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.