In the name of exercise, I've probably walked thirty miles this week, sliding, splashing and clattering though the woods, scattering the wildlife as I go.
It would be difficult, although I've had plenty of practise now, to identify the species of the retreating birds and mammals; all the identification guides have mugshots, not the more frequently observed tails. An audio guide to alarm calls would be a welcome addition.
Over a year, I have enjoyed the first lockdown serenity of closed car parks and untrafficked roads, the rare summer visitors who had battled, or possibly broken, travel restrictions to stop by and gawp, the sudden wetness of the autumn, after a parched summer.
I've dived out of the door at the sight of a yellow sun, to be dampened by the next cloud; emerged like a reluctant butterfly into full overcasts, to be shocked by a slanting ray.
But, brighter still, I've walked these miles too, to be surprised by the full unfeigned smile of a stranger, well met, out in the tranquillity and beauty.
Behind our masks, we have been practising these smiles; supplanting those polite, mouthed grimaces that used to suffice in places of commerce and the meeting of strangers. We've learned to project warmth with our eyes, and are better for it.
