Out on the mean streets

Anyone else signed up to Country Walking magazine's regular challenge to walk 1000 miles in a year? It's not as daunting as it sounds: 2.75 miles a day and you've got it in the bag. Easy, if you say it quickly enough.

I've made a good start. I've already walked 60 miles since New Year's Day, because I've been out canvassing. There's a local by-election coming up at the start of February, so I've been pounding the streets posting leaflets through letterboxes and knocking on doors to gauge voter intention. I feel doubly smug because of all the miles I've clocked up and the satisfaction of knowing I'm supporting a good cause.

An unexpected consequence has been that I've seen parts of Kettering I've never seen before, despite having lived here for over 30 years. It's not a big town but a bit like New York (and this is where the similarity ends) it is divided into tidy chunks, and there are some sectors I've never visited, especially those on the posh side of the tracks. There's been a lot of building work, too, and in several areas where once there stood a proud shoe factory, there is now an enclave of bijou homes. I was particularly intrigued to see a resurgence in back-to-back terraces being built among swish detached houses. Fascinating stuff.

If you fancy a walk, why not explore an area of your home turf you haven't visited before? You never know what you might find.

You've let me down, you've let yourself down

I rarely struggle for something to write on this blog, but since my last post I've not felt inclined. I've been in a bit of a grump, and I'm sure - well, I know from what people have said - that I'm not alone.

For the last few weeks, I've almost enjoyed the lockdown: not the effects on health and the appalling statistics and the incompetence of the government, but the cleaner air, the increase in bugs and birds in my garden, the quiet and the level of courtesy that seemed to be growing. I started to think perhaps we were moving towards a kinder, gentler world.

And then BoJo spoiled everything with the ridiculous announcement about not going to work unless you had to go to work, and not using public transport unless you had to use public transport, and not being able to see your parents unless you put your house on the market and they booked a viewing. Almost overnight, something changed. People are saying 'Sod it.'

My daily walks have been restricted to places I can reach without getting into the car, because I've been following orders. People have been respecting my two-metre exclusion zone and moving out of the way with a smile, a wave and sometimes even a cheery word. On Sunday, though, we went into our nearby woodlands (the ones threatened with destruction) and there were people everywhere, not just family groups, but also gaggles of all sorts, heads down, not moving to the side, not smiling, not even acknowledging anyone else's existence.

And then there's the litter that has suddenly reappered. Why would you go to the trouble of venturing into the nearest thing we have to countryside and then leave a trail of paper and plastic? Who has been so desperate for a coffee that they've been to Starbucks, carried their cup on to the footpath and then just dropped it?

My rose-tinted specs have been consigned to the bin. I'm  disheartened. My message to the public is this: I'm very disappointed in you.

Order! Order!

I went to a full council meeting last night of Kettering Borough Council to support a motion relating to promoting cycling and walking in the town. I was there with my Extinction Rebellion pals, but also as someone who used to cycle, but who has been driven off my bike by two things: fear of getting mown down and lack of places to secure my bike in the town. Several members of the public spoke for the motion. (You can just turn up and do your three minutes.)

 I'd never been to a full  meeting before, and it was fascinating. For one thing, I hadn't expected it to be so formal. We all had to stand as the Mayor and her Deputy, both in full regalia, the Monitoring Officer, the Managing Director and, for some reason, a vicar, paraded in, following the mace, which was placed before them all with great ceremony.

Then we had to stay standing for what the Mayor described as 'wise words' from the Reverend Helen, followed by a prayer. I definitely wasn't expecting that! Of course, I don't know whether or not this opening speech is shared among the faith groups in the town.

Those of us in the public seating were given a fact sheet to explain proceedings and a helpful map to show who was sitting where and to which party they were affiliated. We have three Independent councillors, one LibDem, six Labour, and the rest are Tories. Our Conservative MP, Philip Hollobone, is also a councillor and I was surprised to see him there, given everything else that he must have going on at the moment. Perhaps that's why he didn't say much.

Anyway, it was a lively evening, especially the discussion around the motion. I'll spare you the details, suffice to say it was passed unanimously other than for one abstention.

Whatever you think about national politics, let's not forget how privileged we are to live in a country where we can play a role in what goes on - even if sometimes it feels as though we're being ignored.

Not a woman's best friend

Photo: Morguefile

To be clear, I have nothing against dogs. Dogs are animals; they act on instinct, not reason. Dog owners, however, well, that's another matter.

