Some days are more successful than others as mothers. If I’m at the end of my tether (and even if I’m not) then there’s one thing that I KNOW will untie my mind. No, it’s not wine! If you’re reading this I think you know what I mean – being out in the open, feeling the weather, taking deep breaths…sometimes I might be on a trail run with the buggy, sometimes a walk to the shops to get some milk will just have to do. I’ve always been outdoorsy, but I’ve found I need it even more since I’ve become a Mum. For me, there’s nothing more instantly rejuvenating.
I love to visit old haunts, favourite spots I know will give my soul that massage it needs…but even more, I feel completely restored when I discover somewhere new. Lately I’ve been making a real effort to seek out new walks, trails, and beaches – or re-visit spots that I haven’t been to since I was a child. I tend to post pics of these on Instagram, so please come along with me at Outdoorsy_NZ if you feel like some armchair travel 🙂
It’s surprising how many new spots you might be able to discover in your own backyard. Every now and again you might come across a random set of steps linking two streets that you never knew was there, until somebody’s neighbour pruned back the hedge to expose the beginnings of a pathway. Or you might be driving along a road you’ve travelled 50,000 times before, and some little breath of wind will pivot your gaze to the right… and there’s an old, leaning post hanging back in a careless fashion, saying ‘oh yes, didn’t you know there’s a public reserve tucked away in here?’ Whaaat?
Last weekend’s little trot was a winner. I actually had to push myself out the door, it’s not always ‘woohoo, good MORNING world, yay, a RUN!’ Some mornings are just a struggle in all ways, being greeted with the nappy stench and two-year-old obtusity (I don’t care if that’s not an actual word), feeling groggy, and pulsing heat and humidity where I live at this time of year. I’m not sure how I pulled on the running gear and got out the door, but a Richard Scarry book was thrown at my head and that probably helped. Anyway, I set off down the road in a lackadaisical kind of way, and after I’d slogged up one hill and decided to duck through a local bush path for some relief from the heat, I noticed another little trail freshly cut away through a particularly prickly patch of gorse. (Shitty stuff, I hate it.) But it looked like it led down a steep gully to the promise of a rocky mouth to the sea below, and I wanted to know how far I could get. The run turned into a scramble down slithery dry banks and over little outcrops, winding through determined Pohutukawa trees clinging on for dear life, and descending into guts of tangling kikuyu grass hiding holes and rivets beneath its long green fingers. In places somebody had tried to cut steps, in others, they’d slashed at the cutty grass which still sliced into me as I lurched through it. Finally, I emerged at a stony wee cove, the swell surging up and frothing over the rocky reef, spreading the kelp, a perfect tiny curve of greys and browns and white sea spume. Gulls keened, waves crashed, rocks became stones became gravel. The noise was astounding. My mind was still.
I hauled myself back up the hill using handfuls of flax on the ridiculously steep sections. No wonder they used to make rope out of this stuff, I mused. Sauntered home, grinning widely, rejuvenated. Totally ready to read Richard Scarry 73 times.
Found anywhere new lately? Tell me about it!
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