded fleece and a long-sleeved thermal vest were no protection from the harsh wind… – although it did help push me up the hill…!)

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows…

Code green: “You shall not pass…”

I know, as a lifelong (but now decelerating) walker, that I have a duty to the owners and tenants of the land I cross (not that we aren’t all “tenants”, really…). But, of course, this is a reciprocal responsibility – and one, that from my perspective, isn’t being upheld – not everywhere, anyway.

In a short crawl up an extremely windy Windmill Hill, this morning (along the infamous Compton Wynyates cul‑de‑sac…), I encountered two electrified fences (one half-covered – after a tunnel requiring acrobatics and/or body armour – pictured above – one not) barring my way – and in a field with no livestock whatsoever (well, apart from the rare breed of a struggling Lesser-Spotted Bard) – a missing sign (top); a freshly-hedge-trimmed waymarker (which also acts as a support post for those of us crippled enough to struggle with stiles at the best of times – pictured at the bottom, along with the bare electric wire); and, of course, now that harvest has come and gone, paths that are mere palimpsests:

Those who have trodden these before me have done remarkably well to create new, faint tracks on the freshly-cropped and -tilled earth – but these are visible only from certain angles; in certain lights – and, according to the OS map I always carry with me, diverge in several places. Surely it would be easier on everyone – especially as the scattered trees appear to prevent no obstacle – to drop in a few signposts?

Having worked on a farm (dairy and arable) – albeit before the invention of much of today’s automated machinery – I know that keeping public rights-of-way (PROW) maintained and open can be an inconvenience at best; and that those who tread them dropping litter, letting their dogs loose, etc. can be a menace at worst. But this is no excuse – certainly not for the ‘No trespassing: violators will be shot; survivors will be shot again’ sign I encountered last week… – and definitely no reason to dissuade people from enjoying their local patch. Nature – shaped as it is by our very presence – belongs to all of us.

Money can’t buy you love…

…but it seems that it – or, at least, the trappings of unearned privilege emanating from some long-lost royal arse-licking in the dim and distant recesses of history – can buy you selfishness; all the privacy you could ever greedily desire; sack-loads of solipsism; and the right to stick two very large, land-owning (probably silk-gloved) fingers up at the local peasantry.

I may be the concrete epitome of irony, being an anti‑social Socialist – but I’m sure that if I owned what has been described as “the perfect Tudor mansion”, I would not be so downright impertinent, miserly, covetous and inconsiderate as to keep it to myself: not only barring public visitation (along with Castle Ashby – whose gardens, though, you can enter, for a fee… (I wonder how much the Council Tax is on that second home?)); but ensuring that my property (“It’s all mine – mwa-ha-ha…!”) can only be glimpsed, hazily, from a great distance; and that the stinking, pestilential breath and pervasive body odours of the lower classes cannot be blown within shooting distance by the prevailing breezes. (I wonder if they also require some sort of licence to pass by…?)

Normally, of course, in response to such discourtesy, I would write an open letter, beginning something like this…

Dear Spenny – do you mind if I call you Spenny? (I don’t, of course. And you can call me whatever you want.) You have to earn respect around the Bard’s meagre land-ownings; and you have, so far, in my limited experience, done exactly the opposite…

…but I am sure that my missive would be treated – if not ignored – with the same narcissistic attitude that helped compose the above supercilious sign: which – translated from toffspeak (for the hard of understanding; and those who think that the hierarchies of class and money are there to be envied, and provide society with meaning and structure…) – reads, of course: “Fuck off, proles – and don’t dare cast your bubonic blights on – or anywhere near – my property again! (How dare you be so disrespectful towards your betters?)”

So what has prompted this vitriol, you may ask (or not – it is a little obvious…). Well, continuing to do my bit for the Rambler’s Big Pathwatch, I decided not to visit the windmill, directly, earlier today, as I would normally, but take the footpath around the hill – a route (mostly) new to me – that brings you down straight to Compton Wynyates church. I was then intending to head back along the level Shipston road, having passed the remains of Chelmscote, and past the entrance to Lower Compton Farm; having expounded all my cripple’s finite (and meagre) energy resources surmounting Windmill Hill’s (to me) forbidding slopes.

