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I've never been much of a recreational walker.

I spent 24 years raising children who weren't big on long walks either.

They liked bikes or ponies or just strolling around the local town.

I generally preferred being on horseback.

A series of family dogs changed that a little, but our rescues were often

mature in years, so walks tended to be shortish and slow, and I mostly viewed my surroundings

from a saddle or behind a car windscreen. Then, in 2019, my life started to fall apart.

My marriage of 22 years founded, my mother was dying and I ended up

burnt out through overwork, sleepless and weeping inappropriately in meetings. It was at this time

that I saw an online photograph for a profoundly sad middle-aged dog. She felt like my spirit animal.

Sisu had spent six years of her life in a pound in Bosnia and was too large, too old and

too nervous to appeal to most adopters. Reasoning that I could at least make one good thing

happened that year, I offered to give her a home. She promptly ran away as soon as she arrived,

and I spent the next 10 days tracking her around local woods and farmland, finally recovering

her with the aid of a pet

detective, a large trap and an endless supply of barbecued sausages. A dog trainer said the best

thing I could do for her was to walk. Cisu's therapy coincided with mine. I went on to antidepressants

and into psychotherapy. I worked out that my trickiest time of day was early morning,

and so, almost before I was awake, I would pull on my clothes and head out, walking away my

spinning thoughts. Cisu's time in the pound had left her with odd quirks. She would only walk

on my right, was prone to sitting down if frightened or bolting completely if we saw another

...