IT'S the same every springtime. The first bright day with real heat in the sun's rays and off goes old Phillpott, his eyes set hard on the horizon and mind racing with schemes.

I suppose it revolves around the fact that I haven't taken more than three weeks off since the age of 13. For it was during Easter, 1963, that I went to work on the farm for the duration of the break... and forever kissed goodbye to that dreamy indulgence called the school hols.

Such a shame in a way - for, while my mates were hanging around the clocktower in ice-blue jeans and leather jackets eyeing the girls, I was pitching bales up on to the trailer, accumulating hay seeds in every crease and fold.

Ah! Days of sunburn and sweated toil with ne'er a labour-saving piece of machinery in sight. Adolescent crushes on the farmer's wife and bottles of light ale in the shadow of the rick. Bathing in the river after a day's slog and feeling refreshed in a way never experienced before. Or since.

It's one of the greatest ironies of my existence that, despite being someone who has always craved the outdoor life, destiny decreed that I was to earn the bulk of my living sitting in airless caverns illuminated by strip lights and kept at a greenhouse temperature winter and summer.

It's common knowledge among journalists that we're traditionally given the room with the worst aspect in the entire building. The other staff generally have the rooms with the views, whereas the hacks must stare at a factory roof or wall. That's if they can see past the strip blinds.

This is why, with the onset of finer weather, the feet begin to itch and my soul yearns for the open road.

That's when the fantasies start to stack up. And they're only interrupted by the insistent trill of the phone or Jim across the table asking if I want my 17th cup of tea of that day. Then it's back to the computer screen and reality.

But there are oases of hope, such as the expedition last September, when I joined a band intent on tracing the Severn from source to sea.

Much in the manner of a wagon train snaking along the trails of the Old West, we had a couple of guides or, to preserve the frontier metaphor, we'll call them scouts.

The first was Alan Jones from the Environment Agency, who accompanied us from Plynlimon to Shrewsbury. Remember Flint McCullough on Wagon Train? No? Funny, neither do I.

As readers may recall, the leg of the trip from Bridgnorth to Arley was on the Severn Railway. It was at this heat-hazed country station that we alighted from the train to be met by our second scout.

He was to take us through some of the meanest territory this side of the Pecos - the trail from Arley to Bewdley. This was our Daniel Boone, who was to find a way through the wooded slopes of the great river and deliver us safely to the settlement.

His name was Matt Maginnis - almost as good as Flint McCullough - and he proved to be an amiable companion as the miles slipped away, the feet became progressively more blistered, and thoughts of a shower turned to obsession.

Now here's a funny thing. I noticed that, whenever I needed to tie my shoelace in the doorway of a pub, he would always make his way to the bar, returning with two foaming jars of best ale.

I've never understood why my shoe always comes undone upon entering a pub, thus delaying my headlong rush to buy a round.

Matt loves all things to do with the natural world and is a generally all-round fine fellow. He's the sort of cove who can predict the arrival of a green woodpecker with such accuracy that, if these old Yaffle-birds were trains, Railtrack would be laughing, too.

He's also the Countryside Marketing Manager for Worcestershire County Council, and I hadn't heard from him for some time until a couple of weeks ago when an envelope landed on my desk.

Inside was a brochure entitled Countryside Walks And Events In Worcestershire Spring And Summer 2000. And what an interesting read this proved to be.

The intention of the booklet is to help the public experience the beauty and variety of life across the county. Consisting mainly of guided walks, where the group is helped by an expert across stile and along footpath, the itineraries stretch from April to August, offering 30 events calculated to light up the eyes of ramblers everywhere.

Worcestershire is a county of great contrast and exhibits a wonderful variety of terrain. Still a landscape of rolling hills and small fields, the jewels in the crown are undeniably the Malvern Hills and our famous river. However, there is also an untold number of quieter backwaters and backwoods to explore.

For example, there is the Four Harvests walk with views high above Worcestershire, the tranquillity of the Leigh Brook, followed by lunch at the Nelson, Longley Green. Or how does Bluebells Around Clent suit you?

All right, if flowers aren't your bag, maybe the intriguing Mediaeval Moats And Country Curates will appeal to those whose taste is more inclined for wondrous views and historical buildings.

There's a real sense of purpose contained within these pages, a tangible warmth that's apparent from first reading. The booklet's well laid-out, using an economy of design techniques, easy-on-the-eye and with an absence of typographical gimmicks.

There's a picture on every page - a wise move - each one taken from the natural world, from common newt to ox-eye daisies, fritillary butterfly to clump of fungi.

Just a cursory glance makes you want to reach for those trusty walking boots, cagoule and that gnarled old alder stick standing in the corner of the shed.

But there's a deeper significance to the publication of booklets such as this. For it's indicative of the mounting concerns of local authorities over the well-being of the natural environment.

Whether it's organised walks or the highly commendable spring-clean initiative by Worcester City Council, these all serve as reminders that we cannot live separate from Nature.

And slowly, but surely, the Establishment is coming round to this way of thinking. Protest and dissent - especially in Worcestershire - have been a crucial factor in the blossoming of this enlightenment. The continual loss of land to development - among other factors - awakens people to the threats faced by the countryside.

So. It's May and the hawthorn blossom lies like snow on the hedges. The skylarks are taking their concertos to the highest heavens and the reed buntings, yellowhammers and thrushes are now singing their hearts out while they tend to their broods.

Meanwhile, we humans labour away in factories and offices, heads down all day, then leave for home only to become snarled up in the traffic. But, as we peer through the exhaust fumes, our imagination comes into play....

It's a vista of woods and fields, quiet pathways and country churchyards shaded by noble yews. Farm tracks with a henhouse at the end, where a broken-down Ford Zodiac lies half-engulfed by undergrowth, gradually being devoured by greenery.

Just a daydream? No. This could be yours, there's nothing stopping you. Just pick up this booklet, and let your heart do the rest.