Village life was new to me. I’m a city girl. I was a city girl, that is. Until circumstances brought me – drove me – to the quiet backwaters of rural life. I wasn’t settling well. Foggy, damp January isn’t a time to fall in love with the countryside. Leafless hedges, bare-branched trees, and a wind from the north which smelled of snow, although none fell to create a winter wonderland of my new surroundings.
The dog, on the other hand, had taken to this different life with uncalled-for zest. Each morning he sat patiently by the back door while I drank my first coffee and checked my emails – with vain optimism a miracle had occurred to rescue me from exile. Closing the lid of the Ipad with a resigned click, I rose, stretched.
‘Come on then,’ I said, the dog’s cue to grab his lead from the hooks by the door and return to his spot by the door.
Our walks took us along a track past farms where cows and horses breathed mist into the frozen air, sheep huddled in woolly clumps, and protective dogs barked at us through twisted hedges. On the other side of foggy fields, great trees raised their skeletal branches, reaching for the opaque sunlight, begging warmth.
I had seen the man on a few occasions. Also a dog walker, he would pass me by with a cheery good morning, chilly out, isn’t it? and I would smile and nod and say good morning in return. This day, however, the man was walking in the same direction as myself, a little ahead of me. I felt the awkwardness of it. Should I hurry, and overtake him with a greeting? Or hang back and let him get further ahead?
He cut my confusion short by turning, waving. ‘Hallooo!’ His rich, deep voice carried as if we were fox hunting. He waited for me and dog to catch up, then turned back to stroll on as if this was something we always did. I fell in beside him, our steps matching.
‘Bob,’ he said. ‘Daisy,’ he added, gesturing at the sedate labrador by his side.
‘Marion,’ I replied. ‘Nice to meet you, Bob.’ I pointed ahead to where my less-than-sedate retriever checked his peemails with more enthusiasm than I read mine. ‘That’s Charlie. He loves it here.’
Bob glanced at me sideways, eyebrows raised in an amused question. ‘Not you?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s not what I’m used to.’
Bob gestured at the leafless hedges, wrapped his arms about him against the icy wind. He smiled with dark, sympathetic eyes which crinkled at the corners. ‘Foggy, damp January isn’t a time to fall in love with the countryside, is it?’
I laughed. The first time in weeks, grateful for the understanding. So the next week Bob and I walked again.
Perhaps it will be all right after all.
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SO THE NEXT WEEK BOB AND I WALKED
“It’s not a case of can’t do it…it’s just that I don’t want to,” so said Bob when I asked him if he wanted to accompany me on the Camino Walk.
I sort of couldn’t really blame him. After all, known formally as the Camino Portugues or Portuguese Way, over the years, pilgrims have carved out two separate routes to Santiago.
One is the inland or Central Way, covering 280 kilometres and taking 15 days to complete, the other the Coastal Way – a 230-kilometre 14-day trek.
“How about we just do part of it?” I offered. “We could go for five days, if you like.”
“Not interested,” replied Bob and with that turned his attention to the task of planting a new crop of tomatoes.
Bob and I had been friends since childhood but, while I had developed an interest in hiking, bushwalking and cycling, his loves had become gardening and beekeeping which meant, among other things, that we always had an endless supply of honey.
“Look, it would do you good,” I persisted. “And get you away from your precious garden for a while.”
“Who says I want to get away from ‘my precious garden’.
“Well, the exercise would do you good,” I responded. “Nothing like a good hike to get the blood flowing.”
“I’m quite happy flowing my blood in the garden, thank you.”
However, despite his reluctance, I was determined to drag Bob on a decent trek as I had observed in recent times his steadily expanding girth.
I poked my good friend in the stomach.
“Well, you might be happy to run around the garden but that extra weight you are carrying tells me it’s time for some decent exercise,” I said. “After all, you are only 30. Imagine how you will look by the time you are 50.”
We may have been jesting but I knew how much Bob loved his food and, at his current rate of consumption, would soon find it difficult to even tend his vegetables.
I had an idea.
“How about we practise for the walk with a stroll in the woods after the weekend?”
Bob slowly nodded his head.
“Ok,” he said. “If it will get you off my back.”
So, the next week Bob and I walked through the nearby woods for several kilometres before returning hearts pumping and somewhat pink of cheek.
“I have to admit that wasn’t half bad,” he said. “When can we do the next one?” A broad smile split his features.
“Soon as you like,” I replied, thinking the Camino Walk might be a distinct possibility after all.
Walking can become addictive – I know! Nice story.
You just never know what having and walking a dog will lead to, do you?
It led me to writing, meeting an author and fellow dog-walker and becoming friends with her.
Nice😀