Keeping Fit (or not) as a Rural Dweller

I've closed my Tinder account.

The only men I ever swipe right on (one in about ten million, amongst a plethora of sunburned tattooed labourers waving pints of beer, wearing silly hats and short-sleeved flowery shirts) turn out to be impoverished ex-cavalry officers who are drawn to the free huntin, shootin and fishin that I provide in so much abundance. 

Yet how many of these pleasurable pastimes do I take advantage of?

Hunting, yes, on the few days when you can see your hand in front of your face, and the rain isn't falling horizontally.

Fishing? Our home was originally built as a fishing lodge as it's a short stroll away from the best salmon pools of the Dart. My son once caught a 4" trout when he was 12, and we were so excited that we kept it, took a photo, and popped it in the freezer to show off to his Dad. But we don't seem to have done anything since.

I joined my best friend for a day's shoot (she's one of the few women who runs her own one, thanks to a messy divorce) but turned up in pink because I don't suit camouflage green. So that's a no-no.

I am convinced that city folk are generally much fitter than we rural types, surrounded as we are by so much space and beauty. They have to walk a long way there and back to the tube, they take their dogs out for a poo twice a day, and work out at Cannons or play regular tennis at the Hurlingham. Or they do yoga. Some city people even pop on the lycra and a strange helmet, and work up a sweat cycling to work!

Whereas I'm now on my third glass of Cava and fifth series of Channel 4's 'The Good Doctor'. Sometimes I don't go out of the house at all (WFH seven days a week), except to muck out the horses. In the rain, obviously. The whole point of my equine friends is that they mean I don't have to walk and can sit down going up hills. My bike has a powerful motor on it, the car is two yards from the back door, and the dog exercises itself, or runs along beside my car for a bit. No poo bags required.

Storm Debi (why not Deborah?) made her appearance this evening, bashing on my double-glazed windows, trying to get in. So I've given her a rude sign and started making plans to visit Australia. Twenty hours sitting down in an aeroplane, followed by a towel on the beach. I'll leave proper country sport to my more urban friends. Oh dear. I'm going to look like a whale when I get to Oz! Better have a go on the treadmill while watching the telly. Wouldn't want to get cold, wet or muddy.