I had studied the OS map, beforehand, of course – noticing that the marked right-of-way stopped a mere gnat’s dick in distance from the church: which I foolishly, not appreciating my low rank (both meanings) in society, had assumed would have permissive access – due to its historical and community interest and value (not to mention proximity to the road) – and from both directions. (I don’t believe in any god, of course: but the local, supposedly-Christian one obviously only belongs to those with inherited titles – and all that stuff about mammon, charity, and brotherhood is mere cant…. What would Jesus say?!) I also could not imagine – brainless wazzock that I am – that a footpath this long, and leading so close to the public highway, would be a lordly cul-de-sac. But, like the somewhat clumsily‑revamped windmill, it seems its true purpose is as a giant garden ornament for Stalag Compton: on display solely for those with giant opinions of themselves, and Elizabethan leaded-window views. (The house apparently dates back to the time of Edward IV… – but I somehow feel I should be referencing Henry VIII: although, for the life of me, I really can’t think why….)

I may be misinterpreting the message I received (I’m only a northern clodhopper, after all; with proud, deep roots in the well-tilled soil of the working class): but it’s as if we plebeians are supposed to catch a glance of the great Mr Compton’s massive, er, pile; be stunningly impressed; tug our forelocks; and then mount a retreat, backwards, up the steep slopes between Windmill and Lady Elizabeth’s Hills. What I actually did was curse his name very loudly, and vulgarly, as I did so, until I ran out of breath (and the effects of my morphine and salbutamol sulphates had faded…), and had to rest awhile on the stile at the top of the retraced climb – interspersing my oaths with cries of “Vive la révolution!” as well as lambasting the whole principle (no, that can’t be the right word…) of hereditary peerages.

I also considered the Scottish people even more blessed – with their unfettered right to roam their nigh-paradisaic landscape – and temporarily toyed with the idea of pretending I couldn’t read (being thick and from Lancashire, like, tha noes; ferrets; pikelets; dripping; clogs; mills…); before realizing that someone who relies on a walking stick really shouldn’t be attempting to scale a gate (a rude message in itself) much higher than his own head; and wondering how much being pelted with both barrels in the buttocks actually hurts….

The Yahoo, of course, here, isn’t me. It is Spencer Compton, 7th Marquess of Northampton, himself – whose coat of arms, one assumes, is representative of the forces that would have been amassed against my disabled self, should I have trespassed one ermine millimetre onto his privileged, newly-mown turf. (Most of us have a Flymo. This man actually has a man with a shiny tractor…! Crivens!)

It is all very well and good for the latest Tysoe & District Record to fawn, desirously, in this man’s general direction – but not only does the windmill not look “once again as it should” (someone needs glasses…!); neither should the village be owing him “a great thank you” – not until he treats us all as the equal human beings we are; and allows us passage through what rightfully should be ours.

He said also to the man who had invited him, “When you give a dinner or a banquet, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbours, lest they also invite you in return and you be repaid. But when you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind…”.

Distance is incomprehensible and therefore meaningless…

Going rambling means freedom to go out and explore the countryside and enjoy the scenery and landscapes that I used to enjoy when able-bodied…. It lifts the spirits and gives a huge sense of contentment, especially after a ramble that becomes really special.

– Val, Disabled Ramblers

Walking, for me, is as easy as pi (or, to be more exact, calculating its cube-root to forty‑two decimal places, in my head, in hexadecimal; whilst simultaneously chewing on a Carolina Reaper chilli; listening to Metallica – or, perhaps, Disaster Area – at full volume, with my hearing aids turned up to eleven; and marking time by jabbing myself in the eye with a blunt chopstick). It is also precisely as pain-free. Patting the top of your head (gently with a medieval mace) at the same time as rubbing your tummy (soothingly with fresh nettle leaves and brambles), by comparison, is a cube of frozen excreted nitrogenous waste. Funnily enough, though, it – i.e. walking – is one of the most rewarding, relaxing pastimes I know of and experience.

Although a mere amateur – or, more accurately, tiro (my technique is terrible: but my “artistic impression” almost certainly ranks alongside the Chuckle Brothers’ mighty pinnacle) – I’ve written frequently on here (even including the occasional ‘pome’) about my deep and lasting love of the pursuit: especially clumping through the countryside. I’ve also mentioned (more than once, no doubt) how such apparent masochism (which it most certainly isn’t (I think)) makes a major positive contribution to a life where every waking minute is spent dealing with being disabled: especially carrying on with constant (and inconstant) what-the-DWP-laughingly-refers-to-as “discomfort”.

Ironic then, isn’t it – the predicament of medicament, I suppose… – that the ‘remedy’ for the hurt I live through is more of the same… – well: more of the similar.

