To fight the flu, take a bath in the forest

It’s been four days of self-imposed exile from the human world and its endless pop chatter about potholes and politics.

So not all bad.

I’ve had a few colds over the years, but this was more than a cold.

Every ordinary manoeuvre of tying shoelaces, getting off the couch, or making a cup of liquorice tea was a labour of Hercules so exhausting that I sank back into the couch as if I’d walked a hundred kilometres.

In the middle of a sunny afternoon I shivered with a blanket around me.

I gave up on routines like guitar playing and stretching exercises.

Even eating a snack like toast was a chore. Everything was too hard.

But one thing I pushed myself to continue was the daily bushwalk.

I reasoned that fresh air and exercise would see me through this particular dark tunnel.

And I was right.

After half an hour surrounded by trees, birds and water I returned to the human world feeling fresh again — as if I’d stepped out of an invigorating shower.

In Japan they have a word for this practice — shinrin-yoku, or forest bathing.

You fill your lungs with fresh air, listen to the rustle of towering trees and if you’re feeling really in tune with things — run your fingers through the soil. It might feel a bit weird, but you can keep your clothes on if that helps.

And it’s not all woke tree-hugging stuff.

There is a scientific bedrock for shinrin-yoku.

Dr Qin Li at the Nippon Medical School in Tokyo says that fresh zingy feeling of a forest has something to do with phytoncides released by plants to protect against pests.

Apparently, if you inhale this stuff, it can give your immune system a boost by increasing the numbers of white blood cells which attack infections.

So I was right all along — a walk in the woods is actually good for you.

But I’m not a scientist, so a walk through the bush for me is like walking through music — particularly jazz music.

Nature has its own internal rhythms, and they’re not always a relaxed three-four waltz.

Sometimes when the wind blows across the tree-tops and the geese honk, the whole thing turns into a weird syncopated five-four dance with fluttering cymbals and rimshots on the snare drum.

Magpies calls can be lovely and melodious like a mountain stream then a cocky lets off a brassy C# and blows the whole thing into a Miles Davis jam session.

A bushwalk is never predictable.

Last week, I lost my balance and fell off a log while clambering over it.

Luckily, I don’t think anybody saw me, except for that kookaburra way in the distance, but he’s always laughing at me.

So my public dignity remained largely intact.

But with a free-form jazz orchestra in the trees and uneven ground under your feet, you have to keep your senses keen and your feet planted.

All this helps keep your mind off a pounding head and a hacking cough.

It’s cheaper than pills and makes you realise that outside your flu cocoon, the world is still dancing to its own wild beat.

John Lewis is a former reporter at The News.