I'll work on a figure of 8 run in preparation for further clamping down.
Considering that I live in Ireland, with the aid of ordinance maps I'm trying for the
proverbial 4-leaf clover ride, but it isn't so easy without riding through at least a good part of the town or riding further uphill than down. (I did say it was proverbial!) However, some roads I would normally not go on, except on Sunday outside of churchgoing hours, because they carry heavy, fast motor and truck traffic, become usable if not relaxing for cyclists in these unusual times. I might even have a kind word for Google Maps soon. (Normally I am of the opinion that the entire Board and top management echelon of Google should be in jail of trying to steal all the copyrights in the world until a wide-awake American judge saw through them and put the kibosh on that scheme.)
Like your good self, I can use country roads where I see more livestock than folks.
Bring some of the livestock home for dinner, then you won't need to go out again to shop. Last night a young hedgehog, this year's crop down in the orchard where a couple of families live, was eating cat food put out for the stable cats, looking up calmly at me, which it wouldn't be if it knew what I was thinking, which was that hedgehog would bake nicely in clay, with the clay bringing the quills with it when cracked. Churchill, who kept a duckpond at Chartwell (most biographers gussy it up as a "goldfish pond" or even a very unlikely but presumably in their minds posher "carp pond"; trust Andrew Roberts to get it right), once when duck was served averted his eyes and said to his wife, "Would you mind carving, my dear. It was a friend of mine."
Still, as I wrote on RBT:
Of course a writer starts with an advantage. His vocation is sitting alone in his study for fourteen hours a day. He doesn't even notice Chinese Virus Lockdown until someone tells him about it. Stir crazy isn't a symptom for a writer, it is a rich living.