Counting the steps and a lost bag

The walk I often take with Bambi yesterday offered swathes of clover, grasses and wild flowers covering a patch of the Downs that's home to skylarks, masses of magpies and crows. This is where the city sheep graze, it's where people ride, jog, walk, and down in the valley among the methane pipes, teenagers race off road bikes. 
Years ago I would have scoffed at the idea of counting steps but with seven decades on the horizon whirling its dangers at me like the blades of the windfarm, I am trying to take health seriously.  Once I'm through the underpass by the garden centre, onto paths heading for Sheepcote, the sea on my right, I feel the view and even the old damson trees have my arms and are suspending me a little above ground. Bambi trots behind, sometimes rushes in front, her ears back. I pass the Whitehawk allotments, cross Wilson Avenue, follow the racecourse to the ridge that divides the valley from the impeccable golf course. The sea's far below, my hair's in my eyes and I cut over the golf course towards Ovingdean. 
On the downwards slope I chat with a man whose small dog is bringing him golf balls. How many? Up to 30 a day, he says. He sells them back to the golfers. I tell him of another man I used to meet who collected them. He knows his name. We talk about cabinet making, mending and arthritis and carry on, down into the village, where I meet Mat, who had an allotment at Tenantry Down. He's holding tomatoes (his passion) and chatting with a man who tells us he's named two aggressive young rams Ronnie and Reggie.  Bambi seems tired, but I keep on, through Ovingdean, past St Dunstan's, one of the most beautiful buildings on this stretch of coast, down to the undercliff, a cuppa and onto Rottingdean where there are crowds on the beach. 
And after a couple of bus rides, nearly at the end of my circular walk, I find a girl's bag on the grass near the grandstand - her passport, debit cards, organ donor card, a Zara gift card, her rail card. There's no way of ringing her. So it's back to town and the police station. They don't  fill in a form when you hand something in. They don't want lost property, they don't want your name. I hope they traced her. So much has changed.