I think I would be sad if you took away the seasons. Three-quarters of a year’s worth of daily walks has only impressed upon me the delight to be had with every change. I'll limit myself to winter and summer, the biggest contrast.

You might think that summer walks are the best. After all, that is when there are the most people out. Paths become so congested, social distancing norms that are inevitably contravened are forgiven on the theory that viruses have a harder time spreading outside, in sunshine rays. And you aren't talking to each other anyways. You're passing by. But in summer, there are bugs and worms. And with warmer temperature, the desire to move fast takes a nosedive. There are determined joggers, of whom I'm not one. Instead I notice that I walk more slowly in hot weather, already exerted by my body's attempt to cool off. Walking more slowly has its advantages. For one thing, there is more to look at in the summer. Flowers and greenery burst forth everywhere and there is added depth to the forest. And I should mention the sound... in summer there are so many birds, and when the wind blows, it rustles the leaves!

In winter, there is more silence. Well, perhaps yes and no. In summer, you can move without making much noise: your apparel and footwear are simple, the path is unencumbered and dirt cushions your footsteps. In winter, you are in your own bubble of noise... your footsteps in the snow squeak, your exhalations and heartbeat ricochet in the confines of your hood. The movement of your arms rustles the material of your coat. In wintertime, you move fast: you hurry to move your blood and warm your limbs and you come home with chilled cheeks, invigorated and refreshed. You move fast, and it is quite alright to do so because the forest is little more than brown sticks and white snow. Birds have mostly gone. It is hard to find any colour.

In winter, you are the life and the actor, the colour and the sound, coming in bowed but conquering. In summer, you are the object taking in the burst of chlorophyll and birdsong, coming home filled up and sluggish.