Kent to Land's End: Day 5 (and 6): finish

I climbed out of Perranporth feeling optimistic for a day similar to the one I had hoped for when I thought up the idea to ride to the end of the land. I tried to hug the coast best I could, I came close on many occasions and was gifted some ridiculous views, the sea a truly dark, rich blue. A colour you'd normally associate with warmer climes. I cycled down a tiny road, which led me to a secluded cove. There I found a chimney of an old tin mine, architecture which dotted the coast line from now on. I climbed again to continue in search of more views. Though it wasn't as easy as that, I was met with a short but stupid 33% climb with a switchback, I had to get off and admire.

I soon stopped for food, for the first time my legs were starting to become uncomfortable, especially my thighs. In hindsight I probably hadn't drunk enough. As the end of the road drew closer the pain slowly subsided as adrenaline took control. St Ives was my next target on the map. The road there wasn't nice but it led me to be met with a great view over the town and harbour. I passed quickly through and from here the road was a joy to ride.

This stretch of tarmac has to be one of the best coastal roads in Britain. It climbed and fell, turned and twisted, but the whole time looked out over the Atlantic off the north coast. It sliced through fields and nipped between farm yards and passed the odd hamlet dotted along its path. Some of these hamlets had names like Morvah, Carnyorth, and Bottalack, the B3306 is a road I suggest you one day travel upon. This was the kind of riding I'd been waiting for, the kind of moment I'd been riding for. I was counting down the miles, and as the road rose for the final time the home stretch lay before me, and it was quick. I began to let my mind wander about what I'd done, I didn't quite know how to feel, or what to think. It really was just a bike ride.

The last road junction in the land came, and then only a matter of meters, the reassuring smooth tarmac gave way for gravel. I coasted to a line on the ground in front of the building, next to line was a word, it read; finish. This line marked many things. I'd made it, unsupported from my home almost 400 miles away to this spot, a place where I could cycle no further west. It was incredibly symbolic, as symbolic as the way I'd sawed my tooth brush in half before I left.

I wandered around for a while trying to savour the moment. There was a 'Shopping Village' and somewhere to eat 'Chicago Town Pizza'... I stood looking out over the sea, I'd come here for this after all. There were a group of cyclists there, about to set off for John O'Groats. One asked if that's where I'd arrived from. I told them only Kent. He said that was far enough. I wished them all the best of luck and felt a sense of jealousy.

Here's to the people I met and the landscape I cycled through. Southern England, you're magnificent. I ate the best pasty I'd had all trip, sat down for a while amongst some rabbits and a jackdaw and meditated on the horizon.

FURTHER READING:


Soon I just got back on my bike and headed for a campsite, this time on the south coast. It was up a steep lane, then along a stoney track which led to a spacious site which looked out over the sea. A sea view for £7.50. A short walk and I was standing on the cliff top. It was a fairly noisy campsite and the wind off the water was strong. I pitched my tent sheltered by a hedge. I then spent some time reading my battered Albert Camus. I slept quite well and woke early, I'd planned a big day of riding, destination being Fowey, where I'd stay at Rosie's, a friend from college.

I wasn't far into my ride when the hills and even the flats began to be uncomfortable. The weight and the milage were taking its toll on my knees. I pulled aside, looked over to St Michael's Mount and had a think. I rang home to ask for an opinion although my mind was made up. It was silly to continue, this wasn't for charity, I wasn't breaking any records. I called it a day and made it to Truro where I caught a train to London.

Whilst I sat on a bench at the end of platform 3 an elderly gentlemen came and sat next to me. He was on his way home after visiting his Aunt, who lived on the Cornish coast. She had received her telegram from the Queen last December. I remember him saying something about camping which he'd recently got back into, he commented on tents saying that a 2 man tent was best when the other man's a woman. We moaned about the trains, the fact he had to pay for another ticket after losing his, even though he had proof he paid for the thing! And I was moaning that I had to book my bike on the day before, yet hadn't, and was told I may not even get it on. A train with 400 seats but only 6 spaces for bicycles. It turned out that this chap went to school in Greenhithe, which is where I work, the world continued to shrink.

