The Joy of Walking

The. Joy. of. Walking.

Yes - you did read that right. I can’t think of any time, recently, when I haven’t felt better after a long walk. When I attended a Mental Health awareness workshop the other day, a recurrent theme was the importance of exercise. We were shown a video, produced by the World Health Organisation, on depression, which stated that exercise had shown that it could be as effective as medication in combating mild to moderate depression.

Now, I’m not really a fan of exercise, that is to say, I’m not really a fan of sport - playing it or watching it. At school, I was such a hopeless duffer (or rather, I had such scant confidence in my own physical prowess) that I ducked when someone threw the netball to me at school. That’s right - rather than risk dropping the ball, or missing the ball, I ducked so that someone else could catch it. One of my school friends was all too fond of reminding me of this. (She might be reading this now, actually, she does read this blog sometimes.) I come from a line of duffers; my mum never begrudged providing me with a note, excusing me from P.E, because her own mother had always done the same for her. I was always the last to be picked for any team - rounders, netball, hockey etc and quite resigned to the fact.

The only thing I was any good at was swimming; it must have been something to do with the effect of weightlessness that the water produced, but there I felt at home. My technique wasn’t brilliant but I had masses of stamina (and I really wish that there was a way I could have written that without it sounding like a double entendre). I could swim or float for hours.

In my twenties I discovered running; tried it for a while, loved the endorphin rush but started to knacker my knees so downsized to walking instead. And that first walking holiday - to the Lake District, hiking for hours, in between visiting Beatrix Potter and Wordsworth’s houses and eating wholesome food at a vegetarian hotel,

http://lancrigg.co.uk/

was bliss. Honestly! It was wonderful; it made me want to eat homemade soup all of the time and walk for hours. I’d always been afraid of heights (as you’d fully expect of the sports duffer) but on this holiday I overcame the fear, somewhat. I put this partly down to my super efficient walking boots and partly to a newly purchased walking pole. We were the youngest people at our hotel but I didn’t care - I was happy to be a young fogey. I was also resigned to being overtaken by sprightly old-timers on our hikes; racing past me as I picked my way, gingerly across the stepping stones.

Sour milk ghyll 

I felt healthy, I felt close to, dare I say, ‘at one with’, nature.

But then, the walking fell off a bit until recently when I got myself a fitness tracker, which I’ve already bored everyone senseless with….

Nowadays I walk for health and pleasure and I feel cheated if I don’t have time to walk to work. I always feel better after a long walk, even if it’s raining and I get drenched, there is the pleasure of a hot shower at the end of it (unless I get soaked on the way to work).

This has been a truly horrific week in the news; a week of senseless acts of  violence and hatred. When atrocities happen, they can make us feel utterly powerless, depressed and sometimes guilty. Nothing can make that right, I wouldn’t make that bold a claim for the power of exercise, and in a way, we owe it to the victims of these crimes to pause for thought and give them our compassion - we shouldn’t want to instantly forget about it. But walking through the park today, gave me a sense of groundedness after the surreal horror of the news. At least when you are moving, it gives you a sense of control; even if it’s just for that little portion of your life.

If you are feeling down; it might do the same for you...

Easedale Tarn (if memory serves correct)