Warm ‘good mornings’ are now accompanied by wary smiles as we take our daily exercise

In the latest of his reflections about place and pathway, Will Gore finds reminders of disease even in woods filled with birdsong

Maintaining our distance can make the daily trip out tortuous at times (Reuters)

Never have I felt so fortunate to live close to open countryside. The government’s instructions that we must take our exercise from our front door, rather than driving to an alternative location, creates a bleak outlook for many in cities and big towns.

Even so, the requirement to maintain our distance makes the daily trip out tortuous at times, doesn’t it? Crossing roads to avoid other people, fearful of the hidden virus; holding your breath after turning a corner to find yourself almost on collision course with another human. Cheerful “good mornings” are accompanied by wary smiles.

Last Sunday I woke early, 6.30 or so. I fed the cat and made tea to take back to bed. It had been cold overnight, enough to leave a frost, but the sun was rising warmly in a meticulously clear sky. Stir craziness stirred.

I wondered if others would be thinking the same. Maybe if I left the house now, I would find droves of early risers all expecting to have the world to themselves. Only one way to find out.

Nothing is normal. Even if we could forget that, we shouldn’t

By 7.05 I was away, hoping the children wouldn’t wake and leave my wife tackling bedlam alone. There was still a nipping chill in the air, but I had decided against taking a coat for fear of being too warm later on. I pulled my neck warmer over my mouth and noise, partly against the cold but also to ward off the virus – as if a fleece snood could protect me against all evil.

On Berkhamsted’s high street I saw a couple of joggers, then another as I reached the canal tow path. It was too narrow there and I hurried on, hoping I wouldn’t meet anyone approaching from the other direction. Near some houseboats were signs telling passers-by to “go home”; I picked up the pace to get beyond the boats as quickly as I could. I passed a woman walking her dogs; she turned her scarf-protected head as I went by.

I was relieved to get away from the canal after that, turning northwards up a lane I’d never walked before. Larks rose above fields to left and right; sparrows twittered in the scrubby hedges which lined the road; and in a patch of woodland a carpet of bluebells lay green and still, waiting to burst into colour in a few weeks’ time.

Stopping short of the village that lay ahead, I took a footpath through a copse which was so full of birdsong it felt rude to intrude. A stand of tall ash, plainly suffering from dieback, provided a strange counterpoint to the liveliness around. Disease strikes in all manner of ways and places.

I emerged at the southern edge of a golf course. It was empty, save for a pair of distant walkers – the first people I’d seen since leaving the canal tow path, two miles back. I cut down the side of a hill, towards Berkhamsted and home. As I descended, I was surprised by the roar of an plane, which must have taken off minutes earlier from Luton airport. Who ever thought that the sound of a passing jet would be so rare?

Down in the town, joggers and dog walkers were now more abundant, jostling for the sunnier side of the street. I arrived home at 8.30, for bacon, feeling smug that I had taken my daily constitutional before the hordes were abroad.

Then I thought of those who could not get into the countryside; and of those who are sick, or dying.

Nothing is normal. Even if we could forget that, we shouldn’t.