You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone better-behaved, self-effacing and reserved than my friend, Irene. If one was asked, what does she have opinions on, we’d say ‘nothing that I know of’; apart from buses.

Irene doesn’t do cars. So, if we plan a walk a little off the nearby tracks, we must journey to and from the starting and end points by public transport. Nothing too bad in that you might think, especially as we have old folks’ bus passes, but today we’re going somewhere for which I have an almost exclusive parking permit. This fact is disregarded: if you want to be really ambitious, I’m advised, I can get the number 9 from my house into Poole where I can then change to the number X5 on which she will eventually embark. I don’t. I have to go to Tesco and I don’t have enough hours in the day.

We arrive at Longham Lakes, one of my favourite places for a variety of reasons: peaceful, calm, beautiful scenery, lots of birds, well-cared for paths and so on and so forth. Irene hasn’t been before which is surprising for one who never travels without binoculars. And she loves it. Well, why wouldn’t you? We take a leisurely stroll around the lakes, remarking on a passing heron and the number of coots.

Every now and then, a swan or two departs in a noisy flapping of wings. In the distance, the geese honk their way to who knows where. Paddy O’Connell has a ‘slow radio’ slot on his Sunday morning programme where all one hears are the natural sounds of the landscape and I suggest a recording of this place might fit well.

In front of us, a large rabbit suddenly hops onto the path. It’s so big that, for a moment, we think it might be one of the brown hares that frequent these parts; but Irene says it’s just a big rabbit. Yes, all is well in our world.

But, being prepared, Irene has a map which indicates we may leave the path. That sign says no entry to unauthorised persons, I remark. Well, the gate’s open she says with a previously unseen radical hat on her head. We go through the open gate and pass a sign warning of quicksand. That sign must’ve been moved here says the intrepid explorer. Then we pass another quicksand sign. Strange. I’m a little on edge.

We arrive at the exit bridge but there’s no exit. I’m all for going back but then we spot the river and have a little wander until our progress is halted and we turn back.

We are accosted by angry men with rods by the waterworks. ‘What are you doing here, they demand? Didn’t you see the signs?’ One of them shows us his permit for which he’s paid £120. ‘You’re probably on CCTV’, he threatens. ‘And you probably have Japanese Knotwood on your feet’. Since retiring, I’ve noticed that I’m less inclined to get into a confrontation. Thank goodness for Irene who bats the aggressiveness to one side with a previously unseen sneer.

Finding our way out, we jump on a passing bus. ‘Shall we go upstairs?’ And we’re like two kids gaining the front seat. She’s right: you can see a lot more up here.