I bet he's ducking under the sheets because he thinks his chimney's falling off.

It's a Saturday morning in June and I'm awake. A bird outside is cheeping like a squeaky door and somewhere on what we Darfielders call The Top Road (although nobody's ever referred to The Bottom Road) a car is trundling towards Barnsley.

I glance at my cheap travel clock, the one that never lets me down, although really I know what time it is.

It's the same time I've been waking up for months: 04.40. Twenty to five. Pit Time, as they say round these parts, celebrating the hour the miner would drag himself out of bed to go down the shaft whistling a jolly tune. I made that bit up about the jolly tune.

I've no idea why I wake up at that moment. Of course, at this time of year the sun is streaming through
the thin curtains so maybe that's
what tickles my eyelids but I also wake up at this time in the middle
of winter when the room's a dark as boot polish.

Maybe the bird squeaking like a door has squeaked so often that my brain has finally shrugged and decided to wake me up; maybe
the car trundling up The Top Road revs up at the same time every morning, jolting me into the place
of wakefulness.

Anyway, I'm awake. And it's very early. Some people are still coming home from the night before, staggering a little and clutching their stilettos like spiky and impractical designer handbags.

Most people are fast asleep. And
I'm wide, wide awake. I can't get
up yet, though, so I put my headphones on and listen to the radio for a while.

And then, just before six, I get up, because it's Saturday and it's the
day for my Major Stroll. During the week, if I'm not going out and about, I go on my Minor Stroll, walking down to the paper shop, then down Snape Hill and back up Upperwood Road, as fast as I can without looking daft, figuring that a walk up and down a hill that makes you gasp and sweat is good for you.

At the weekend, though, I do my Major Stroll or, to give it its subtitle, A Stroll with Boots.

I get dressed and go downstairs. The day is full of promise; I realise that some people won't believe this, because the world is divided into larks and owls, and I'm a lark.

To an owl, this time of day would be full of sludge rather than promise. I get my boots and put them on,
lacing them as elaborately as a Victorian lady might lace a corset.
I like my boots: I like the fact that
they make me think I'm going on a proper walk.

I take my rucksack to put the newspaper in. I take two apples. I step out into the morning. It's warm, with the promise through the mist of a lovely day. A blackbird rushes across my path and a pigeon stares at me dully. No owls are present, and I'm the only visible lark.

I walk down the street and along Doncaster Road. Even at this time of day people are driving somewhere; this isn't a scientific observation but I've noticed that at ten past six in the morning people tend to drive very quickly; they're either late or they're enjoying the freedom of the open road. Or both.

I buy my paper and stick it in my briefcase. I eat the first of my apples. I'm happy, for reasons I can't quite fully describe.

It's something to do with the morning and the feel of my boots
and the taste of the apple and the rhythms that you get from walking
on the surface of the world, if that doesn't sound too mystical. The
world is spinning through space and I'm walking on it in my boots and I feel good.

So I'm down Snape Hill, past the Valley School, through Low Valley
and up the hill into Wombwell and maybe part of the good feeling I
get from my Major Stroll is the fact that I'm reconnecting with my past; I went to the Valley School as a lad, and when we were first married many years ago we lived in Low Valley and I used to walk up to Wombwell Station to go to work.

I carry on up through Wombwell, sweating now, knowing that all this sweating and gasping is doing me good. I walk down Wombwell
High Street and on to the path by what used to be Darfield Main Pit
and which is now Netherwood Country Park.

Time for the second apple: that's two doctors kept at bay. Then it's back up the hill and back to our house for coffee and toast.

Simple pleasures on a Saturday morning: I love 'em! I just wish I
didn't wake up quite so early...