I made it onto the train. Sat down and realised just how shattered I was. Ian, that was his name, offered me a book to look at. I said I had one. He opened his and almost immediately, fell asleep. I could have done the same. Though I stared out of the window looking at the countryside I'd just cycled and slowly came to the realisation that I'd done OK, the feeling of failure subsided. When I got off the train at Paddington Ian wished me a safe journey and I wished him the same.

The 10 mile ride across town to my sister's was completely mental. A total contrast from what I'd just experienced. Jam packed streets. Drivers out of cars shouting at one another. Pedestrians crossing on a whim. And the heat coming off the vehicles added with the evening sun was almost too much. I cycled through with other commuters, like a swarm we weaved through the rush hour traffic until I was within the boundaries of Greenwich Park. This adrenaline fuelled ride across the city almost made me want to escape again...

Kent to Land's End: Day 4 - World Beyond The Fog

The first 15 miles of the day were slow, I wasn't really pushing on the pedals at all, my average speed only just made double figures. I rode across the northern edge of Bodmin Moor, and out on these wiley, windy moors the sheep carried on, hardy as ever, whilst I was still trying to get my head around the contrast of weather I was experiencing. A few cars overtook me along that stretch and within seconds I saw them just disappear, as if driving into another world beyond the fog.

I decided at the start of the day that progress was going to be slow. I wouldn't make it to Land's End in 4 days. I would take today easy, I did have 3 very good days behind me. I had my first pasty skulked in a Londis doorway watching the traffic whizz by, followed by 6 custard creams. I could see on the map I was close to the coast but I didn't even bother looking in that direction. At one of these map stops a man asked if I was lost, just wet, I answered. After 20 miles of riding I reached Rock where I would catch the ferry over to Padstow.

I descended onto the gangway down to the beach and stopped next to the harbour masters shack and peered in. A bald headed man with a not so bald chin sat upon a chair. I asked if there was a ferry and he gave me all the details I needed, that was probably the millionth time he'd given that speech of the morning so far. It turned out that because of the tide the ferry was a half mile walk across the beach. I wasn't exactly sure what to do but there was really only one option. I took off my shoes, put on my flip flops and lifted my bike and its baggage atop my shoulders and started walking, aiming for the yellow boat that would float me to the western side of the estuary.

The boat was nearing capacity when I reached it. Every single pair of eyes onboard was aimed at me. Thanks for waiting I said quietly to the captain. There was room for me to sit and after a few more passengers boarded the boat pulled away. 4 bloody quid that cost me, I should have swam across. I climbed the steps the other side, pushed my bike through the crowded Padstow where Rick Stein didn't make an appearance, and sorted myself out to continue further.

      

My GPS bleeped at me again. 'MEMORY FULL' it read. 'Crap' I said. It wouldn't let me get into my ride history to delete anything. That was it, I couldn't record anything else, I wouldn't know how far I was going or how fast, the rides I'd done were lost, unrecorded, never happened. I eventually calmed and managed to reset it to its factory settings. I could at least begin to record the rest of trip. But it annoyed me to think I'd lost the data of some of my best rides. The ride from here to Newquay was miserable, the low cloud swooped fast over the cliff tops, it was quite a sight. Things didn't improve once I reached the seaside town, because I could have been in some ugly London suburb, though the chips were good.

I decided to camp early. I found a campsite near to Perranporth. The reception was closed but the vacant pitches were written on the wall. I decided on my spot, under a tree, it was meant to rain that night. I showered and got into my tent to have a short doze. I heard a bird land right above me and flittering around outside, the audacity! It was a Robin who was darting all about. After a long time of waiting with a custard cream crumb on my hand it suspiciously snatched it away, its red breast big and bulbous and dampened by the wet grass.

