I am walking most days for about 45 minutes. We are now in France, so I start in the village. I feel slightly shamefaced if people in doorways watch me, as if I have no right to be shambling by on their street, as if the battle against morbid obesity and the certainty of adult onset diabetes wasn’t reason enough.
Then I get out into the fields and am more at ease, French turnip tops looking much like English ones. After about twenty minutes I am in the middle of nowhere. I have become one of those people I drive past wondering “How did they get here? Where are they going? Why are they not weeping under the iron yoke of going somewhere not in a car?”