Open Writing

A hip-hop scamper. A small furry bundle, helter-skeltering across the track, up a grassy bank, onto a dry-stone wall.

A grey squirrel, fleeing from me.

- Hey, it’s only me - I think. - You know me. I’m harmless. You see me every day. -

The squirrel pauses briefly, gives me a beady-eyed glance, then goes down the other side of the wall and off into the wood. There’s a brief hissing scuffle of dried leaves, then silence.

Further on, there are rabbits, grazing on the short, wet grass, running for cover when they belatedly hear my boots thudding closer.

In the top field a large flock of starlings rises into the air, all chattering noisily one to the other as they circle, then settle back to where they were feeding when I have gone by.

On the ridge beyond the field I pause, looking back through a fringe of fir trees on a twenty-mile view. Down there, five miles away, there’s a large industrial town, satisfactorily hidden away in one of the enfolding Pennine valleys. You would never guess that it was there. Houses, buildings, they’re mere dots. All is fields, woods, bare Tolkenian hills.

In that same top field I have seen foxes, openly going about their daily business, impervious to my presence, knowing that four legs are faster than two.

Once, with a breeze blowing briskly, directly into my face, I came within three paces of a hare which was sitting up, surveying the scene. Then I really did speak out loud.

“Don’t just sit there,’’ I said. “Run.’’

It was off before I had completed the first word, speed made visible, bulleting towards the tree-line.

Yes, I like nature. I like to spend part of every day with animals, birds - and my own thoughts. I like to walk alone.

English author William Hazlitt, writing in the early days of the 19th Century, commented “I like to go by myself. I can enjoy society in a room, but out of doors, nature is enough for me. I am then never less alone than when alone.’’

Well said, Bill H.

You have probably now marked me down as an odd-bod. And anti-social weirdo who talks to dumb animals.

Let me hasten to add that part of the delight of a daily walk is chatting to people you meet along the way. To Glynn the farmer, to Martin as he gathers in eggs from his hen-hut, to Derek the retired milkman who has the most obedient Border Collie to be found in this broad county…

Count in the halts for casual conversation, and a 60-minute walk becomes 120 minutes spent outdoors.

Newspaper reporter, news editor… I spent a lifetime gathering and presenting daily news. Interesting work, but there was many a day towards the end of my career when I would much sooner have been outdoors, rather than cooped in a battery-hen office.

I would swivel round from my desk, gaze up at a long view of hills, and promise myself “One day…’’

Now “one day’’ has arrived.

I’ve had my fill of “big’’ news. I’m more interested in the “little’’ news imparted by Glynn, Martin, Derek, and others I meet on my perambulations.

And silent conversations with squirrels, rabbits, the occasional hare, ensure a proper perspective on the world, and its ways.