I later poked my head out again, like a tortoise meeting the day, it was actually quite a warm evening. I looked up over the hedge, seagulls were hanging in the misty air, you could hardly make them out for the sky. A family of wrens followed one another along the hedge. There was a blue tit nest in a cigarette box outside the showers, I peeped in, it looked more snug than my set up. I wasn't sure how the chicks were ever going to fledge, not the easiest of exits.

Two ladies walked past me whilst I was reading my book. They looked at my covered bike and said I must be mad and asked where I was cycling. I said I was cycling from Kent to Land's End. As soon as I said Kent they seemed surprised and said that's where they were from. I asked where? A place called Dartford they said. What?! I replied. It turned out we lived only a couple of miles apart and even knew of the same people, yet we were 300 miles away from our hometown. There really was no escape! It was a lovely moment of serendipity and we chatted for a while about our respective adventures.

The morning was hot and sunny, the rain of the night wasn't enough to have an impact. Thankfully that grey mist had gone. It was the 5th day on the road and the final push to Land's End. I estimated it would be a 50 mile ride of ups and downs. Although I was certain of the forthcoming undulation. My knees were beginning to tell me of their displeasure, but I wasn't listening. I was finally ready for that coastal road and those sea views. I said goodbye to Denise and Deb and said I'd probably see them back home! I descended into Perranporth for breakfast.

Kent to Land's End: Day 3 - Seas of Red Valerian

I was cycling with food in mind. Breakfast was dealt with at the first village I went through, I had a BLT and a coke, food tastes better when you genuinely need it. I underestimated its immediate importance. After each hill I'd climbed I thought it wouldn't get steeper or longer than the last. I was repeatedly wrong. I wasn't naive enough to think it would all be flat easy pedalling, but I wasn't quite prepared for the relentlessness that would evolve time and time again.

Soon I was crossing the River Exe, which runs mostly through Devon, ending at Lyme Bay on the south coast, somewhere I would hope to visit later on in my trip. Once I crossed the bridge the lane rose violently, twisting and turning for 2 and a half miles before it gradually eased. Although not before long I found myself descending, which by now only meant one thing, there would subsequently be a climb. And this descent was steep, which only grew my apprehension for the ascent. It was half a mile long with an average gradient of 10%. What with the extra weight I was carrying it was brutal. I never once climbed off, I wasn't going to walk anywhere. This harsh demonstration of the west's geographic change set the days itinerary.

The River Exe

Miles were ticking over quite slowly, I tried to stem my impatient glances at the GPS reading, each look seemed to slow time. There was however a small moment of respite mid way through the day, a stretch of flat open road. I made good time and savoured the progress. Church spires gave me advanced warning of towns and villages I'd pass through, long before the road signs did. Sometimes however the hedgerows were too high to see them. When I passed entrances to fields where these giant hedgerows gave way to gates and an opportunity to see left or right, I made use of it and tried to spy a destination.

Most of these hedgerows were not just green, they cowered foxgloves, red campion and scarlet pimpernel and of course, cow parsley. As I neared the coast this changed further, at points there appeared to be no green at all and nothing but a sea of red valerian. As the day wore on and I stopped as I did to check my location, I came to a sudden and worrying realisation, I was heading too far south. My planning the night before wasn't as thorough as it should have been and I'd missed a turn which would have made my route a little less stressful. But it later proved a blessing in disguise.

Add caption

I crossed into Cornwall, which felt good, the 6th and final county. I had what I thought would be my dinner in Launceston, chips again. I ate them opposite a hotel, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted. Anyway, a campsite was found and I sped through back lanes with haste. I just wanted to get there and relax. The site was very obscure and hidden. I pulled into what looked like someones back garden yet included 4 motorhomes. I awkwardly loitered for a minute or two wondering where to present myself, not a clue. I eventually meandered over to a family enjoying their dinner.

