COUNTRY MATTERS Wild walking – the best therapy for modern anxieties STEP BY STEP

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After moving to Wales, Kate Humble discovered the joys of a rural ramble, which helped her learn to enjoy urban strolls, too

It is a wild autumn day. The trees in the wood below our house are being buffeted by boisterous gusts of wind. The leaves are beginning to turn and the dark, monochrome green of summer is suddenly studded with rich, vibrant colour: reds, golds, russets and copper. The blustery air sends leaves and twigs spiralling and the rain brought in from the west gets blown into my face, making me gasp and blink. It is the weekend, early, the light dull and flat. Surely a day for a lie-in, to snuggle back under the duvet, drifting off again to the sound of the wind and rain against the skylight? But instead I’m out here in woolly hat and waterproofs and loving every minute.

For most of my adult life, my day has started with a walk, but when I lived in London, which I did for 20 years, the first walk of the day was a harried rush to the Tube or bus stop, eyes on the pavement, muttering curses at people in my way. My mind would be a scrambled mess of things I had to do and fogged by an anxiety that I wouldn’t get everything done, that I would forget something crucial, mess up, make a mistake, miss a deadline. And mixed in with the work worries were the everyday stresses and conundrums; nothing of great import, nothing wildly complex or difficult, but with no time to put them into perspective they often felt insurmountable.

My respite from city life was to head out to the countryside with my husband at the weekends and walk just for the sheer pleasure of it. Sometimes we would meet up with friends and walk with them, sometimes we would borrow someone’s dog, sometimes it would just be the two of us. We would head for the Downs, or the Chiltern Hills, sometimes to the coast, or the undulating fields of the Cotswolds and even if we went just for the day, or part of a day, it always felt like we’d been on holiday and we would return, restored and invigorated to take on another week. But city living became harder and harder for me to deal with, our weekend escapes not enough to keep me from feeling restless, unsettled and ultimately unhappy. Then, out of the blue, my husband was offered a job in Cardiff. We had no connection with Wales, no family, knew no one who lived there. The prospect of moving there should have felt scary or at least daunting, but it felt like a lifeline.

Now, 11 years later, we are still in Wales and it feels more like home than anywhere I have ever lived. And every day starts with a walk partly because it has to – and that’s not just for my three dogs’ sake. I have come to realise that walking feels as vital to me as breathing. These walks are very different from my London walks. These walks, which I do all year round, whatever the weather, and sometimes before it is light, are a tiny treat to myself, 20 minutes, half an hour, an hour, sometimes – wickedly! – two; time when I don’t have to do anything apart from put one foot in front of the other. And that gentle rhythm is, I find, incredibly therapeutic. My early morning walks allow me to wake up gently, unscramble my sleep-fogged head. When I lived in London I always felt rootless, like a bit of tumbleweed, tossed about and

pushed around by life, but walking this way gives me a sense of immersion, makes me feel part of where I am, a sensory and physical connection to the bit of the world I find myself in.

And walking is also the perfect companion to thinking. The philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche wrote: “All truly great thoughts are conceived while walking.” I’m not sure any of my thoughts can be described as “great”. Often I may simply work out what to cook for supper, but sometimes with the walk will come the opening line of a paragraph I’ve been battling with, or a solution to something that has been making me worried or anxious. And on days like today, walking over the freshly fallen leaves in the wind and the rain, I am thinking of nothing in particular; I am simply being, relishing the invigorating weather, the wild beauty of the landscape around me. Some might describe this as a form of meditation or a moment of mindfulness. Perhaps it is. I’m not sure it needs to be given a name. All I’m doing is something that is simple and fundamental, and taking great pleasure in it.

Because that is the great joy of walking. It is simple. It doesn’t cost anything, doesn’t require any specialist kit, apart from a pair of boots or shoes that don’t hurt your feet and have a bit of grip. And a walk of a few minutes can be just as therapeutic, just as joyful, as walking all day, as long as it is a treat and not a chore.

Autumn is upon us, with all its glorious colour and bracing weather. Heading for the woods is an obvious choice. No one is too old to kick through leaves or collect conkers, and you will be walking through an artist’s palette of reds and golds. Wildlife is busy and often easy to spot. Squirrels and jays are building up stores for the winter, deer are rutting, tawny owls are courting.

But the coast is also wonderful at this time of year. My favourite local bit of coastline is the Gower Peninsula, with its huge beaches, dunes, cliffs and moorland, but we are spoilt for choice on this beautiful island of ours.

A climb, particularly on a windy day, blows away the cobwebs, builds the appetite and reaching a high point always feels like something to celebrate, with the view as a reward. As well as my local Black Mountains and Brecon Beacons, I love Dartmoor, the Lakes, the Peak District, and there are some great urban climbs too: Greenwich in London, Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh.

Urban walking – I have now discovered – can be just as therapeutic as being in the countryside. In New York, a city that makes me feel permanently panicky and like I’m trapped in 3D graph paper, I met a therapist who instead of seeing his clients in an office, walks them around Central Park and has found this “walking therapy” to be extraordinarily effective. Now, when I am in London for work, I start the day with a walk. I head for one of the parks, perfect for ambling and people-watching, and instead of taking the bus or Tube between meetings I walk – which is often quicker – and is good thinking and preparation time.

And for serenity, few things beat walking in the company of a river, but wherever you walk you will discover what the novelist Elizabeth von Arnim meant when she wrote: “Walking is the perfect way of moving if you want to see into the life of things. It is the one way of freedom. If you go to a place on anything but your own two feet, you are taken there too fast, and miss a thousand delicate joys that were waiting for you by the wayside.”

It makes me feel part of where I am, a sensory and physical connection to the bit of the world I find myself in