Our old collie found a tennis ball under the hedge and came trotting over with a look I haven't seen on him for ages. Usually he studies a thrown ball as though he's checking whether the effort has been properly justified. Today he wanted it again, and again, only a short distance but so pleased with himself. I was ridiculously happy watching him. Kept calling my partner to come and see, as if the dog had invented running. Then he lay down in the grass with the ball between his paws and that was the end of the performance. I stayed beside him a little while. I know he's old, I don't need reminding, it was just nice to have that bit of him back for an afternoon.

The wind caught us halfway across the field and the dog turned his face straight into it as if that was what he'd come out for. I had my scarf up to my nose, but my cheeks were stinging by the time we reached the gate. Under my coat I was warm, almost too warm, and walking felt easier than it had all morning. It's the getting started that takes persuading some days. We came home with mud on everything below the knee and I stood in the kitchen while my partner pulled at one stubborn boot. Nearly took me with it. Dry socks after that felt lovely, the soft pair with the loose tops. I can still feel the cold in my cheeks, though the rest of me is quite ready for tea.

I've been looking at a coastal walk and can't decide whether to book the whole stretch or just a few nights somewhere with shorter paths nearby. The map makes the long route look so tidy, one line, nothing about getting wet or wanting to sit down with a sandwich for an hour. My partner says we could do half and come back another time. That seems obvious now he's said it, but I'd started treating the finish as if somebody would be waiting there with a certificate. Nobody cares which bit we walk. I'm more interested in the little places we might stop than the distance anyway. I've circled two villages and left the rest. The map can stay open on the table a while.