Green Therapy

“An early morning walk is a blessing for the whole day” (Henry David Thoreau)

Walkers the world over will tell you about their favourite journeys. These vary from the type where you need an ordinance survey map and all-weather gear to the ‘stroll around a country lane’ variety where all you require is an open mind and the desire to lace up a pair of stout shoes. Me, well I belong to a growing band of bipeds who participate in ‘green therapy’ which is in essence - walking in the countryside for improved mental and physical well being.

Some ramblers will tell you it concentrates the mind and allows them to organise their thoughts for the day ahead. Others take the opposite stance and say it affords them too much thinking time and they prefer a more structured distraction, such as a competitive sport or pastime. I walk because it fuels my imagination, feeds my soul and gives me a basic fitness level. Only today I was treated to an ear-numbing wind and the rain washed clarity of a bright December morning. I have a number of different walks of varying lengths and surroundings to indulge myself in. I suppose I am fortunate at being able to explore the many permutations of hill, canal, wood, track, field and lake depending on how I feel on any one day. Today it was a simple stroll along the canal towpath.

I could tell it was a boat-free morning by the lack of oil on the water and the absence of churned up weed. The mallards and Canada geese were bickering over aquatic real estate in a man made basin adjacent to the canal while bored adolescents paddled through the still water, leaving tiny bow waves in their wake like eloquent graffiti blurring the ash and sycamores near perfect reflections.  As I walked along the narrow tarmac footpath I had an uninterrupted view over a low hawthorn hedge where a young heron was spearing a small shallow pool of rainwater in the vain hope of some breakfast. On the opposite bank a jay was attempting to play off ground tick with a grumpy magpie who ‘tack –tacked’ his disapproval at such a pointless, infantile pursuit.

The only fly in my perambulatory ointment was a burgeoning heel blister, pulling my mind away from this quiet, beautiful scene towards thoughts of antiseptic ointment and band aids. I slackened the drawstring on my walking shoe in an effort to reduce the friction, which helped a little and proffered a ‘good morning’ to a  dog walking regular who nodded silently, pulling in the leash of a dove grey  Weimaraner that sniffed the air disdainfully. I glanced at my watch and did a quick mental calculation on how long it would take to get back. Twenty minutes to the lock keepers cottage, which I’d just passed meant I should do a u-turn and be back just in time for the breakfast dishes and wheelie bin patrol

Sadly, there is always a point at which thoughts of home and daily routine gate-crashes my consciousness. Like the arc of an arrow that cannot resist the pull of gravity I reluctantly turn around and start to retrace my steps. A wise aunt once told me to “never resist the urge to perform a sideways glance” She said it was amazing what you could discover, even in fairly familiar surroundings. She was also an advocate of the slightly more problematic ‘head back eyes skyward’ manoeuvre which she said proved invaluable during a recent sojourn to Italy as an antidote to the more mundane tour guides as well as a way of spotting new and exciting architecture. My sideways glance unearthed a rather interesting overgrown wall where someone had substituted every third or fourth brick with a green or brown bottle. Maybe this was out of necessity due to a lack of suitable masonry, but I like to think it was done intentionally so that in the early morning light the translucent blue and amber bottles glowed like giant jewels. I was almost tempted to give them a polish to accentuate the effect, but again I resisted as homeward thoughts tugged at my brain like a naughty child at its own birthday party.

The blister on my foot began shouting again so I pulled off the shoe to inspect a red stain on my sock about the size of a fifty pence piece. The return journey became a weird form of hopscotch punctuated with the timeless standing on one leg shoe removal exercise, as I sidestepped my way haplessly towards the waiting canal. Thankfully I didn’t fall in. I decided that the safest option was to walk shoeless through the side streets leading to my house. Luckily  I didn’t meet anyone on the way back and decided to adopt my Aunt Joan’s final attitude of “staring at the floor to avoid eye contact with strangers” just in case a shard of broken glass or some omnipresent dog poo decided to get in on the act. I chuckled to myself, imagining what all the horses, sheep, cows, birds must have thought looking at the poor pathetic figure hobbling home carrying a single shoe. For once, I was the one being stared at, not them – the observer was now the observed. As I opened the wrought iron gate leading to the front door I waved at my elderly neighbour standing at the window. There was a brief pause while she bent down. After a few seconds she reappeared waving a pink mule.

Blisters aside, I still enjoy my ‘green therapy’ walk each morning and never now what a sideways glance may throw up or for that matter what surprises are in store as I lace up my stout shoes and prepare to free my mind.