They kindly pointed the door to report to. I did as they said but no one answered. I gestured in their direction as if to say 'no luck'. I wandered over again and one of them remembered that Mary, the owner, was out and they were sure it would be OK if I paid in the morning. But joked as long as I didn't leave at dawn without coughing up. I set up my tent sheltered next to a wall, phoned my Dad to say I'd arrived. Whilst on the phone one of the family drifted over and asked if I'd like some food as they had more than enough to go around.

I changed out of my cycling garb and followed the summer scent of a barbecue. They were extremely welcoming and even more kind. I had salad, sausage, burger, bread and even a small glass of red, I thought it would help me sleep. I spoke of my adventure as they asked. The daughter told me of her 10 Tors challenge and forthcoming DOE. I finally left them to enjoy their evening and went to set up my tent, I was once again, very tired. It was a 75 mile day with 5,500ft of climbing. I lay in my tent listening to their laughter. I strongly regret not taking their photograph or writing them a note of thanks to leave with them in the morning. Though they knew I'd been grateful. This is how I wanted the adventure to go.

When morning came I couldn't quite make out the weather on the other side of the tent. I opened the entrance and couldn't quite believe the sight I saw. Misty drizzle and wind with a heavy dew. This wasn't the plan, I don't want to ride in this, this is my bloody holiday. I gingerly started to pack up. A guy clad in a dressing gown poked his head out of his caravan and offered me a cup of tea. Yes please, was obviously my answer. He seemed to be a permanent resident, he had a very messy caravan and was watching TV. I drank my tea whilst getting my stuff together. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a nuthatch bobbing like a sparrow and snatching at some seed thrown down.

A Dutch couple who were getting ready to drive home to Holland spoke to me a few times in their broken English. 'Good voyage' was their main message. They had nothing but smiles for me. Mary appeared and apologised for not being around the night before. I asked how much I owed her, she seemed unsure and said 'Oh a couple of quid', I gave her a £5 note. We chatted briefly and then I set off in perfectly miserable conditions. Although looking back, I wouldn't change a thing, after all, this is England.

Kent to Land's End: Day 2 - A Cacophony of Zips

Campsites are odd places. It's almost as if they have their own language. A cacophony of zips, someone coming or going. It's a very satisfying sound, a zip. My nights sleep was average, I woke at 4, which set a theme for the week. I awoke with the birds. I fell in and out of sleep until I clambered, rather cumbersomely, out of my tent at around 9. It took an age to pack all my things together and be on the road again.

I hit the road with no knowledge of how far away I'd be in a few hours. Without really knowing the terrain ahead. I was on a road where I could afford to take it easy, slow down and look around. I crossed the River Wylye, a solitary swan swam upstream. Yellowhammers were singing perched atop high hedgerows, occasionally they'd fall down into the lane, and on my approach fly back up. I wasn't sure what they were at first, I can't remember ever seeing one. But once I knew, they were unmistakeable. They look like sparrows that have dunked their heads in bright yellow paint.

The River Wylye

I flanked the estate of Longleat, made a long fast and winding descent where I shortly reached Somerset, each county sign a milestone along my route. I was by now deep in the heart of the county. I was within the Mendip district, where the hills bunch up and rise higher as they travel north, luckily, I was headed west. I passed through the village of Batcombe. It was teaming with stone cottages and high stone walls, the epitome of the picturesque English village. As I left it behind I climbed up and shortly entered Westcombe, and then Evercreech.

In Evercreech I sat down on the pavement leaning against the shop scoffing a chicken wrap I'd just bought. I received a few funny looks, bemused smiles. One of those smiles asked where I was off to. The Somerset accent has to be the best of all I heard. I told her of my destination. A way to go yet, she replied. I liked it when people asked what I was doing. I started to realise I looked a little out of place.

I began to see signs for Glastonbury, so I began to look around for Glastonbury Tor. I eventually saw it from the coastal plain of the Somerset Levels, which appeared to have completely recovered from last years devastating winter floods. A digger worked one of the irrigation channels that lined the patchwork of fields, some of which the home to many a cow. I rode the last of the small flat straight roads, and turned right and was met with a, 'ROAD AHEAD CLOSED' sign...

