Last Saturday, just before 9am, I stood overlooking the sea along the Margate coast and peered down at folk swimming across the width of the Walpole Bay tidal pool.

I both envied and feared for them. It was a lovely morning – the sun shining, the sky blue and what better way to start the day than cutting through the cool water?

But the storm the previous night had almost inevitably resulted in yet more sewage being discharged into the sea. So they may have been joined by some unexpected guests bobbing about around them.

I was, I thought to myself, probably better off on terra firma.

Instead, I turned to find myself being increasingly surrounded by folk in a blend of Lycra, vests and shorts. Most troubling? I was among their number.

Because this was the gathering point for the Margate Parkrun. And I was about to prove to myself that, now comfortably ploughing through my 50s, I could still do it.

A colleague recently wrote about how he was setting his alarm at 4.45am every morning as he trained to try and complete a marathon in under three hours. It was an inspiring read. My ambitions were considerably smaller. I am considerably older. A marathon, at 26 miles, is the equivalent of 42km. I wanted to do just five.

For the uninitiated, Parkrun is that rarest of animals – welcoming, inclusive, pressure-free and, the best of all, completely free.

You turn up with a barcode you’ve printed out from its website, run or walk 5k and get an official time at the end. The word ‘race’ is not used.

That time was important to me. I’d done a couple of Pegwell Bay Parkruns in the last few months but realised the course, as lovely a route through a country park it is was, is a smidge below 5k. According to my watch, it’s 0.3k under due to some changes, I subsequently learned, to the course a few years back.

In fact, looking online, it’s known as the ‘fastest’ Parkrun event in the country. By ‘fastest’, read ‘shortest’.

Not a big deal, in itself, but sufficient for me to want to make sure I had officially done the full distance, no questions asked.

So Margate got an overweight 50-something among its number.

It was, it must be said, a truly beautiful course – running along the cliff top, overlooking a glistening North Sea. The paths, for the most part, broad, and the spirit among the other runners happy and helpful.

Those taking part ranged from kids to people who made me feel like a spring chicken. Big, small, it didn’t matter. At every corner there was a run marshal to cheer or clap you on. It makes you feel good.

There’s something rather magical about Parkrun – everyone is so nice. It’s what I imagine church must be like. Just without the nonsense of religion getting in the way.

Anyway, as the sun beat down I trudged at my barely-faster-than-walking-pace jog and, eventually, completed the thing.

It was, I was delighted to see, 5.1k. So a smidge over but good enough for me. My time? Well, it’s the taking part that counts isn’t it? I ran the whole way, that’s all you need to know.

But Parkrun does something to you. It doesn’t depress. It doesn’t make you want to give up. It makes you want to go back and have another go and shave a few seconds off your time. It makes you want to better yourself.

And, in this depressingly trigger-happy world in which we live, is a rare pleasure.

We should all be a bit more Parkrun.