I spotted one of the old Birmingham Post rambling columns pinned up on the wall of a Warwickshire pub the other week, but the landlord spotted me trying to see what was on the back.

In its old format, my history piece in the Post was always back-to-back with the rambling column.

People who wanted to cut out both used to accuse me of spoiling their scrapbook, or of forcing them to buy two copies of the paper.

This was of little concern to me, because I didn’t ramble, or not physically anyway.

My students might have a very different opinion, of course.

I would walk miles to see a church or a castle, but ideally this would be in a straight line.

Rambling, as far as I could see, meant sharing a field with unpredictable livestock, redistributing the mud around central England, ruining a perfectly good pair of shoes and (most important of all) coming across other ramblers, all with more sensible footwear, green waxed jackets, bigger lungs and sticks.

Finally, however, I have crossed that metaphorical stile and embraced the idea.

Somewhat late in the day and at the wrong time of year, a country walk has now become a weekly feature – the only feature, in fact – of my exercise regime.

Admittedly the healthier aspects of the walk are undermined by the pub lunch beforehand and the tea and cake afterwards, but the fresh (very fresh) air must surely be doing some good.