This is because, I believe – as I’ve (also) explained before (nevertheless, it bears repeating (like Yogi, but especially Boo-Boo)) – there are “two levels of pain”. Not that these cancel each other out, as with matter and anti-matter; or one acting as the less-toxic antidote to the venom of the second. Just that you can, with a little ongoing practice, manipulate the first to distract from, or sometimes temporarily supersede, the second, marginally lessening its impact; whilst also (and more critically: and therefore more profitably) “commanding your body”, and managing its exposure to suffering, its experience of it… – “Always [dealing] with what pain is and never with what it means.” From this “commanding” – allied with my drug of choice: the production, through such exercise, of my “own private narcotic”, the super, supernatural endorphin – comes the willingness to push my frame beyond its restrictive infinitesimal aptitudes. From this commanding – some of the time – comes control. From this commanding – when it does work – comes satisfaction, delight, and almost-addictive enjoyment.

Which is why – simply put: because the gains, for me, far outweigh the drawbacks – I walk. When I can. (How I walk is a completely different matter. Basically, badly: “doing my habitual impersonation of a slightly inebriated penguin”. Although this does mean – yippee – that I consume more calories than those with a ‘normal’ gait.) Additionally, the associated continual shift of scenery is intensely preferable to the unmoving view of our bedroom ceiling (only varied by the writhing attempts to find the holy grail of a restful, comfortable state); or the stultifying, stabbing solidification of my joints when glued repeatedly to the goggle-box. And, as another beneficial side-effect – despite the increased (always hopefully temporary) physical distress – the odd bits of me that can be strengthened gradually increase in fitness (including, importantly, my mental welfare – which is at the heart of all this, of course): leading to a more robust ability to cope, the next time around. (Which there will be. (I hope.))

There is an art, it says, or rather, a knack to flying. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss…. Clearly, it is the second part, the missing, which presents the difficulties.

– Douglas Adams: Life, the Universe and Everything

This is not to say that after any exercise I won’t be in a worse physical state than I was before – at least as measured in quanta of pain. Undoubtedly, I will. And for some time. But, being stubborn – and not solely because all the components of a good walk toiled come together serendipitously to produce transitory, momentary intoxication – it is an activity I refuse to relinquish: whatever barriers may be placed in my way (such as disobedient or immobile limbs; or a lack of proprioception and sensation). Therefore, as I wrote a few posts ago, after each successive, periodic downturn in health, I have had to force my unwilling body to repeatedly relearn and regain what should be an innate ability (similar to how Arthur Dent acquires skill in flying, and then teaches his “human soul-mate”, Fenchurch – although, sadly, I don’t have the equivalent of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy to instruct me).

When you’re permanently in possession of “this terrible pain in all the diodes down [your] left side”, keeping fit can obviously be a bit of a challenge (in the same way that “lleng” is…). But, to me, it’s one definitely worth accepting (even for the umpteenth time); along with overcoming (if not demolishing) those barriers – however obstinately permanent they may at first appear. (Screw your eyes up tight; or retrieve that mace, and aim for somewhere tender: and they’ll soon start to drift out of focus. Possibly accompanied by the sound of a harpist’s gentle, receding glissandi.)

Even if your health is relatively sound (especially compared to mine (ha‑ha)), a recent newspaper report detailed – again – how walking is good for you, anyway; and for your longevity. Sadly, I’m not convinced that what I do can in any way be described as “brisk walking or slow jogging”: but…

Exercise buys you three to seven additional years of life. It is an anti-depressant, it improves cognitive function and there is now evidence that it may retard the onset of dementia.

– Sanjay Sharma

And if you’re a more social (less anti-social) creature than I; but think that any sort of distance is beyond you – it’s not; and I am proof (more of the jelly variety than the pudding… ) – or need a kick up the (waterproof) pants to get moving; then there is always Walking for Health:

Getting active can be difficult. But we’re here to help.

     Walking is great for your health and puts a spring in your step. With Walking for Health, you can take part in a free short walk nearby to help you get active and stay active at a pace that works for you. It’s a great way to stretch your legs, explore what’s on your doorstep, and make new friends.

     For over 12 years, we’ve helped thousands of people like you discover the many benefits of regular group walks. From reducing stress, to losing weight, to sharing laughs, Walking for Health has something for everyone.

With regards to my capability (or lack of it), however: even when I’m game, and my condition is at the top of its sine-curve, there are some days – and possibly a greater number of nights – that are better than others. Equally, no two are ever the same: in terms of capacity, (dis)comfort, and enjoyment. And, sometimes, my ‘programming’ can suddenly go awry (those blasted diodes!) – whether it be a loss of directional control (more inebriated in appearance; more penguin-like); fading coordination; or simply my fingers spasming, as they do, resulting in yet another dent on my poor old walking stick. In all cases, I have found it best simply to stop; gather my breath and my wits (such as they are); and concentrate extremely actively on the impending first step that my body would enforce as the threshold of my abilities, given half a chance. Then the second step. And repeat as necessary, until normal service is resumed. If I do not halt, the chances are I will simply topple (or at least wobble like a Weeble – which must be a very disturbing sight for those around me…).

