Frustration reigned on Monday. The sun was a blazing orb, the sky clear, and I was working.
The view from my office mocked me.I watched a solitary walking stride purposefully across the hill. Perhaps he’s retired, with no worries of mortgages, credit crunches and negative equity plaguing his day-to-day.
He could have been having a ‘mental health day’ – a restorative bunk off work when the weather is so divine that a day stuck in a stuffy office is a waste when there are hills to climb, beaches to comb, cricket matches to watch, fish to be caught.
Try, as I might, to justify the skive, I was not be able to join him that day. I had documents to wade through and interviews to prepare for.
To rub salt into the wound, the post arrived and among the humdrum brown envelopes was a catalogue for an outdoor retailer and the summer issue of Backpack magazine, the quarterly journal of the Backpacker’s Club.
I leafed through it and it got me thinking about where I could, or should, be.
I ploughed on through the day and spent the evening watching the sun retreat behind the breast of my hill.
Tuesday dawned dull and I went to London . I climbed aboard a connecting train and noted its nameplate with a smile: Benny Rothman – The Manchester Rambler.