They say nature is healing.
And it most certainly is.
I say it’s also highly qualified — my unofficial doctor, counsellor, and personal trainer all rolled into one.
No appointment needed, no waiting list, and crucially, no small talk.
Just open skies, muddy boots, and the kind of quiet that speaks louder than any well-meaning platitude ever could.
Living with incurable head and neck cancer means walking a landscape most would rather not picture, let alone cross barefoot. But every day, I get up, lace up, and step into a different kind of terrain – one not marked by hospital corridors or scan dates, but by weather-beaten paths, moody clouds, and lots of sheep.
Nature doesn’t pity me. It doesn’t prod me. It just welcomes me and let’s me get on with it.
Out there, in the wild, I’m not a patient. I’m just a bloke trying to beat the hill before the weather turns. Nature gives me something I rarely get elsewhere: a break from being ill. A bit of normal. A touch of awe. And, occasionally, a near-death encounter with a 750kg cow or two.
Let’s be clear: I’m not saying nature cures anything. It won’t shrink tumours or replace immunotherapy.
But it does something medicine can’t. It reminds me I’m alive – gloriously, frustratingly, stubbornly alive. It resets the mental dials. It gives me perspective and on days when the weight of this cancer gig feels heavier than my rucksack, nature shares the load.
There’s something profoundly rebellious about walking through pain and still finding joy in a tree. Or stopping mid-hike to marvel at the fact that a robin is giving it some serious attitude from a dry stone wall. That’s resilience in its rawest form: noticing beauty when your body’s busy waging war.
Plus, let’s be honest, nature is cheaper than therapy and comes with better views. There’s no music piped in overhead, no inspirational posters on the walls. Just wind, mud, and maybe the odd pig staring at you like it knows your secrets. Perfect.
And while we’re on the subject of silence, that’s another thing nature offers in abundance. Silence that isn’t awkward or clinical – just peaceful and inspiring. This is the kind of silence that gives your soul room to breathe. Try finding that in a hospital waiting room, where the soundtrack is always anxiety in C minor.
Sure, I could stay indoors. I could wrap myself in blankets of ‘why me’ and let the prognosis dictate the mood. But where’s the fun in that? I’d rather be outside getting soaked by horizontal rain and shouting at a stubborn stile than trapped in a world defined solely by my diagnosis.
Nature has become my co-pilot and my support system and my muddy, windswept, slightly chaotic friend who never once flinched when cancer came knocking. When the world feels clinical and controlled, nature is messy and wild — and I love it for that.
So no, it’s not about escaping reality. It’s about facing it differently. With a thermos, a pair of boots, and the unspoken agreement that this day, even this difficult, painful, exhausting day, is still worth showing up for.
It’s also a reminder that staying in is not something I like doing. I’d rather be outside in the fresh air in all weathers feeling alive.
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