An episode on rewilding.
Walking always feels very different from the running and cycling I usually do for exercise. I’m generally too impatient to walk somewhere if I could run or ride instead. But the way I think changes depending on my mode of transport. Slow my legs and my mind starts to slow too. When you walk, you can stop at any time to poke something with a stick, make a note or take a photo. Walking is a movement that invites stillness. So I decided to walk this week for some deliberate slowness.

I got a positive feeling about today’s grid square as soon as I arrived. On previous outings, I had often looked in this direction and thought, ‘It looks nice over that way.’The omens were promising with plenty of contour lines and no roads.

A long row of black poplar trees escorted my road towards the low horizon. I passed a row of small industrial units, then a house offering rosy windfall apples and pears in a chipped, white ceramic bowl on the doorstep. Voices carried from an open upstairs window, engrossed in a Zoom call about something or other.

A cluster of beehives stood in the corner of a field.The coming cool weather would soon quieten the hives, but today the sun was warm and the bees were busy. They fly tremendous distances, racking up round trips of up to ten miles to forage for food. Each jar of honey contains nectar from two million flowers, with a corresponding flight distance of 90,000 miles, or more than three laps of the planet. Yet each bee produces only a twelfth of a teaspoon of honey in its life. So it is an extraordinary team effort that depends upon bees sharing information about the food sources they find, by ‘dancing’ for each other.

The waggle dance involves flying in a straight line to show the direction of the food relative to the sun, then performing a series of

loops related to the flowers’ quality. The bee also beats its wings and waggles its abdomen to create vibrations that give extra information about the nectar and pollen’s location.

Bees are cooperative, communicative insects, complete with solar compasses, inbuilt clocks, the ability to communicate with plants via electric signals, and a sting in the tail. They pollinate most of our wild- flowers and many important crops. Bees are amazing. But after 100 million years, they are now at risk as we kamikaze towards ‘insectaged- don’ and the extinction of up to 70 percent of our wild species.

Though the silver birch trees were turning to autumnal gold, sum- mer was back this week with a fury, despite me writing it off, but it was probably too early to speak of an Indian summer. The earliest known use of the phrase comes from a Frenchman called John de Crevecoeur in the eastern United States in 1778. It perhaps referred to a spell of warm weather that allowed the Native Americans to continue hunting a little longer. The phrase reached Britain in the 19th century, replacing ‘Saint Martin’s summer’ that had been used to describe fine weather close to St Martin’s Day on 11 November. The sun was hot on my dark T-shirt, and I pulled my cap down to shade my eyes.

Today’s grid square was a rare outing to the far side of the river, to the very edge of the map itself. It felt like a new country. Over that next hill lay lands unknown, and maybe even dragons. I cycled up a stony bridleway through a wood, making sure to savour the greenness before the leaves fell for another year, to store away the memories as nourish- ment to get me through the winter. The year was winding round to its close, and I was going to miss these outings. They always cheered me up after tedious bouts of real life, such as queuing this morning to col- lect a parcel from the post office, which turned out to be in some other distant depot. Holly berries ripened in the dim woodland light. The path became a holloway, with beech trees arching overhead and their tangled roots exposed on the elevated track sides. A nuthatch scurried up and down a trunk, calling ‘dwip, dwip’ as it searched for food, then

hung upside down while it ate.

The gate’s clang startled a buzzard who lumbered off the ground and flew into the sanctuary of the trees. I stood still in the field, feeling myself beginning to slow down and unwind. I breathed in the smell of hay, blinked at the sunshine, and reminded myself that things couldn’t be too bad if I got to call this ‘work’.

Riding here had been a confusing maze of winding lanes and high hedges, so I hadn’t yet orientated myself with any other familiar grid squares nearby. The road had been too narrow for cars to pass my bike safely, so I’d had to stop and tuck in whenever a vehicle appeared. This allowed me the chance for a blackberry update, nibbling one or two while I waited for each car to pass. A few were ripe and swollen, but most were still small green nubbins.

A good old chunter about access rights, the right to roam, and Scandinavia's approach to allemansrätten.

My hopes were high. It was a perfect sunny day and the grid square looked enticing on paper. It was mostly woodland, with some contour lines, a small lake and the site of a Roman villa thrown in for luck. There was only one building on the whole square. A motorway and railway sliced through the middle, but a third of the area was a country park and all the rest was open countryside. I was looking forward to roving around a pleasant landscape dotted with enormous trees.

And yet...

And yet, it turned out that the solitary building was a historic manor house that owned most of the grid square and resolutely refused to share it with plebs like me. I was shunted away from the meadows and ancient trees by signs and fences, and ushered instead down an unattractive path squashed between the motorway and a metal fence. I hoped I could at least explore a small copse, but that turned out to belong to a golf course and was also off-limits. And the lake was ringed with forbidding notices from the fishing club that owned it.

So far, the most enjoyable part of the outing had been standing on the motorway bridge and watching the hypnotic traffic hurtle beneath me.

I cycled to today’s grid square with Test Match Special playing in my headphones. Listening to the ebb and flow of a cricket match arcing towards its conclusion is one of my greatest pleasures. I turned it off reluctantly when I arrived so that I could concentrate on what I was exploring.

I began outside a working man’s club with a fluttering Union Jack, then rode among Victorian terraces, streets of post-war pebbledash, and 1980s semis. A brick clock tower had been built in the town cen- tre with the largesse of the local mill owner 150 years ago, and the mill’s chimneys still smoked away in the distance. There was the usual array of shops and eateries: convenience stores, kebabs, fried chicken, Chinese, Indian, garage doors (that was a first), and a bookmaker. It was a typical old-fashioned town of struggling shops and pubs sliding into decline, plus a shiny new Domino’s Pizza takeaway.

An elderly man laboured across the street with his shopping trolley. A car slowed and waited an age for him to cross. ‘That will be me one day,’ I thought to myself, ‘sliding into decline.’ And, ‘Be grateful then for this moment,’ I reminded myself. This moment is my life

It seemed to me, walking and cycling through this year on my map, that the seasons move in two ways: gradually, then suddenly. No change, no change, no change... and then one morning the new season is well on its way, overlapping the previous one in its eagerness to get going. I caught the first embryonic smells of autumn today, along with heavy dew and a noticeably later sunrise.

I always enjoy daybreak, though doing the school run means I’m rarely free to head out and play at such an hour. But I managed it this morning and immediately felt I was winning the day. It took an hour to ride across my map to the grid square, and I had time to enjoy the sun rising, the rabbits in the fields, and the foxes slinking home after a big night out.