I have been stuck in a rut.

I forget how difficult this time of year is. The days are too short, work is too busy, the weather is wild, windy and often wet, and every spare moment is taken up with planning for Christmas. (I’m long past the age where I can leave it all until December.) It’s easy for the entire month of November to go by only to find that I have walked no further than to and from my car. I can feel my brow beginning to furrow.

(And so much for my plan to swim every month …)

It was therefore with a degree of dogged determination that N and I resolved to ringfence a recent Sunday for the sole purpose of walking. It was a delicious thought: a whole day spared from the mundane tasks, the promise of getting outside and breathing in some autumn air (or was it now winter … we couldn’t agree). The question was: where to walk?

N wanted to head for the New Forest. He works out that way and comes home most days talking of the golden hues of late autumn colour, those last few fruit Spangle-coloured leaves (yes, I’m giving my age away once again) that hang on in spectacular contrast against the rain-blackened bark of the beech and oak trees. Once again, Robert Macfarlane has taught me the word for this: marcescence, the holding on of dead leaves through the winter months.

I, on the other hand, was yearning for the coast as usual. I wanted the majestic views, the drama and smell of the sea, the satisfaction of doing a ‘proper’ walk that tires you out after some reasonable miles and a little bit of a challenge. My 20-year-old self would be hard pushed to recognise me. And possibly slightly appalled too.