Indecisive to the last, I decide rather late in the day to walk along the Stour Valley Way named, accordingly, after the river that runs through it. Wait – wasn’t that the name of a long-ago Robert Redford film? No sign of him hereabouts. No sign of anyone as a matter of fact but the place is in uproar: the almost-in-leaf trees are full to exploding with raucous rooks screaming and squawking at each other. Or maybe at me. Or maybe just in pleasure at the latterly errant sun.

I have some of those directions that have proven so entirely useless on previous new walks. Generally, there are pages and pages which I always manage to muddle up but today’s instructions are surprisingly brief: it’s a four mile venture which seems to begin well enough. The river is looking pretty if a little devoid of wildlife.

Obviously the National Trust own this footpath. Let’s be fair, the National disTrust own every bloody thing in England that could once be safely claimed as the people’s heritage. I expect they’ll be a toll box half way across this field. Speaking of which, their directions claim ‘there will be fleeting glimpses of kingfishers, egrets and herons to add to the walks interest’. Firstly, NT, there should be a fleeting glimpse of an apostrophe in ‘walks’; secondly, a fleeting glimpse of the River Stour would make it more interesting.

I’m only at Point Two on the instructions and I’ve been out hours. ‘The riverside walk meanders over rough pasture and arable headlands for 2.5 miles’. Call it ‘meandering’ if you will; I call it a trudge. And where’s the river? The sky may be blue but the wind is whipping up a fair old hoolie as I try to think of something interesting. Yes, the washing will be dry. I look back at the crumpled paper to see if I’ve missed anything. ‘The otter is re-establishing itself after a two decade absence’. Could be true, but not in this field. I have a feeling otters like water. And shouldn’t there be an S in decades?

‘Having arrived at St Bartholomew’s Church …’ what? There’s been no previous mention of this and it’s not marked on the map. Still, here ’tis as we say in Darset. Interestingly, on the third Sunday of the month, St Barts metamorphoses into a Russian Orthodox joint. What’s that all about then? Uninterestingly, it’s shut. Last time I was here it was shut. I hate that. I’m not a big fan of churches but, having ‘meandered’ across miles of ‘rough pasture’, it would be nice to see inside. Instead, I sit on an old wooden bench dedicated to Ronald Triel, he of the Wessex Cyclists Touring Club; another bunch devoid of apostrophes. Overhead, the compulsory ancient yew is creaking and crackling. I look up, hoping to see birdlife or a glimpse of the re-established tree otter. Nothing. Just centuries’ old branches complaining in the wind.

Well, who knew? Seems I’ve been trying to batter down the back door all this time for, on wandering around the back of the church, I gain easy entry through another opening. If you’ve ever been here, you’ll know that the locked door was clearly the main door in times past. Even the footpath meanders through the final field, over the fourteenth stile and right up to it. Still, I’m in. Interesting and welcome it isn’t. What ropes? Are they in the missing river?

I revert to the miserable instructions and walk through Shapwick along the High Street. Considering Shapwick, meaning Sheep Village, is in the arse end of nowhere, there’s a surprising amount of tarmac to pound before I get to my turn-off, Park Lane. I can’t be bothered. I look at my excuse of a map and decide I can probably get down Piccadilly more quickly.

I wonder if Ronald Triel ever queried the incongruity of following the Monopoly board through deepest Wessex. Still, it’s all rather French: where else do they grow their herbs in the ditch opposite their house? I see a type in his garden and stop to ask whether I can get back to my lost car on this route. When I say ‘type’, I mean a scruffy looking bod with a diamond stud in his ear and a large plum in his mouth. Friendly sort, but he comes out of his five bar gate and closes it behind him in a defensive sort of way before answering my question. I suppose he thinks I’m a tramp. Which I am.

Not going down Park Lane means I’ve missed the attractively named Crab Farm plus a stroll down Half Mile Drove. Time was that I’d be excited by a drove. It’s true, I love the traditional ways but, seen one drove – you’ve seen them all and unless there’s the likelihood of spotting any rambling drovers well, I’ll give it a miss. In any case, had I not stopped to lean over a gate, as you do when rambling, I wouldn’t have seen the little deer wondering whether to venture into the rape seed oil field.

And I wouldn’t have seen the buzzard sitting quietly in a tree close to hand. As ever, I didn’t reach my camera in time but here he is soaring on the thermals.

And I’ve reached White Mill and the oldest arched bridge in Dorset. The mill is owned by the National disTrust and is, therefore, shut. Who cares. It’s free to observe such an idyllic scene which seems the epitome of rural England.

See these two morons? Do you know them? They are having fun with a drone. I was alerted to them by the ear-piercing screech of said implement as it hovered over the swan in the previous photo. This has been a walk both boring and pretty. You have to walk a lot to get a feel for nature and sometimes the way can be disappointing but it’s always better to be outside while you can. You never know what’s around the next corner.