Might I suggest that when out exercising your hound on a public footpath, should you see someone coming towards you*, you call that hound to heel? Don't assume that everyone is happy to be jumped upon by a strange animal.

Nor does it help to say, 'Oh, he won't hurt you. He's just being friendly.'  
Two things:

• First, how do you know he won't hurt me? Just because he's never bitten anyone yet, doesn't mean he won't start with me. Maybe he doesn't like the look of me. Maybe I smell intimidating. Maybe I'll accidentally make some movement that your animal will interpret as threatening.
• Second, I can be friendly, too, but I wouldn't leap up and gyrate against your leg or lick your face without being introduced first.

I'll say it again: dogs are animals. They are not people, no matter how much you wish they were. Broadly speaking they have teeth at one end and smelly poo at the other.

* I am of course ranting here against the minority and in particular against the owner I encountered yesterday. I'm sure anyone reading this is a responsible and considerate pet owner.

Best foot forward

Inspired by my fellow blogger Maria over at First Draft Cafe and my real-life friend Debs, I have signed up to walk 1,000 miles this year. Not all in one go, obviously. It averages out at just under 3 miles a day, which is an hour-ish. It should be feasible, shouldn't it?

Should you wish to join me, there's lots of information on the website here. The project is in association with Country Walking magazine and is, of course, a nifty way to get us all reading it (though you don't have to buy a copy to join in).

I see, too, that the adverts have started to encourage us to whip out our binoculars and join in the Big Garden Birdwatch at the end of the month;  I've started a 30-day online yoga programme, too. There really is no excuse for sitting about.

Well, I don't know about you, but I could do with some of these motivational opportunities at the end of February, after I've endured all those cold winter days when it barely seems to get light and it's as much as I can do to get out of bed! If you'd all be kind enough to make a note in your diaries to give me a virtual kick up the backside in eight weeks' time it would be much appreciated.

Walking the walk

Project 'Walk the Jurassic Way' is closer to completion, thanks to a weekend stomping around the Northamptonshire/
Oxfordshire border. It's not far from home, I know, but we decided to stay overnight, so we could do some of the footpath on the way down and some on the way back. We booked a room at the Brasenose Arms in Cropredy, which was, shall we say, adequate. No, it was fine, really, but I'm glad we hadn't booked in for a week.

The weather was perfect - dry and warm, but not hot - and we ticked off several villages and points of interest on our itinerary. One place we called in for a packet of crisps and a half of something cooling was Braunston, where we sat outside the  Admiral Nelson pub, right on the towpath of the Grand Union Canal, watching in awe as participants of a Birmingham to London race jogged past. Rather them than us, we thought.

The footpath, which connects Stamford to Banbury, is called the Jurassic Way because of the geology beneath it. If you plan to do this walk in the company of a geosciences degree-holder, as I did, be prepared for lots of stops to look at fossils that are just lying around. The samples in the picture were picked up in a field. Aren't they lovely?

We've only got about 8 miles left to do. Then what? I quite fancy the Limestone Way, which runs from Castleton in Derbyshire to Rocester in Staffordshire, finishing about 5 miles from where I was brought up in Uttoxeter. Let me know if you've walked this route.

Misadventures

Last weekend, my poor husband came a cropper while we were picking plums. He is allergic to wasp stings - not in an anaphylaxis, rush-to-the-hospital kind of way, but sufficiently such that the area around any sting will inflate and go a funny colour. He is supposed to carry Piriton or some such with him at all times, but, well, you know what men are like.

A walk on the wild side

And so it was that, when reaching up into the tree for a particularly juicy fruit, one of the little blighters flew up his sleeve and stung him slightly right of centre. Fellow allotment holders were amused to see him rip off his shirt and hop around declaiming loudly. It wasn't fatal, but he did go up a cup size for a couple of days.

This weekend's mishap came when we were out walking and taking some pictures for an ongoing book project. We were following a marked footpath that took us through some stables and I was intrigued by what looked like a roundabout for horses. Naturally, t'other half knew what it was: a sort of equestrian treadmill. He leaned in for a closer and in doing so touched the electric fence. Cue more leaping and shouting, though mercifully he kept his clothes on this time.

He is going off on a golfing holiday shortly, but to be honest I'm not sure if he's safe out on his own.

