Walking the Roads

I've taken to walking the roads of an evening, inspired by the runaway best-seller Run,  Fat Bitch, Run (the title made me feel guilty - I'm far too lazy to read the whole book) and by a reluctant admission that the size of my behind is probably in direct proportion to my unwillingness to move it. If chairobics (sitting in a chair, thinking about exercising) were an Olympic sport, the Blue Devon would have been painted in my honour by now.

Anyway, I've been pounding the tarmac over the last few evenings and find that I am enjoying it far more than I expected. It was a little strenuous at first, but that was hardly a shock, given that my only exercise of late has been walking with a very elderly and very slow dog. I'm doing the traditional circuit, up Drumlease Road and down by Fowley's Garage and the Clubhouse and the Nursing Home, then back by the Creamery bridge. Most people seem to do it in the opposite direction to me but I prefer to get the hill out of the way sooner rather than later. The circuit is 2.5 miles, and the whole thing takes about 45 minutes, at a march. I reckon I should cut that by several minutes over the next month or two.

Roses at Stonebridge

The problem with walking fast however is that it doesn't leave enough time to take in all the sights. I spot little things I didn't know were there, like the little stream which runs underneath the road opposite Fowley's garage, the beautiful cultivated pink roses at the entrance to Stonebridge and the delightful delicate little wild pink dog roses intertwined with wild woodbine further along after the Creamery bridge. I marvel at the striking, sensational views from almost every aspect of my walk. I admire people's handiwork in their gardens, and on the dry evenings hear the buzzing of strimmers, like hundreds of honeybees at work. I rack my brain trying to remember the names of the wildflowers growing in the hedges and at the sides of the road - I'm sure I've spotted the Devil's Bit Scabious, much beloved of the rare Marsh Fritillary. I savour the lush green smell of damp meadow grass after rain. Who knew a smell could have a colour?

Wild Woodbine on Drumlease Road

And then there's the waving, which is an exercise in itself. I try to alternate arms, for fear of ending up with one enormous bicep. I imagine I have some idea of how the Queen of England feels. You see, it's vital to wave at every car you meet. No-one will drive home saying "How dare she? She waved at me!" but if you don't wave where you should wave, the consequences are almost too awful to contemplate. Some evenings are "wavier" than others. Mondays and Wednesdays, being Bingo nights, can be positively regal. Occasionally there is no time to wave and  it is necessary to jump into the ditch because someone is driving at lunatic speed. Slow down! They won't mind if you're five minutes late for the Idiot of the Year Awards.

Of course it's not just cars I have to wave at. I meet other walkers on my travels, along with the occasional cyclist and jogger. On warm, dry evenings it's easy to smile and salute each other. The miserable wet evenings on the other hand are the true test of bonhomie and good nature. I went out one evening last week, knowing that there was a better than even chance of being rained upon. Sure enough, when I'd reached the Tullynascreena Mass Rock signpost (the point of no return) the heavens opened. It poured. I had met one or two hardy souls on my journey thus far, but I met four more before I reached home, all sodden and dripping like myself. Each greeted me with a smile and a wry comment about the weather. I arrived at my door drenched but with a grin from ear to ear. Endorphins perhaps, or a delight at living in such a wonderful place among such friendly people?