WE START at the Viking Road car park, where across the road The Swordsman inn sells traditional Sam Smith's. A gory info-board told us we were downstream from the site of the Battle of Stamford Bridge, with spears poked up through the wooden bridge. Vikings nil, locals one. The rest of the walk was very tranquil, and I passed on the beer, though you don't need your wits about you to navigate this route, but it had rained, and one did not wish to flounder.

Our pedestrian bridge was steel, jammed next to the 18th century road bridge. Five minutes later, we passed under the fine 1847 viaduct that has a wide cast-iron span over the river and many brick arches either side. That was the last dramatic moment, so we strolled on and relaxed.

The River Derwent was brown and high, ducks sheltered in eddies, and little birds flitted from alder to willow to alder. There were scatty moorhens and a languid heron, some beef on the hoof, and only a short section of cattle-churned path.

My boots were soon cleaned on the grass of the next pasture. Indeed the walking surface was good, despite the rain, and the stiles and bridges new and splendid thanks to City of York Council.

Stiles all have lift-up dog passes, like canine guillotines. There were no benches though, and I had to perch for my sandwich stop. I watched the river flow.

It is supposed to be good feng-shui to go with the flow, i.e. not fighting the energy of the water. Believe this and you will believe anything, even my ramblings. Also, what if there are waterfalls? Not that we have any today.

After a few dozy miles, road-roar broke the peace. There was a Country Inn (glossy), a blast of traffic, and we crossed the river.

We were heading back, and now in East Yorkshire, therefore it was no surprise to get a wide, pristine, undisturbed bridleway through a big field, so progress was rapid and decibels soon diminished and it was pleasant again. A factory farm stood silent and abandoned, hedges of elders dripped berries and were decorated with white trumpets of bindweed. A peculiar patch of sweet corn and sunflowers provided pheasant cover. Slight rises gave an idea of the surroundings.

Low Catton looks good and has a pub. I popped down to see the church that, according to Nikolaus Pevsner, has the best Victorian window in East Yorkshire, by William Morris. The church was locked, but I picked up a sickly whiff from the nearby turkey factory; you would sell a house here in January.

A last mile was nice enough, a pond a stream, the river again, and finally the maples at the picnic area and I was done.