I know it’s time to get out and walk when the sherry and sugar have corroded my teeth and my belly has turned into brie.

We took to Stretton where the hills are lively with water, so good to feel the stretch of muscle and the long lost pangs of an appetite.


We eat normal sandwiches unwrap tin foil, sit on our rucksack fresh and happy in the drizzle, getting damp and breeze whipped. There’s a gleam on the lake and a shirt blue hole in the sky.

This is where we family tumbled back when summers were scorch hot, making grassy flower islands in the streams and beating off the guzzle sheep we thought looked like Gran. That’s the stone wall where I took a picture on Mum’s birthday – Clare in a pink straw hat.

In the moss and water peat are chocolate lime citadels and the flash of my Christmas purple socks anticipate the heather as we schluck and squelch and laugh on the Mynd.

All about us the streams are noisy and gushing  and fizzing with effervescence.