Day 7

I wake up early and take 10 minutes to do some stretches and listen to chill-out music, then I am ready for my day. Microwaving my leftover blueberry chocolate chip pancakes, I settle down at the dining table for a morning of work.

Before noon I make a note in my calendar that I am taking an hour for lunch – I am itching to get out into the fresh air – and at 12 on the dot I zip up my coat and step outside. I am immediately greeted by my neighbours, who are 3 or 4 metres and one wall away from me. Although I am desperate to get away for my stroll, I converse with them politely and we talk about the latest news. After a precious 8 minutes have passed, I slope off with a wave, climb over the stile rather ungraciously, and plod across the field.

It is very peaceful here, with only the noise of a gentle breeze caressing the long grass, and the coos and twitters of the birds. There are no clouds in the sky and I breathe in the cool air slowly and deeply. Usually I would hear cars in the distance, or the whir of bicycle wheels as cyclists speed past, but there is nothing but me and nature (and my rasping breaths as I pick up the pace a bit). I head towards a narrow, metal bridge and gingerly step across, marginally avoiding a pointy piece of barbed-wire, which takes me to the adjoining field.

My mobile phone rings and I inwardly debate whether to answer, disappointed that this action will shatter my zen. I check the screen and it is my colleague, so I breathlessly hit the green button and respond to her query. I am momentarily distracted by our chat and suddenly find myself squelching through red mud, recently turned by a tractor. When I feel moisture seep through to my socks, I decide it might be best to turn around. I say a hasty goodbye and turn my phone on silent, securing it in my coat pocket, then retrace my footsteps back to solid ground.

I spy a wooden gate and peer over, gasping at a quaint little bridge. It is tucked away behind the trees and I excitedly wade through the branches and tiptoe across. I wind through the nettles, following a sandy pathway, and am met with a wide expanse of water. The steep bank leads down to the river’s edge and I can imagine paddling here in the Summer, then sitting on a blanket whilst munching on egg sandwiches (with the obligatory tiniest piece of shell that always manages to make its way into the mayo). Feeling rather Famous Five-esque and excited to share my discovery with Darren, I trot back over the bridge and circle back to make my way home.

Then I am faced with a conundrum. The walkway is about 1.5 metres wide and there are 3 people walking towards me. What do I do? I decide to hang back at the widest point of the trail, happy to adhere to social distancing as best we can in this situation. I see the 3 bodies dither about and then a confident sausage dog ambles up to me. I am DESPERATE to stroke it but feel this would be breaching restrictions. Lagging behind, a terrier turns the corner and stares at me. It backs away, fading into the hedge like a mirage, eyes still on me. One of the walkers reluctantly opens a side gate, steps out of the immediate trail space and stares at me. I think this is an invitation to pass, so I do so, smiling. She looks at me like I am from another planet and I sidle by, my eyes to the floor. I remember that this is a trying time for everyone and chances are, she or one of her crew may be just as nervous as me.

With twenty minutes left in the glorious sunshine, I decide to take a minor detour to the river. My heart pumps a little harder as I exert some energy and it feels uplifting. I stop at the top of the bank and survey the land, hands on hips. Inquisitive, I lean forward to see if there are any little fish. Not quite close enough, I step down towards the edge – but my right foot is slick in the mud and moves too quick for me to save myself – I land with a thwack on the floor, hands splayed out either side of me in the sticky mud. There is nothing solid to grab on to, so my efforts to stand up are promptly thwarted and I am flat on my back again. My third attempt to become vertical is again unsuccessful, however, I do manage to spin on to my front before I smack down into the wet dirt. I look like a cartoon character trying to walk on a patch of oil and I am grateful there is no audience.   My foot finally manages to find a crevice in the bank, and with my fists gripping on to a patch of reeds, I am able to finally haul myself up the bank to safety.

My trainers are crusty and my feet are soaked. My coat is covered in clods of mud and grass and my leggings are wet. With my limbs cold and covered in scratches, I trudge the remaining 200 yards back up to the farm and wave wearily to the neighbours.

So much for a relaxing lunchbreak….

I think I will just stick to watching these fish: