Thinking time - walking.

Hello again,

Like many writers, I have to keep going to the day job, so I have to optimise every bit of down-time to prepare and influence what I really enjoy doing – writing. When I get home from work I need to adjust my thoughts and transfer the workings of my brain from crunching numbers all day to a raft of words which need putting together to form something worth reading.

My strategy for this transformation is two-fold: the first is to exchange the smart office clothes for casual and comfortable, the second, and most important, is to take our Tibetan Terrier for his walk up the lane, if we are not going to the beach.

I say ‘up’ because it is a subtle climb, but once at the top the panoramic views are worth every huff and puff! The tidy fields eventually meet the marshes and dunes, and unless there is a sea mist I can see a strip of the Atlantic Ocean; I need this daily fix of space, fresh air and beauty to remind me of why I shall return to our cottage to start work again; I love it.

Max is getting on now, and I’m not far behind him, so we don’t power-walk but move at a respectable pace, stopping frequently as is Max’s wont, to poke his nose around, smelling and searching for who knows what.

This half hour together rejuvenates both of us. During this time my mind gradually forgets the day that has gone before, and starts to switch into creative mode as I think about the current piece I’m working on; invariably I will come back with an idea or two, or a clearer view on what I am writing.

This is in the main due to the inspiration all around. For instance last night when we walked up the hill, I looked into the various fields on either side of the lane. Baby rabbits scooted across one field when they heard Max coming, and in others gorgeous calves grazed with their mothers, horses munched and sea-gulls flew over.

Then, while Max was concentrating on his bodily functions and I was poised with poo-bag, I looked across to the small field beyond the stream, he was watching me, bold as brass, Mr Fox. We stared at each other in disbelief, he kept staring until Max moved and then he was gone; if only I’d had my camera.

On the way back down the hill I absorbed the beauty in the still-colourful cottage gardens, and the change in the trees and hedgerows as Autumn quickly comes. The light is fading earlier and the wonderful, unmistakeable smell of crisp English air fills my lungs; not available in sunny Cyprus. It’s so good to be home and back to the crazy timetable of life.

Thanks for visiting.
PP