Last Sunday, while most of the population of Sussex was shopping at Churchill Square, my husband, myself and our there-year-old, Eve, took to the Downs for a bracing walk.

We dug out our Wellies and woollies and my husband consulted one of his many ordinance survey maps for a short but interesting hike that would suit Eve's little legs and my pregnant girth.

This looks perfect, he said, pointing our a circular route in Ditchling that would take us up to a windmill and back down to some craft workshops. If we leave now we might make it to a tea shop afterwards.

So, pleased that we hadn't for once been lured by the tinsel garlands of consumerism, we drove out to the village and began our ramble.

The first half-hour was delightful. We strolled up a gentle, grassy slope and came to a wooded section that had enough animal burrows, fairy pathways and magical hoof prints to excite Eve into believing that the countryside really was more interesting than Toys R Us.

She didn't even mind that her pink Tweenies boots were now caked in sheep poo.

Isn't this great, I said to my husband. I am so happy we're doing something other than queueing in W H Smiths. And Eve's having such a lovely, non-commercial experience. We were taking it at a fairly slow pace and were soon overtaken by a keen bunch of walkers who veered left just as we reached the windmill.

At this point, my husband consulted the map again and concluded that the path we wanted would be off to our right quite soon. In the meantime he suggested we continue along the woodland route, which had now become very boggy and unpleasant.

Twenty minutes later there was still no sign of the path we needed.

Eve didn't seem to mind, although the mud was now reaching the top of her wellies. I however, was becoming increasing concerned. It was 3.15pm and the light was fading.

I don't see how this can be right, I muttered.

Well, we haven't seen a style yet, so I think we should just press ahead, said my husband.

So we slid and squelched onwards, until we eventually hit the main road to Burgess Hill. Blimey, look where we are, I said my husband, who'd suddenly got his bearings.

We'd been walking du north for more than an hour and we only had about 15 minutes of daylight left.

Err sorry, but the quickest way back is the way we came, said my husband with a sheepish smile.

No, no, no, I said, stamping my feet and forgetting I was standing in a muddy puddle. It'll be too dark and Eve will be frightened and we'll all get lost.

We don't have a choice, pointed out my husband. Unless you want to walk along the road, which is even further.

By now, Eve was tired, bored hungry and wanted to be carried. So we headed back into the woods with Eve on my husband's shoulders and me trying to storm ahead as fast as my sinking boots would carry me.

We made it back to the car just as the wolves started howling at the moon. Ah-ha, said my husband as he took one last look at the map. I see now where we went wrong. We were trying to do the circuit in reverse. We should have followed those walkers who turned left.

Shall we try again next week? I'd rather be trampled on in Churchill Square, I grunted.