Glastonbury Tor in the distance

I worked out my detour, which didn't add much distance. And in a way it worked out for me as its closure emptied the road of cars. The roads again began to undulate. I stopped at a crossroads of lanes where a girl was cursing her bike on an incline, her gears jammed. I offered my help and suggested she rode downhill. The gear consequently clicked into place and ran smoothly. She then asked me for directions, as if I looked like a local. I looked at my map and pointed her in the right direction.

The next section of the days ride wasn't the best, I rode along big roads to and through Taunton, where on the other side I began to think about somewhere to camp. The one I headed for was in a place called Waterrow on the border of Somerset and Devon. On my way I looked for somewhere to eat, somewhere I never found. I still had cereal bars to keep me going. The last climb of the day, including an alpine-esque switchback, was one of the highest of the trip. A 1 mile 6% climb between sheep filled green hills.

On my arrival to the campsite I saw that reception was closed. I opened a gate and rang the bell (it was an actual bell). A friendly chap answered, I'd interrupted his tea, but he didn't seem to mind. He was very welcoming, showed me the facilities and my pitch, which had a putting green quality. My stomach started to churn, and very quickly I felt very bad, I headed for the loo whilst trying to look like I was OK. A cold sweat came over me and if it wasn't for me sitting down I felt like I would have hit the ground.

My cosy tiny tent

It soon passed and I lay in my tent for a while, looking up at the sky. Feeling utterly zonked after 88 miles and 4000ft of climbing. I was keeping up my plan of 80-100 miles a day; I enjoyed looking at all the stats and numbers of the rides. The night was cold and I didn't sleep well. I tried to count literal sheep that I could hear baaing like a metronome above the River Tone down in the tree thick valley, just next to where I was attempting sleep.

When the time came to prepare for another day I scrambled out of my tent to a cloudless sky and a scorching sun. My fleeting neighbour offered me tea which I declined as I just wanted to get going. We chatted about my adventure, and also his past tribulations with his bicycle. I chatted again to a lady as we watched the nesting swallows of the campsite's barn. Day 3 was going to be a hot one.

Kent to Land's End: Day 1 - I'll Begin With The End

I sat on a train from Truro, destination Paddington, London. The word 'failure' just wouldn't leave my heavy mind. I was travelling too fast, the seat was too conventional. This wasn't my plan, I knew it was an option, though one I never wanted to take. My knees ultimately had other ideas. I said I would ride back, this train was not my bicycle. It was a train. And it stunk of an adventure over.

The first day started early, 7AM. I left under subdued skies. Indifferent to me and my adventure. I settled down into a rhythm, which got better as I made a right onto the A25 to Guildford. It was relatively flat compared to what I would later go on to tackle. It was a Sunday and the cyclists were out in force. These parts are notorious for MAMILs (middle aged men in lycra) and the wannabe pros searching out hills from their trendy London neighbourhoods. We all gave one another a nod as we passed, there's a good camaraderie amongst cyclists. Little they knew of my ride ahead. Little I knew of my ride ahead. I had all and no control.

I honestly don't remember all that much from the first half of the ride, or the second come to think of it, just moments. I had my first and only minor mechanical. My brake pads appeared to rub against the rim of the front wheel. I had an Allen Key to see to it and I pushed on. It started to drizzle at about mile 40, this wasn't meant to happen. All the foreshadowing images of my mind the month before saw nothing but hot blue skies. Luckily it was still warm.

My GPS reading of 40 miles turned to 60, then up to 80, the number kept on creeping higher. Yet my legs didn't seem to notice. I stopped here and there, to check the map, take a quick snap or get some food and water. Surrey became Hampshire, and Hampshire became Wiltshire and before I knew it Stonehenge was not far away. As I sit here at home in Kent, Stonehenge seems like a place very far away. But yet within a matter of hours I'd cycled there.

