I was relishing the lockdown a week ago, but now I need urgent hospital treatment

In France the rule for going for a walk stipulates an hour in duration or a kilometre in distance. We are fortunate here in having a 40-minute circular walk that starts at the front door, most of it on a footpath, though beginning with a steep climb that makes me pant like a greyhound after a course. Then the path levels and runs pleasantly through olive groves and vineyards. One is never out of sight of houses and at three points along the route house dogs — in order: a pair of Weimaraners, a Jack Russell and a pedigree sheepdog — enjoy intimidating passers-by by throwing themselves in a frenzy of barking at the wire boundary fences containing them. Otherwise the route is bucolic and quiet enough to quieten the mind and exhaust the frail old mongrel.

In ordinary times this walk can be extended by an hour and a half, taking one away from human habitation and deep into the countryside. At the route’s extremity is an ancient stone vineyard-workers’ hut with a working fireplace, free wood, a long table and chairs. In this isolated and primitive home from home we’ve had many a lunch and have come to love the variety of views and scenes along the way. The route has a local name: le petit poucet or ‘little thumb’, after a popular French fairy tale. The hut is known locally as cabanon Sara.

The sun came out after a cold week of overcast skies. ‘Let’s do cabanon Sara,’ said Catriona. ‘I miss it.’ ‘But it’s more than a kilometre,’ I said. ‘No one will know,’ she said. ‘And it’s surely not much more than a kilometre — as the crow flies.’