On a country road in the dark of night, valour should always give way to discretion

Commuting isn’t fun.

It is the necessary quid pro quo of some majorly good things – but in and of itself, there is little to recommend the daily to-ing and fro-ing into the capital.

When trains are badly disrupted it becomes a particular bind, as you work out how close you can get to home, and how prematurely concluded journeys can be completed.

On more occasions than I care to remember I’ve made it as far as Watford then had to find a bus, or a taxi, or a lift to cover the last 12 miles home to Berkhamsted in west Hertfordshire. When the whole mainline is affected, even Watford can be hard to reach.

Not very long ago I arrived at Euston station in London one evening to find that no trains were departing to anywhere. I knew I could reach the town of Chesham in Buckinghamshire on the Underground so diverted to the Metropolitan line.

It was slow going and the light was dimming by the time we arrived around 8pm. With plenty of other passengers having made similar diversions, the local cab companies were fully booked. Anyway, I hate taking taxis unless it is unavoidable.

With Berkhamsted only five miles away, I decided to strike out on foot. My suit and overcoat were not ideal attire but I would, I thought, be on pavements or roads for the most part.

By the time I reached Chesham’s eastern edges I wondered if I was being foolish.

I turned into a country lane that I’d judged was a safer bet than the main road between the two towns. A footpath meandered through scrubby woodland close to the verge – as I picked my way along it the last of the early autumn dusk gave way to night.

It was at this point, as I stumbled over unseen roots and rabbit holes in the absolute pitch dark, that I realised with certainty that I was an idiot.

I might easily have been the person you occasionally read about in the news, who is walking home at night, falls and hits their head – only to be found days later. I hadn’t even told anyone where I was.

Eventually the footpath fizzled out and I was back on the lane as it reached a village and the safety of streetlamps. Still, walking on a road in dark clothing didn’t feel an awful lot wiser.

At the Golden Eagle pub, I paused.

I was only two miles from home and was back on the main road. But it was unlit beyond the village and the speed limit was 60mph. I couldn’t easily see much in the way of verges and the woods on both sides of the road loomed over it.

I set off tentatively. Then I thought how angry my wife would be if I was knocked down by a car on an utterly needless hike in the dark.

I paused again, then wandered back to the village, loitering outside the pub.

Sometimes discretion is the better part of valour. Finally I showed some – and called a cab.