I stopped for chips and a coke in Andover. Here the guys behind the counter asked about my milage, 103 miles at that point. Two pairs of eyebrows moved sharply upward. I was only going for a bike ride. Although, breaking the century felt good, only my second to date. I sat in a church yard, ate what I could of my chips and battered sausage and carried on.

Once I hit Salisbury plain I began to think about looking for somewhere to camp. Most of this area is used by the military for whatever they need it for. Kind of sad it's taken over by tanks and blanks but that's how it is in this fearful world. I was getting a bit stressed, the roads were straight, fast and getting busy and I didn't want to camp in a firing range. My dad and sister were texting me through possible campsites near to where I was. My Mum found a good one which wasn't far, I headed for it.

I arrived and asked if they had room for a one man tent, they did. They told me there was no hot water and then asked how far I'd come, I told them. No wonder I didn't care about not having hot water the younger of the two said with a strong Wiltshire accent. They were the first of many to think I was mad, I couldn't quite see it yet. It amused them anyhow. It was a pretty campsite, the birds were 'loud loud loud' as I wrote in my journal. The light was perfect.

128 miles for the day, 8 hours in the saddle, my longest ever ride, and I felt very good for it. Things had started well. It was good to get the day finished, become comfortable and have an idea of what was in store, this was still only the beginning. It was relatively uneventful. I was happily knackered and ready for a night's sleep.

Something More Than Nothing.

Since that ridiculous 62 mile walk I did and a month or so before that, I have neglected my bicycle. I feel I need to put that right. So I decided, on a whim, to cycle to Land's End, and then back again. 12 days, about 800 miles, wild camping en route. Sounds fun. I'm making it a reality. That walk has left me with itchy feet. It's also left me with a want to write more. And personally, between you and me, that's perhaps the best thing to come out of the experience. I have really, really enjoyed it. I like to quote, so here's one to sum up this madness; "Every great idea is on the verge of being stupid" - Michel Gondry. I'm treading the fine line.

I'll leave on the 15th of this month, however that's not set in stone, I may leave the day before. I have an ambitious plan to make Land's End in 4 days, or leaving that day earlier, 5. This will hopefully give me a leisurely 8 days to make the trip back. I've chosen 4 days as a challenge, something to aim for. Although it really doesn't matter if it takes 6. I'm planning separate routes. I'll attempt to take in as much of the north coast of the south west on the way down as I can. And I'll skirt the south coast on my return trip. Once I hit Brighton, I'll head north.

I've decided to undertake this alone. I'll carry all my equipment upon my bicycle. I'll be riding my carbon fibre racer so weight is key. My bodily frame is pretty light as it is meaning weight of equipment doesn't matter as much as it could have. That said, I don't want to take unnecessary items. I'm used to riding with no added weight so it's going to take some getting used to. My decision to ride alone, solo, has alarmed some. Alone but not lonely. I can't really explain my decision without babbling on and not giving any explanation at all. It's just how I want to do it. I may meet other cyclists on the way, who knows, I'll welcome serendipity. I want to go by myself. 

There are many things to think about. The weather being something frequently on my mind. I will cope with anything but persistent rain and headwinds, those are the things that could really hinder my progress. However, the long range forecast is looking OK, and in some cases, very good. Having written that sentence, no doubt I'll hit snowdrifts... I plan to make camp sites at the end of each days ride, but secretly hope I don't. Wild camping by stealth sounds a lot more fun, and cheaper. I've spent a big chunk on this already, if I can camp for free, I will.

I have a tiny one man tent, which is basically a bivvy bag with tent poles. I have a tiny sleeping bag, which folds down to the size of a cantaloupe. I tracked down a neat saddle bag which will hold the majority of my kit. I'll strap everything that doesn't fit within that, to my handlebars. This will also see to some weight distribution. I'm toying with the idea of tri-bars, for comfort on the long days. I'm undecided about a few things and I still have some bits and bobs to get.

