Recognise happiness when you see it – and bottle it for darker times

How often are you truly content?

In a global context, those of us living in Britain are lucky. And anyone living here who has a secure job and home is luckier still. Yet even in the rich west, happiness can be elusive.

In 2018, the average happiness rating given by people in UK was 7.54 out of 10. Not bad, all things considered. But in our busy world, perhaps there are more things which can go wrong and therefore more things to feel anxious about.

One response to that sense of unease is to focus on the positives: a reasonable motto for life, but one which can hint at disregard for genuine distress simply by virtue of the fact that other people “have it worse”.

Another option is to recognise those rare moments of unbridled joy and truly treasure them. Call it mindfulness if you want to put a label on it.

When I pause to think of such moments in my life, a fairly recent one tends to stand out.

Four summers ago, we had decided to holiday in my beloved Peak District. Our daughter had been there with us once before, in mid-winter. My son had only been born that April – a wondrous arrival after the loss of a previous boy and after we had almost lost hope that we would have another child.

We had hired a cottage for a week, not far from the village of Hartington. It was charming in its way, but the narrow corridors and twisting stairs made navigating with a babe in arms difficult. And four-month-old Tristan was an unsettled sleeper so everyone ended up tired. Clouds blocked out the sun more often than not.

Still, we wanted to get our legs moving. On a rare warm morning we set off from Hartington, aiming to complete a circular walk of five miles or so, with Tristan strapped to a parent and five-year-old Beatrix jollied along with the promise of sweets.

The going was easy at first, following a grassy track over the hill from Hartington until the path entered Biggin Dale, barely 50 yards from where I had proposed to my wife nine years before.

Not far beyond, the dry valley floor was filled with large stones, which caused smaller feet to stumble and smaller mouths to grumble. But soon enough the path returned to stable ground and we came to the junction of Biggin Dale and Wolfscote Dale, where the star-spangled waters of the River Dove splashed magic onto tired hands.

We paused here for lunch, sharing a stunningly delicious huntsman’s pie (chicken, pork and stuffing) which we’d bought from the village stores before setting off. We took Tristan out of his sling and laid him on a jacket, away from prying creepy-crawlies. Beatrix took off her shoes and paddled in the Dove, scouring it for flitting trout.

And my heart sang at the perfectness of it all. The people I loved the most, in a place which was already entwined with my soul. Schmaltzy? Maybe so, but cynics be damned.

So, when perfection appears, see it for what it is; feel it, live it. But bottle it too – and drink deeply of its memory when life’s weather takes a turn for the worse.