Short of the north face of the Eiger, they will get you pretty much anywhere you want to go out in the countryside for the price of a pair of stout walking boots. Walking is free. It is good for you. And in a blurred, 100 mph world where the proverbial stop and stare seems destined for extinction, it is a rare and wonderful escape from the rat race, if only for a few hours.

You can forget, however, all the dubious connotations that often follow the very idea of walking like a bad smell. Forget, for example, notions of professional hikers: primary coloured Pac a Mac cagoules; large groups of bobble hatted fifty somethings converging on fellsides with their big woolly socks, his ‘n’ hers Craghopper fleeces and perma-cheerful bonhomie.

Think smaller. Think boots, rucksack and shades. Think you, and maybe your other half. No one else. Think what you are missing, slouched in front of this computer monitor, when you are probably less than a ten minute walk from The Proper Outdoors.

Okay, so the sun has left his hat at home and it’s a bit grey and blowy out there. So what? I would much rather witness the exhilarating spectacle of massive white, grey and black clouds scudding at breakneck speed across the equally massive skies with which we are blessed around here, all the while gulping down twin lungs full of cool, bracing and delicious country air, than stand idly by and stare, bored (and with not a single hair out of place), at a bland blue sky interrupted only by a single translucent wisp of white cloud having a motionless celestial nap.

I have been as guilty as the next (wo)man in this respect, though. Many is the time I have  caught myself gazing longingly out of my office window at home, watching the cows solemnly hoovering the grass in the field at the bottom of our back garden, when I should have been tapping away productively at the keyboard like a good little mouse. And then, when I have actually had the rare opportunity to get out there and live the dream, too often I have ended up muttering "Oh, stuff it" and flopping onto the settee to watch repeats of Top Gear on the telly instead.

Only . . . a day or three back, I finished my daily chores early and decided, apropos of nothing, that the last thing I needed was another injection of televisual mental anaesthesia.
In a rare burst of energy, I plucked out a small rucksack, stuffed a few bits and pieces (compass, pair of binoculars, digital camera, phone, wallet) into it, stepped into my new boots, shrugged into an old sweater and body warmer, and with sunglasses cutting down on the glare from the bright, but cloudy sky, strode down the road and into the village.
The village in question is Morton, and my wife and I have lived here for seven years. We have tramped its streets hundreds of times and yet never before had I spotted the discreet but somehow talismanic "Public Footpath" sign I espied on the High Street on this occasion.

It is just beyond the post-office (heading out towards the A15 from the direction of Morton Fen) and appears to lead the unwary into the sort of farmyard where a stentorian "Get Orf Moi Land!" is likely to be your only reward. Only, it isn’t. Your reward is, in fact, the spectacle of lush, green fields as far as the eye can see.

Yes, okay, it was a bit muddy underfoot the day I discovered it, and yes it was the most bracing of bracing breezes that sprinted cheerfully towards me from the horizon to say hello the second I ventured beyond the comforting shelter of the nearby barn. My eyes watered. My breath was taken away, returned, and then taken away again. I was plunged instantly into a bad hair day, and my nose turned into a dew drop manufacturing plant. But my goodness, I felt alive.

Striding forth, hoping the aches in my calves would evaporate sooner rather than later (they did), I tackled my first stile with outward nonchalant ease (and inner mild terror) and then picked my way carefully through the large field beyond that I shared briefly with two large, disinterested cows and their numerous manure deposits.

From here, another stile and a brief march along beautifully – and naturally – manicured rich green grass, now heading west again with 180 degree big sky majesty stretching in every direction. I feared my countryside adventure would be halted by the depressingly familiar ribbon of the A15 just ahead, but then, as I squinted across the road in between the fleeting gaps left by the low-flying white van men and company repmobiles, I espied another magical talisman beckoning to me. It, like the first, read: "Public Footpath".
Feeling deliciously adventurous, I answered its silent call.

From here, it was a cautious, slightly intimidated, even, goose step along a narrow pathway with complicated ivy tendrils underfoot, recently groomed brambles to the right and serried ranks of back garden fences to the left, and then out I popped, probably looking comically surprised, into a small secluded field decorated in one corner by a small children’s playground.

I’ve driven through the western reaches of Morton hundreds of times before, but I did not even know there was a field here, let alone a playground. I do now. Onwards towards a massive field beyond (which must be circumnavigated, never crossed), then over another stile and onto a narrow pathway with another huge working field (cabbages, I think) to the right, and a typically deep Lincolnshire dyke to the left. Striding yonder, it seemed like I had the world – the odd masticating cow and mesmerising Windhover aside – to myself. The views seemed endless. So did the possibilities.

Venturing back onto the road beyond Hanthorpe, the lane opened out suddenly into a magnificently open stretch towards Stainfield, those magical talisman signs seemingly everywhere now, each pointing towards another tempting-looking pathway spearing boldly out into some lucky land owner’s field, and who knows what beyond.

I am dying to know what lies at the end of one such path that heads north at an angle off the Stainfield-Haconby road. The heavily wooded area in the middle distance is as unfamiliar to me as it is intriguing. It cannot be Bourne Wood, so what is it, I wonder?

Time to head for home. A brief stroll through Haconby to marvel at its village church’s wonderful position on the very edge of a vast expanse of seemingly endless fields and endless skies (it could almost be the edge of the world) to the south, squint at the nearby headstones, and enjoy the spectacle of two or three of its wonderfully wonky looking old houses. And then, reluctantly, a cross field tramp back to Morton.

Standing in the hallway at home, I took stock. There was mud on my boots. Mud on my jeans. And, I was later to discover, mud, however improbably, on my nose. My feet were sore. My sweater was sweaty. There appeared to be a bird’s nest on my head. My socks whiffed a bit. And I could have murdered a cuppa.

As mucky and dishevelled as parts of me were, though, I felt incredibly clean, washed by the ceaseless winds and single, brief squall I encountered at one point. I could almost feel the pores in my skin shrivelling in disappointment as they discovered that the good clean air they had been drinking in eagerly for the past three hours had been suddenly replaced by dull, centrally heated air. But their time will come again. And soon. So will mine.

There’s a natural adventure playground out there with endless possibilities and no entrance fee to pay. Harry Potter himself has nothing on the real world magical talismans that are out there right now showing those who care to look the way to the legendary land of hidden Lincolnshire. You just need to know where to look for them, that’s all.

WRITTEN 3rd FEBRUARY 2008