The hardest thing about moving is not the people you leave behind – it’s the paths you’ll never walk again

After 14 years, it’s time to leave the woods and fields that have meant so much to me. I know I’ll see my friends again – but what about the spot where I first saw a kingfisher?

There’s a footpath opposite my house; it slips between two bungalows ending at a stile that takes you into the fields. In spring, it’s one of the first places you can spot cuckooflower and Jack-by-the-hedge; in summer, borage sprawls on to the path, humming with bees.

I have walked and run along this path thousands of times – sometimes alone, sometimes with my dog, husband, friends or neighbours. While the route remains constant, the experience never is. My outer cargo has included a raincoat, head torch, wellies, sunglasses, binoculars, backpack. My internal baggage, contentment and sadness, joy and anxiety, irritation and uncertainty. I’ve felt everything – as well as nothing at all – as I’ve added each new layer of footsteps to those that have gone before.

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