People warn you about a lot of things as you get older. Nobody warned me about the quiet.

I’m sixty-eight. I spent thirty-one years teaching primary school in southeast London, and for most of my life my days were full to bursting - children, marking, my own two boys, my husband Ron. There was never enough time. I used to dream about having some.

Then I retired. And eighteen months later, Ron died.

And just like that, I had all the time in the world, and no idea what to do with it.

When the days get long

I don’t want this to be a sad story, because it isn’t, not in the end. But I think it helps to be truthful about the middle part.

The house got very quiet. I’d make a cup of tea and realise it was only half past nine in the morning and the whole long day was still in front of me. My sons phoned, bless them, but they have their own lives, their own little ones. I didn’t want to be the mother who complained. So I said I was fine. I said it so often I almost believed it.

I stopped going out much. It’s a strange thing, but the less you do, the less you feel able to do. The world shrinks to the size of your front room. I told myself this was just what getting older was. That my world was meant to get smaller now, and I should accept it gracefully.

I’m so glad I was wrong.

A notice in the library

It was my neighbour, really. She dragged me to the library one Thursday to get me out of the house, and while she was returning her books I saw a notice on the board: a local walking group, Saturday mornings, meeting by the park gates. “All ages and all paces. Newcomers always welcome. Tea afterwards.”

I stood reading it for a long time. All paces. Newcomers always welcome. It felt as though it had been written for someone braver than me. But I wrote down the details on the back of my hand like a schoolgirl, and I didn’t tell anyone, in case I lost my nerve.

That Saturday I nearly didn’t go. I changed my mind three times. I’m not a hiker, I thought. I’m a widow in sensible shoes who hasn’t made a new friend in twenty years. What on earth would I say to them?

I went anyway. I think Ron would have made me.

Saturday people

There were about fifteen of them by the gates, all sorts, some my age and some far younger, and I hovered at the edge feeling like I might cry or run. A man with a kind face and a flask in his rucksack came straight over. “Haven’t seen you before,” he said. “Walk with us, we go slowly and we stop for the good views. I’m Geoff.”

So I walked with Geoff, and a lady called Pam, and we went slowly, just as promised, along the river and through the park, and they asked me about myself and actually listened. Pam had lost her husband too. She didn’t make a thing of it. She just put her arm through mine on the muddy bit and that was that.

We had tea afterwards in a little cafe. I laughed properly for the first time in longer than I can remember. I came home that afternoon tired in my legs and lighter in my chest, and I thought, well. Maybe the world isn’t finished with me yet.

What I’d tell you

That was two years ago. I haven’t missed many Saturdays since. Pam is one of my dearest friends now. We’ve walked in the hills, been on day trips by train, seen bluebells in spring that made me stop still. My grandchildren can’t believe their nana goes hiking.

If you’re my age, and the house has gone quiet, here is what I have learned:

  • Your world does not have to get smaller. I genuinely believed that it must. It was the single most wrong thing I have ever believed.
  • A gentle walk is a perfect beginning. No special fitness, no special kit, just comfortable shoes and the willingness to turn up. The walking and hiking groups are used to welcoming people who haven’t done anything like it in years, and many keep a slower, beginner-friendly group for exactly this.
  • Loneliness in later life is so common, and so rarely spoken about. If you feel it, you are not weak and you are certainly not alone in feeling alone.
  • You are allowed to start again. At any age. Truly.

I thought my time for new friendships had passed. It turns out I just hadn’t met them yet. They were on a footpath by the river, with a flask of tea, waiting.

If today feels long and quiet, this is your notice on the library board. Have a look at the walking groups near you, or browse clubs by your borough. Go just once, in your sensible shoes. I’m so glad I did.