A May Walk in Oldenland

As always walks seem to be a reflection on the days of a life, on the day in front of me, on the messages different parts of my body are sending as to their state of well-being.

Nine in the morning, an overcast May day, and I set off up the hills above our apartment. Rain is promised towards lunch time so I aim to be back before then. An early part of the walk is along country roads and I have donned a yellow hi-vis jacket to make my presence obvious to oncoming vehicles.

There’s an uphill section to start with, and I look out for familiar landmarks. Will the white horse be there in the field that corners the road? I spot the horse, cross the road, and walk a little away from the edge so that cars get an early sight of me, take a wide berth, and I can dodge back to the grass edging. I pass a sign that advertises emptying of cess tanks, and I remember the complexities of the drainage system from the house where we lived ten years ago.

As always walks seem to be a reflection on the days of a life, on the day in front of me, on the messages different parts of my body are sending as to their state of well-being. Yet they are also an opening up to the world around me: the May blossom on the hedgerows, the moment when the sun breaks through the clouds, the fields with balls of white fluff on green stalks from dandelions that have lost their yellow glory but found a new beauty.

I have set off with a route in mind, but its territory I know well and ask myself at different points whether to take this option or that. I walk on along the road and think about the turn to the right into the woods - it’s quite a long, meandering diversion, will keep me away from the traffic but … . I stick to the road, enjoying the regularity of walking on level ground, the rhythm. Half a mile further on, there is another chance to head into the woods and I turn off. My memory is of a track that goes parallel with the road but as I start along I see that it’s very overgrown, branches demanding much scrambling. I turn back, pause, see the main path that at right angles to the road goes deep into the forest, and decide I don’t want the extra miles. Back towards Farley Lane.

There in front of me is a display box I’d not noticed before. On the top shelf are flyers about what to look for in the forest and leaflets about a campaign to stop development on Farley Moor. Below are books - and we are invited to borrow and return or swap for another. I come away with a Val McDermid book about detective Karen Pirie, which commits me to another walk back there.

This led me to reflecting about trust and sharing in communities - and life in the community where I live - all the energy people put in to gardens, numerous local groups, Darley Dale in Bloom, and friendships. I muse on what we value most about our life - the state of our health, sufficient money to cope with life’s vicissitudes, the world around us and much more.

I think back to research I was involved in when we asked older people what mattered most in their lives. Time after time the word ‘community’ was mentioned. Lines from my book Oldenland come back to me.

Some spoke about neighbourliness, ‘being a part of what is happening, feeling that you belong and are recognised, acknowledged and appreciated’, that others will look out for you. …

People valued a sense of belonging, the feeling that others were on the same journey and would understand their anxieties and that they were connected to a network outside themselves. Someone else spoke of the importance of fitting in, describing this as the difference between feeling an insider or an outsider. ‘Community means home, family, friends, that warm feeling of belonging and doing things together,’ was how another person summarised their perspective.

During the research, people were asked to produce a photo depicting what they saw as the most important aspect of community. One man sent a picture of a stone sheep fold, the surrounds clad in snow with the words: ‘It is a shelter for the vulnerable . . . Without community some will survive, but many more are lost.’

An Age UK article fittingly describes this as a convoy, defined in one dictionary as a group travelling together for safety, especially one with an escort.

Back to the road and the regular tempo of the walk. I watch out for cars and find that all the ones coming towards me slow down and give a wide berth. It’s thoughtful. To my right in the words I hear the drawn out cuck - oo, cuck - oo, cuck - oo. I continue until I meet the Darley Dale - Chesterfield road, check for traffic, cross onto a small road that skirts Darwin Forest. There are signs making clear that the road is closed but I hope that it will be possible to work my way through on foot. In front a barrier and a van block the road - the engine’s running and I toy with the thought that I should ask the driver to turn the engine off, though knowing it’s unlikely I’ll be so bold. As I approach I realise that the driver is fast asleep. I walk on by - a few hundred yards further on I hear a horn blaring loud as another work vehicle strives to pass.

There is a short spell through a wood and then back to a track that leads down through a farm. When I can I choose to walk on the grass as a comfort for my feet.

I had planned to walk straight on down the hill but realise that I’ve got the choice of turning left and joining a path down to the brook that will lead me back toward home. One of my pleasures when out walking is to make decisions like this, to vary the route, to surprise myself.

I pause at a seat and look at the commemorative script. Memories lurk of a dream that was with me when I woke this morning. I was in a shop and had put down a bag, as had several other people. I looked around and could not see the bag. I must search more carefully, I thought, as I pondered what were the contents. Nothing of significance maybe, though there was an item that was going to be tedious to replace. I did not get around to telling my wife about the problem, nor to undertake the more thorough investigation. And then, somehow, I was in a house that was connected to the shop. I asked where the lavatory was and was confident that I was told it was on the left through the back door. Not there - and I wandered around. I was dressed casually and noticed others were in fine regalia but did not know why - the sort of clothes I never wear. Eventually I had the sense to ask for the location of the lavatory: the door was on the right - had I been given the wrong instructions or was my hearing at fault?

Of course there was a queue: should I queue there or go and look for my bag? I looked for my wife, wondering if she would keep my place in the queue whilst I went to look for the bag. I could not see her.

I don’t often remember dreams but this one seemed fitting for Oldenland.

Back to the walk. Through a rickety gate, down a field where sometimes cattle lurk with an interest in my steps, but not today. Back down at river level, I decide on another variation and trek upwards. The woods are dark and deep, clouds overhead, and suddenly a moment of wonder - a startling pink rhododendron, alone, striving to reach the sky.

Roger has a book signing at Waterstones Chesterfield on Saturday 23rd May 11.00 to 1.00, to launch the paperback of Oldenland, his wonderful book that includes his walks and his reflections on ageing. Do go along.