Bridget the Midget, a much-admired child from the glory years of the Abingdon Works, required a new MOT certificate.

Where else should she go to endure the indignity of having to prove her roadworthiness than to a garage where the owner treats old MGs like his only daughter, and where she stays for a couple of days to have every care that can be lavished?

This garage is six miles from home, in a small village where buses are rarer than bobbies on the beat and reached along busy roads that are narrow and lack pavements.

I kidded myself that the exercise would be beneficial, declining the offer of a lift home. Warmly wrapped in several layers, fur-lined leather gloves and wearing a tweed deerstalker that is always stored in Bridget's boot, I stepped out.

Tuesday morning was foggy - visibility down to 60 yards. The school run was nearing its end, but the roads seemed busier than ever. It was hairy diving into the hedge time and again to avoid thundering wheels.

I did not dwell too much on the motorists who were using hand-held mobile phones (it is one of my phobias, I know!), but there were enough to keep local magistrates at their bench for at least a week.

Instead, I enjoyed the things we motorists tend to miss, like the farmer who had more than 500 lambs to worry about, yet found time to chase and, after several attempts, catch a 10-day-old wanderer and return it to the adjoining field where its mother was getting anxious.

"It's a grand life you've got," I remarked, not intending to patronise.

"After weeks of sleepless nights, you're welcome to it," he replied, before swearing fruitily and dashing across to where another bleating lamb had become separated from its mother.

A robin sang bossily, doubtless telling me I was some sort of idiot to risk walking along that twisty road. A buzzard wheeled down to get a closer look at this foolhardy pedestrian.

But I was seeing so many things previously overlooked. Hadn't the young couple who bought the derelict cottage on the edge of one of the villages made a wonderful job of its restoration? Wasn't that hedge-laying a real work of art? That beautiful small bridge down that track and over the stream - how old was it?

There were house names to be read. Puzzle Cottage, Murphy's Mound, Old Walls, Steeple Barn (and not a steeple in sight). Hand-painted signs to be noticed: Root vegetables free to anyone - I can't eat 'em all', and the less friendly This verge is not a dog's lavatory. Go elsewhere or be reported'.

Sound advice was offered on the official notice attached to the fence surrounding the electricity sub-station - Danger of death'. But its position, on the path to the village graveyard, somehow diluted the message.

It was surprising, as well as ego-damaging, how few motorists gave me a second glance. Perhaps I looked the outdoor type, but stout shoes and a deerstalker doth not a hiker make.

Even the vicar passed on the other side, his gesture, a mixture of a hurried blessing and an equally hurried dismissal. (Note: I must remind him of this transgression when he next calls for contributions towards the organ fund.) One vehicle did stop: Tuesday is refuse collection day and the council lorry was heading my way. I thanked the lads kindly, but declined. I might have been happy to be seen emerging from the vintage Daimler owned by the lady at the big house, but a dustcart . . .

It was noon when I reached the village. The fog was clearing and the sun doing its best to break through. I felt proud - nay, smug - like someone who has munched his daily five vegetables and restricted himself to the prescribed units of alcohol.

Heading for the pub for his first of the day was our own countryside commentator, someone who can talk and write about the joys of the outdoors at the drop of a cloth cap. I was eager to tell him about my mini-adventure.

"You've walked all six miles?" he said with amazement. "You must be bloody mad!"