Hawick, Scotland

I’d booked a cottage for a few days to shelter from the approaching storm.

There had been a nervousness in earlier conversations on the road - the farmer talking about a line of ash trees likely to fall, the man who appeared from his garage to ask where I was headed (did I know a storm was coming?). Even the owner of the cottage apologised for the weekend ahead as she handed me the key.

I couldn’t wait to hunker down for a while. Two weeks on the bike had left me spent. Now, finally, I could stop.

The cottage was cold but solid. An Easter egg left as a treat had already been half-nibbled by mice. The sofa was covered with dog hair. But I was warm and dry and I didn’t have to ride. I could recover until the storm had passed.

So why, the very next morning, did I head straight back out? Well, the rain had eased slightly and there was a path on the far side of the burn…

As I climbed the hill in the slanting drizzle, edging around the worst of the mud, the questioning voices started to quieten. Sliding in my trainers, I felt the wind on my face, heard pheasants whirring at my approach and watched water dripping steadily off the sleeves of my coat. Yellow gorse and the sodden heads of daffodils stood out against the grey mist, hanging low over the valley behind me.

As the path rose higher, revealing new views of the hills and the little cottage tucked below, I was no longer thinking about being out there in all that weather.

I was in it.

And I was in my element, with the sky darkening above me and swollen raindrops hitting my wet hair.

Later, back inside and dry, I realised it was simple. I need to go outside every day. As long as I’m moving, my thoughts eventually calm.

Going outside is a gift to myself.