Treating a walk like a race is the fast track to good health

‘Come on, keep up!” As the eldest of four girls, I spent my childhood striding ahead of my younger sisters, across the beaches of Gower, along the road to school, at airports and at railway stations.

My pace has not slowed as the years have passed, so I was pleased to read that a review by King’s College London has discovered that just 150 minutes of moderate, aerobic activity a week – which can include brisk walking – means that you are 31 per cent less likely to develop depression. Too often dismissed, a bracing, heart-rate-raising walk seems to me a nearperfect form of exercise; indeed, it’s been shown to be superior to running for heart health.

Here on the Suffolk coast where I now live, the air is so clean but the wind is often extremely wild, so getting a move on is the only way to go. Slow down and you freeze.

Certainly, if I’m stuck on a problem or having a tough day, “stepping out” brings an instant feeling of well-being.

Although I may not jump up and down and wag my tail, my feeling of joy is very similar to that of my dog as I pull on my walking boots and grab his lead. We’re both out of the door, almost at a run.

Jagger, my English Setter, likes to be in front and we set a cracking pace. Friends who come with us, however, hoping for a leisurely amble, yell “Hey, slow down!”, as I’m often a couple of fields ahead of them.

I see no point in slow walking, unless you’re helping someone elderly or infirm. My long-legged friend, Astrid, took Peg, her 90-year-old mother, shopping. Peg leant on the supermarket trolley, while Astrid steered it from the front. Unfortunately, as they headed out of the supermarket and into the car park, Astrid inevitably picked up speed. When she finally turned round, her mother wasn’t there. She had peeled off and was leaning on a car boot, quietly furious.

Of course, I know many people who, because of age or illness, can’t walk fast and I always try to be considerate to them. But fast walkers can be impatient with mere dawdlers. We have tourists in our village who have all the time in the world, admiring the view, stopping to take photos, just as I’m sprinting to catch the post.

Getting stuck behind such a slow-moving crowd of people is frustrating to the fleet of foot. We try to weave in and out, muttering “’Scuse me” and “Sorry” as politely as we can, but really we want to say “Hurry up!”

When I worked in London, Waterloo Bridge in the morning rush hour was a fast walker’s paradise. We all hurtled along, ignoring the magnificent view, dashing past anyone who paused for a second, or was slowing us down. It was a race, by any other name, to get to the other side before the person walking next to you.

For a fast walker married to someone who takes his time, it can be hard to adjust. When my husband had a knee replacement, I forgot that his pace had slowed. I headed off at my usual speed, chatting away, but then turned to direct the question, “Do you think I should have my eyebrows dyed?” to a perfect stranger. My husband was yards behind.

Now, as a grandmother with teenage grandchildren, it’s a family joke that immediately after lunch I will leap up and declare: “Right, time to get some fresh air!”

And I live in hope that one day, instead of groans, the dog and I will be joined by the rest of the family, just once, for a nice, brisk walk.