Of course I have many more things to consider. Theft of my steed won't be ideal, I need to be careful. I will take a lock, and when I have to leave it unattended, I'll hurry whatever it is I'm doing! I want to enjoy the trip, and having vehicles whizz past at 60 will not be enjoyable, so the smaller the road the better, sensible route planning will see to this. Keeping everything charged could become tricky. I only have my phone and GPS to worry about. I have a portable battery pack and solar charger, both of which should hopefully see me through. I hope many a cafe stop will be so kind to provide me with some charge time! Lastly, food and sleep. As long as I get a suitable amount of both, things should run smoothly. Like I said with the walk, if it was all easy, I probably wouldn't do it!

I'd love to be able to keep updating my endeavours of the trip here, but battery power will dictate that. I will be taking a notepad and pencil so there will be some sort of 'write up'. It's a week to the day, when it begins, somewhere between 800-1000 miles in 12 days. It's been a while since I've gone for a ride and not been sure of the destination at the days end. And I like the sound of that. I also like the sound of taking a dip in fresh secluded rivers. And waking up to sea views in coastal fields. Although beauty aside, a few days ago I unfolded a map of the south west, and gulped.

London to Brighton: Part 3

We had 12 miles left to walk, which doesn't sound too bad. But when you've just walked 50 and you've had no sleep in 24 hours it sounds horrendous. With tired leaden legs we trudged onward along a lane for a good mile, again more terrain I despised, it was slow going and we had to stop a few times to stretch. It was early and the lanes were empty but for that wavering stream of walkers. Eventually we made a left turn off the lane onto a farm track, we followed this all the way to the next rest stop at 87km. The distances between stops were shorter now, to mirror the shortness of tempers.

The memories of this section have faded. Which tells me something, I wasn't quite with it. I remember some rabbits and some beautiful horses, oh and the view of the first real climb we'd attempt of the south downs, but that really was about it. That hill, incidentally, had been talked about amongst the walkers since mile 1, we spoke of it under our breaths like something we dare not mention. We tried to make this stop as short as possible, I had a polystyrene cup of tea, which tasted like nectar and we were on our way.

We hit the hill almost straight away, it rose steeply like a great monolith to human stupidity. I was absolutely convinced that once we reached the summit I'd see the vast expanse of the english channel there before us and before that our finish line in plain view. This soon turned into just more visions of stupidity. We saw only more rolling hills. The views were beautiful, that's a definite, but I was so over views by now. I enjoy them more in hindsight. I must add I did secretly enjoy that hill, I didn't feel any pain whilst walking up it, my legs savoured the geographical change.

I remember a path, bisecting fields, a path of chalk. Swallows swooped playfully over the rapeseed and the poppies of the field fringes. As we reached the bottom of the valley I looked across and I saw again some familiar faces. My mum and sister were there, we waved our walking poles and they waved back. I was not expecting to see them until the end. We walked with them for a short while, this took our minds off yet another hill. From then only 7km to go! The excitement of the finish was slowly smothering the mental and physical fatigue. Within another kilometre there we saw the final rest stop. We barely stayed 5 minutes.

We then walked a path that ran alongside the B2123. The wind had picked up, air whipped up from the sea, its characteristic scent, sent a chill through us. The weather was merely secondary. We eventually, after what felt like forever, crossed over the road and walked a quite awkward track, which was basically small pieces of rubble. Here we passed a man who congratulated us and said only 400 meters and we'd see the finish. I started to speed up, "come on Claire" I kept saying. We crossed another road and we were onto the Brighton racecourse, only 7 furlongs to go.

I'm not afraid to admit it. I could feel myself begin to well up, I quickly tried to find out ways to stop this from happening. How I managed to keep it together I'm not quite sure. I could see people crossing the finish line in the distance, to cheers of the gathered crowd, with every cheer, with every imagination of myself and Claire crossing the line I thought of the magnitude of such an undertaking. The finish drew ever closer. We had done it. We began walking over a day a go and here we were about to finish. 400 meters halved, and halved again, then only 50 meters to go, about now we were alongside the crowd, they were all cheering us, and loudly. It felt good, it felt very good.

