Back when I first gave up full time work to write (five years ago!) I didn't put so much pressure on it. It wouldn't matter if I only spent an hour writing, the rest of the day would be spent walking or in the garden. And I enjoyed writing more then, maybe because I didn't realise how bad at it I was. But more likely because it wasn't the only thing I was doing.
I've decided to get back to the good old days of fresh air and wholesome rural living, so I'll hopefully go on more walks and get into the garden more.
A big reason I stopped walking so much is that I moved to Mr Kite's cabin, which is in the middle of nowhere, but there are almost no footpaths here, and the countryside is dull: intensely agricultural. The village I lived in before was close to the ancient forest of Selwood; there's coombes, woods, lakes, Stourhead (national trust property), hills, and lots of footpaths everywhere. It was just easier to walk there. It's only a forty minute cycle ride away, so I will hopefully return to my old walking routes. On cold days such as these, I have to make do with the lane walking on offer locally.
Here's some observations I jotted down at this location:
Small lake reflecting white winter light and browns. A duck makes a V in the water as it swims.
A line of tall conifers near the lake.
A large deer or possibly small horse lying down near the hedge.
Rolling interlocking landscape, hazy and cold blue.
Remnants of snow flecked on fields.
A chinnock flies overhead.
Along the railway bank: a glass beer bottle suspended in a barbedwire fence by the handle of a plastic bag, so neatly done it must have been deliberate. Other scattered litter, also deliberate but less artistic. Badger set.