As I was wheeling down the street today, saying “Excuse me” repeatedly to the dawdling pedestrians in front of me, I wondered why I have this desire to go so fast when I am out on my own. There I was, the sun beaming down as I traversed a London garden square — but, rather than stop and smell the roses, I was hurtling through and around those office escapees who flood into the sunshine at this time of year.

Thinking about it, I realised that I am always in a hurry because I no longer enjoy “going for a walk”. The average street presents me with a tiresome series of bumps, potholes, uneven paving and piles of canine excrement to negotiate.

Even a walk in the park is no longer a walk in the park. For me, woods, fields, mountains, in fact the outdoors in general, require a massive mental girding of the loins. I have lost the simple pleasure of strolling and enjoying the view, as my eyes are fixed mostly on the path in front, looking for anything that could unseat me.

From my early childhood, exploring the countryside was a family activity. I always found it an adventure as a youngster, then a real pleasure as an adult. But how do I pass on that passion to Rosalie, if her encounters with wilderness are punctuated by the sound of me huffing, puffing and swearing at tree roots and pebbles?

Rosalie is only 4, so it’s not as if she is ready for her first bar of Kendal mint cake, but it won’t be long before she can take longer walks. For now, she still spends a fair amount of time on my lap or in a pushchair, but it would be nice to share in her spirit of adventure as it develops.

There are several “mobility solutions” out there that could help but they are all expensive and take up a lot of space, so instead I try to devote my time and energies to increasing my stamina and range — that and the strategic selection of suitable places to go for a “walk”. Not so much the great outdoors as the pretty good country park.

Tim Rushby-Smith

timrushby-smith.com

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