This is one of the sundry reasons I prefer to walk at night; or very early in the morning. Additionally, in, say, Stratford, in the half-light, it is actually easier to ‘see’: as there are far fewer moving objects to contend with; as well as it being less embarrassing (for all concerned; and with less risk of a collision), should I (and I will) oscillate or dodder.

I consider ‘Stratford-upon-Heaven’ my home town: but, when it is busy, and filled with people soaking up the sun (I will not blame the tourists: all are equally liable, it seems…), it is more akin to Stratford-upon-Hell; and a part of me starts to meretriciously envy those in mobility scooters who appear to see no harm (revenge, perhaps?) in scything their way up Bridge Street, with metaphorical blades attached, Boudica-style, to the hubs of their wheels.

But, one day, perhaps – the Dawn of the Dread – when I can no longer put one front in foot of another more than once, or twice, even in shaky slow motion – perhaps I will be limited(?) to such a device. Of course, then I can join the Disabled Ramblers to get my third-age kicks (right through the night)!

There is a moment in every dawn when light floats, there is the possibility of magic. Creation holds its breath.

– Douglas Adams: Life, the Universe and Everything

But there are other reasons for my tenebrose meanderings: insomnia, of course (often caused by the selfsame pain…); the startlingly distinct perspectives you gain on familiar places (swans spread out on the Avon: no longer compelled to crowd by unwholesome crusts); the rare, precious, crystalline silences; the melding of souls with the genius loci that gifts you temporary monarchy of all you survey, that helps you revel in the momentous aloneness. (Hush.)

And, strangely, I am not the only one with such hankerings. A new book – At Night: A Journey Round Britain from Dusk Till Dawn by Dixe ‘No second i’ Wills – is, according to one reviewer…

A charismatic evocation of what it is to be awake while the world sleeps…. The book’s most delightful passages convey [Wills’] wonder at the natural world that comes to life under cover of darkness….

– Matthew Jones: Walk

So – as I have implored of you before – get out there, and strut your stuff! The nights are drawing in (which, to me, is a good thing…)!

Otherwise (and I’ll be round to check on you), I shall just have to keep pushing the Ramblers’ Big Pathwatch – which seems to be progressing well – down the boots of those, like me, who can only manage the occasional amble, until you do. Although there is, of course, absolutely nothing to stop you making yourself useful – even at the peak of fitness – whilst enjoying the beautiful Warwickshire countryside, and relishing whatever the weather decides to throw (or gently lob) at you. Is there?

Just be grateful that these paths still exist. And be grateful that walking is as simple, for you, as two-plus-two. One day, it may not be so easy….

When the Ramblers Association recently launched its Big Pathwatch, urging walkers to upload pictures of overgrown footpaths, I considered it a bit silly. Poor hard-pressed councils tasked with footpath maintenance – can’t walkers stamp down a few stray nettles? After a stinging wade along the bridleways of Buckinghamshire, however, I’m all for app tale-telling.

     It wasn’t just fast-growing nettles and brambles but teasels, thistles, young oaks and hogweed as high as a horse. And this 35 miles from London, in the Tory shires, where keen trampers take to the lanes in battalions and steel swing gates have been installed in memory of members of the local U3A group.

     Apart from council cuts, the problem appears to be that many landowners regard footpaths as an unfortunate relic from pre-enclosure days, when peasants swarmed unimpeded across the countryside. Virtually every fence has a warning sign attached. “Private” (it’s really obvious where the footpath goes), “Beware of the bull” (there never is one) or “Vermin control in progress”.

– Patrick Barkham: The Guardian

Knowing how way leads on to way…

Most times, I just follow my (traditional, inherited, Yorkshire-profiled) nose – or a familiar perambulation – but sometimes, I find I need a target, a goal, to encourage me to keep on putting “one foot in front of another”: as part of the conjoined aims of experiencing somewhere (new and) beautiful; and coping, on a regular basis, with the severe, constant pain that attempts to rule my life; my every moment; my every movement….

As Karen Lee Richards writes, on the Health Central website:

Although study after study has shown that exercise helps reduce… pain, we’ve had little understanding of why until now. Scientists have long known that during prolonged strenuous workouts, our bodies release endorphins, a kind of natural opiate that reduces pain and enables us to continue exercising. But they haven’t known why (or even if) more moderate exercise would have a similar effect.