Striding out in the mud

Just in time, this morning we stopped ourselves getting seriously miserable by setting out on a walk, despite the heavy sky, and it perked us up no end.

We went to Twywell Hills and Dales, which is a site of some 135 acres that takes its name from the abandoned quarry workings that give the place its undulating landscape. Yes, it a manmade country park, but it feels like the 'proper' countryside (at least to a townie like me).

It was extremely claggy underfoot, but at least today I managed the entire walk without falling over. Last Sunday, I went base over apex after only a few yards and had to pretend that, yes, I was fine, and, no, I hadn't landed on that prickly thing.

By the time we got back to the car we were very muddy, but the blood was moving more swiftly and our mood had lifted.

His 'n' hers boots

Litte bird in a big sky

My neighbour must have forgotten to put his clocks back, because this morning he was clattering around outside before eight o'clock. Through my sleep-fog I could hear a ladder being shifted and a couple of gruff voices making plans for the job in hand.

Quite determined to have some sort of a lie-in, I made tea and then went back to bed with poet Simon Armitage for company. I'm reading his book Walking Home, which is about him following the Pennine Way in the 'wrong' direction, from north to south. This is one of the books that was revealed in last weekend's reorganisation and I seem to remember I bought it on impulse in Waterstones as a BOGOF or some such. It's a cracking read, as you might expect.

However, it's made me want to strap on my own walking boots and set off into the wilderness. Such terrain is in short supply in Northamptonshire, so I settled for a seven-mile figure of eight across the fields yesterday. I'm a townie, but even I can spot a red kite - they're very common round here, but not keen on posing for photos.
I also managed to snap some sort of falcon perched atop a tree. I once interviewed Bill Oddie, but none of his bird knowledge rubbed off, so I can't be more precise than that. Again, apologies for the quality of the photo, but it was taken point-and-shoot style with the zoom on max. The route also took us past a field of alpacas.

My neighbour has just set to with some sort of graunching machine. Time for some loud rock music, I think.

Three of the best: yoga, walking and soup

There is always the risk that turning a hobby into a job can take the joy out of it. I'm trying hard not to let this happen with my yoga, and with this in mind spent yesterday with a lovely group of people in Lincolnshire at a yoga event just for fun: no note-taking, no handouts to read, no pressure to take anything away and apply it in my own teaching, no being there just because I needed some CPD points: I went because I thought it sounded like a good day out - and I was right.

Castle Hill, Welbourn

The event was organised by the East Midlands Region of the British Wheel of Yoga as a 'Yoga & Walking Workshop'. First we had a lovely slow practice focusing on hips and legs. Then after a quick cuppa we strapped on our walking boots and headed off up a hill - yes, there are hills in Lincolnshire: who knew! - to put into practice our newfound connection with our feet (!). It was very muddy, but the sun was out and the sky was blue.

After slithering our way back to the village hall, we were treated to some delicious homemade soup, lemon drizzle cake and flapjack, which was just what was needed. The afternoon session saw us all blissed out with a lovely relaxation.

It was a fabulous day and really lifted my spirits after what had been a rather trying week. Huge thanks to organiser and soup-maker supreme Julie, and our excellent workshop leader Liz Underwood.

And relax.

Yogic inspiration

I woke up on Saturday morning feeling grumpy. Fortunately the sun was shining, so I strapped on my walking boots and set off for a brisk walk to clear my head.

There is a yoga mantra I like to march to, Om Gam Ganapataye Namaha, which roughly translated means Salutations and prostrations to Lord Ganesha. I’m not a Hindu so the call to Lord Ganesha means nothing to me on a religious level, but I’m not averse to tapping into his energies. He is the one who it is said helps in overcoming obstacles, so was ideal for my frame of mind. That’s often the way with mantra: it’s not the literal translation that matters, it’s the way it makes me feel that’s important.

Anyway, whether it was some other-worldly power or just the blast of cold air, I don’t know, but something did the trick. Since then I’ve felt quite inspired. I’ve subbed and proofed a batch of copy for a professional journal I work on, entered a couple of writing competitions, written a list of possible themes for future yoga lessons and planned my lessons up to Christmas. Hell, I’ve even signed up for the Sport Relief Mile next March!

My main challenge for this week, however, is to make sure I’m as near note perfect as I can manage for my choir performance on Saturday: highlights from Handel’s Messiah, a bunch of carols and, just for fun, a selection from White Christmas. Should be a good evening.