Finally, the footprints are disappearing. Held crisp in the snow by winter’s cold, they’ve lain intact beneath my bedroom window for the last four months, giving the impression that a dog had just sauntered by. I’ve often wondered where those tracks would have led me had I followed them.

In the forest near our home, the snow had been densely laced with tracks that led to underground burrows, or simply slipped onto the next rise. To these we repeatedly added our own. Finding previous tracks, we retraced our steps up and down, reminding me that whether we walk on snow, sand or mud, our footfall leaves an impression.

Melting snow uncovers trails that snake the landscape. They are the way of cattle, horse and rider, and motorcyclists; forming paths that connect place to place and people to people but, unlike English footpaths, are rarely signposted.

Sometimes my mind re-walks those English paths. Marked with a simple finger post they always beckon me forward on a voyage of discovery to some new or, more likely, ancient place.  A favourite passes a bay-fronted old post office cum village shop that leads on to a kissing gate, which opens into a green field where the big sky promises freedom.

The field’s slender path runs close to the fence onto which someone has fixed a wooden box with a notice inviting walkers to purchase six free-range eggs for a pound. In my mind’s eye, I walk on to the next gate, shedding the burdens of the day as I slow to a pedestrian pace. I enter an alley, snug between a wood and a garden fence, behind which there’s a postage-stamp sized swimming pool. The way is darker and cooler here, and the air damp with loam and rotting leaves. Leaving the alley, I cross a lane that leads to a grand house and enter another field, full of cows.

The rutted and often boggy path slows me further. Yet the slowness does not hinder my way; rather the simple motion of walking, of being on a path, connects my feet to my mind in a way that brings clarity to my scrambled thoughts.

In the far corner of the field there’s an old lychgate that leads to a flint and brick church said to be founded at the end of the 12^th century. Is it me or do many ancient paths lead to churches? I read the gravestones eulogising lives lived and lives cut short. In the background the motorway drones steadily on. This path, sustained by use, meanders down to the River Chess. Rich with stories, it was here long before any motor car was invented. Its existence is subtle. Dawdlers and dreamers walk this way landmarked by echoes that cast old shadows. Tracing the path, I’m reminded of my need to ask God to show me those ancient paths where the good way is, and to walk in it. For there, God tells me, I will find rest for my soul.