However, a recent report – whose purpose was “To examine the effect of aerobic exercise training on pain sensitivity” (albeit “in healthy individuals”) – I believe, now offers us some clues. As Gretchen Reynolds reports in The New York Times – quoting Matthew Jones, who led the study – “the findings intimate that ‘something occurring in the brain was probably responsible for the change’ in pain thresholds… [that] ‘the brain begins to accept that we are tougher than it had thought, and it allows us to continue longer although the pain itself has not lessened’.”

The study also could be meaningful for people struggling with chronic pain, Mr. Jones said… the experiment suggests that moderate amounts of exercise can change people’s perception of their pain and help them… “to be able to better perform activities of daily living.”

Or, as the monograph itself concludes, more formally:

This finding may have important clinical applications for exercise prescription in patients with persistent pain. For instance, patients with persistent pain may gain a pain relieving benefit of exercise by training with unaffected or pain free limbs. This would serve to improve their functional capacity and clinical outcomes, without the risk of exacerbating their symptoms. A transfer of endurance training to untrained limbs has previously been shown after exercise training.

As with much to do with chronic pain, therefore, coping with it requires some (not always permanent) reprogramming of the stubborn – but still plastic – pia mater that (I hope) lies between our ears. But, even without knowing all the technical stuff that may go on ‘up there’, it is easy to understand how the positive distraction of focusing on the world around you – especially if actively involved in navigating your way around it – can mediate, or even relegate (even if only temporarily), the negative, Dementor‑like sensations screaming around your body and soul; as well as producing protracted dividends.

Acknowledging the medical benefits, the “demonstrated link between increased physical activity, well-being and health” – as Hippocrates said: “Walking is man’s best medicine” – there are also psychological, aesthetic, rewards, of course. The swallows mobbing a stubbornly-stupid sparrowhawk – which, eventually, was driven away by their constant barrage, accompanied by excited, machine-gunned ‘splee‑plink’ and ‘flitt‑flitt’ alarm calls (although they actually appeared to be enjoying themselves…). A birdfight, rather than a dogfight.

Or the lonely lapwing, mournfully reiterating its ‘peewit’ soubriquet (“There is enough evil in the crying of wind”) by the side of a farm’s large pond (“I wander by the edge of this desolate lake”). The parent-and-child buzzards mewing in turn, soaring and circling over the wheat-fields of Baddesley Clinton; then heading, as close companions, true, towards Hay Wood. Always; all ways: the roads taken – and not taken….

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

– Robert Frost: The Road Not Taken

So, why was I there, what “target”, what “goal”, had brought me to these places, these events; stretching my legs, stretching my limits? Well, I had donned my boots in the name of a good cause: the Ramblers’ Big Pathwatch.

Walkers understand better than anyone just how important it is to keep our paths well maintained, and they already do an amazing job of helping with this just by regularly using our paths. We are hoping as many people as possible will go one step further and play a crucial role in protecting our paths by getting involved….

– Benedict Southworth, chief executive, Ramblers

As the NFU reports: “The Local Authority rights of way teams are struggling to survey every route and so the Ramblers have started the project to undertake these surveys.” And, as I have already discovered, only a week in (and four blocks crawlingly completed – it’s pretty much like doing a giant crossword or sudoku, in slower-motion, with kilometre-sized squares…) – encountering a chronically-broken bridge; impassable and barely-recognizable footpaths cloaked by nettles and brambles; absent waymarkers; forbidding signs; big new houses blocking your way, your view… – Britain’s footpaths truly show signs of disappearing through “slow decay”. And something – this thing – needs to be done. Or where else shall we go…?

That is not to say that there are not many responsible farmers and landowners – the National Trust (whose plethora of properties make excellent launching points; and provide the perfect sustenance and shelter necessary for rest and recovery…) principal amongst them – whose almost religious, rigorous care of the rights of way across their land make rambling a truly rewarding (and hazard-free) experience: even for those limping of limb. And, being in the middle of England, even I – a bare‑faced Northerner: who likes my landscapes (‘like me chips’) rugged and dripping – have to admit that the scenery is something else. Being mainly flat (by my measure) – thank goodness – it is also a lot easier on my agéd bones.

So onwards will I plod, the National Grid as my guide: tracing the dotted, dashed, diamonded, green lines; re-tracing my steps; registering and recording both the lowlights and highlights of our local environs; gaining behoofs on the hoof – both self- and society-interested; a square deal, if you will: an equitable arrangement, where my health (both mental and physical), as well as that of the countryside (and our enjoyment of it), is enhanced immeasurably. Encouraged thusly, thus will I go on “putting one foot in front of another”.