I'm not sure why I started walking, but I just did.
Maybe I felt trapped, maybe I wanted to escape or I was feeling curious. But I think it's because I've finally caught the travel bug.
I'd met a school friend from way back that morning. He was working high up in a curious, steep garden.
"Jason," he told me sternly, "you've got to do what you enjoy and I hate fucking desks."
I stood there, all neat and tidy, just down from university while he continued to destroy a pile of manure with his spade. I felt awkward, like I should be working too, in the dirt with boots and crap under my fingernails.
Seven years ago we used to play together, digging underground bunkers and generally being little boys. Now he was holding down four jobs to pay off his debts from travelling while I stood watching in Gap jeans and with a mobile phone on my belt. Yes, I felt silly.
"The thing is, nothing beats this job," he continued while pottering around with a trowel; "you work in gardens, outside and it keeps you fit. Think about it."
It felt extremely tempting to suddenly drop everything in this pre-packaged Kraft, microwavable-in-3-minutes lifestyle and start playing with dirt. The sun was shining and I was recovering from another manic time at uni. But I never really was a great gardener so I left him to his horticultural delights, alone on a hill.
I ended up, later in the day, walking. Rambling along one of those narrow country roads sunken between fields and forests. With nowhere to walk I had to dodge the odd car coming round the bends.
Tiring of this dangerous game I mounted a bank into a field with a dried river bed winding its way through it. The sun was still shining and I soaked it up gratefully as I walked on.
Eventually I made it into Abinger Hammer, my local hamlet. With the cricket pavillion to my right I wandered in. I've been living here sixteen years but never have I ever ventured into Abinger on my own. It was time to see things and travel starts with a few steps.
The local pub, The Abinger Arms, looked forboding enough to be worth a visit. As I approached an odd-looking woman in a white denim shirt looked at me from the pub's doorway.
"You wanna come in 'ere? Go that way," she gesticulated.
I muttered and turned through a door into the bar area, whining sounds emanating from where she had her back to a peeling door. The faint odour of nicotine and beer tainted the air as I sat on a worn stool.
Two ancient, bulging locals sat at the other end of the bar, fags and drinks clutched in their hands. The younger of the two was waving his arms furiously while an old labrador sulked at his feet. The poor dog was bandaged on its paws and legs and obviously was too fat and old to do much moving.
Meanwhile I was still waiting for a drink. From the room filled with whines the woman in white eventually emerged.
"What will it be?"
I ordered a pint of something Irish and took a long sip. Smooth and cool, the beer just made the afternoon even more pleasant. As I pondered this the locals began to discuss banks and how they screwed students. So I joined in and ended up being ganged up against the older one in a case of "I told you so" over quite how evil they are these days.
Somehow I forgot to mention my dad works for a bank.
Near the end of my pint a young local woman came in with her little son. She'd had an awful day and was hitting the drink while her kid slurped an orange juice. I sat there blissfully unworried as she moaned to anyone who was interested about how something in some shop was somehow terrible. Nobody listened, the locals were by now engrossed in a game of cribbage too fast or convoluted for anyone to follow.
Then a family came in. They weren't local and so they got 'the look'. You know the one when people look up from whatever they might be doing and say "You're not from round here and we don't like or trust you" in a look. Well being the friendly sort the locals toned it down to more like "You're not from round here but we'll take your money."
The son was must have been a bit confused seeing as he took the risk of ordering food, but his mother explained he'd just got back from holiday. Didn't say where. It was only when the man paid seperately and sat seperately did I realise that they weren't a family. I got a strange feeling because the man looked like a dad, maybe he was, but not for that family - odd. It was time to go.
I bade farewell to the locals who muttered back from their cribbage before I burst out into the sunlight again. Outside the pub the dog catcher was loading her van with two strays, the source of all the whining in the pub.
It was still hot so I walked over to the farm shop. I'd been in that shop so many times I'd already decided what I was buying before I entered.
Strangely enough nobody recognised me, not the farmer's wife or the daughter. So I bought my ice-cream and crept out while they chatted to some old lady. I'd always been in there with my mother, without her they didn't even blink at me, I just got 'the look'. Strange, I alomst felt like a spy.
I licked my ice-cream and wandered back across the fields. I decided then and there that I liked this travel thing, and next time I'd go a little further from home. But just a little...