My family were there, and so was Lesley. And so were many strangers rooting for us. I wasn't really thinking at this point, just savouring the moment. Aches and pains of the last 27 hours and 21 minutes were a distant memory as we crossed under the finish banner. We had done it. Finished. Complete. End. No more, no more. "There is a pleasure sure in being mad which none but madmen know", these words by John Dryden encapsulate this rare pleasure. I grasped my free congratulatory cup of fizzy stuff and bowed my head to receive my medal, a satisfyingly weighty one too.

My sister asked me shortly after if I'd do it again. With the pain now fresh in my memory the answer was of course, no. But ask me now, I wouldn't rule it out. Thank you to each and everyone who leant support along the way and thank you to all of you who donated, I smashed through my target and for that I am so grateful. After all, this was the reason I attempted the walk, The British Heart Foundation. Me and Claire have to date raised over £1300 for our charities. Ultimately, I'm an advocate of the human body as a form of transportation, so if I can inspire just one or two people to use theirs when they normally wouldn't, I did OK.

-

We would both love to see more donations, you have about another 3 weeks to do so. You can donate to me here. And Claire, the ever stoic Claire, walked for the MPS Society, you can donate to her here.

London to Brighton: Part 2

We left the comfort of the marquee and had glow sticks attached to our bags. Our shoulders were beginning to really feel it, the weight was taking its toll after 14 hours of walking. We headed into the still darkness. Not a breath of wind to blow away the clouds. Clouds that covered the stars but kept in the warmth. I aimed the beam of light from my head torch up into the trees, to the left or right, just to see what was out there.

The profile rolled on, long lanes, open fields, woodland. As I looked straight ahead I could see quick flashes of bats banking in the cone of light. Moths clumsily flew into me, or I clumsily walked into them, probably the latter, I was the intruder here. Eventually, after some sombre hours we reached the bottom of a steep lane, to the right was a reservoir, spread across in the darkness, it was a sight to behold, you could just make out the far trees. We heard voices of encouragement as we neared the summit, two men had boxes of sweets, giving us words of encouragement, telling us it wasn't far until the next rest stop at 67km.

The majority of this stage had been on country lanes, which I hated, I hated the hardness under foot, jarring every sinew. My walking poles were useless on this surface. I was feeling low, we both were. We finally reached our target after a numbing downhill road section. Descents on the road, my least favourite terrain, you have to use more effort to slow yourself. Our passes were scanned, we found some chairs and sat.

This was the worst I'd seen it. Glassy eyed faces stared into god knows where. People wrapped in foil blankets were fumbling about with plasters, socks, food or just quietly chatting amongst themselves trying to make the situation sound better. Heads were down. A member of staff called out telling us a shuttle bus to Brighton Racecourse, our ultimate destination, was about to leave. And honestly, I wasn't the slightest bit tempted. But I was becoming slightly hacked off.

We stuffed our faces with some food, with hindsight probably not enough, and set off. We decided to not stay long, why prolong the misery? This next section was 13km, we knew it would be tough, really hard, difficult, arduous, strenuous, laborious, painful. Every terrain you can imagine was there. I was in a situation like no other I'd entered but we were getting through it. As the long night slowly grew lighter, the birds began. I'd been waiting for the dawn chorus but it was somewhat anti climatical, mainly because I just couldn't enjoy it. I had legs of lead and feet that were numb. It was nice to hear but it just didn't seem to matter.

We started to pass some people in really bad ways. Walkers who had to grab hold of their thighs and lift their legs over stiles, in a pained whimper. Walkers who were almost being carried to the next rest stop. It was light now and we were moving at a good pace, mainly because the night was over and the rest stop was almost there, around only a few more corners. It was a welcoming sight when we saw it but I was a little indifferent. We'd made it to 80km, that was for me the real sign we would make it the whole way.

I was surprised with how well I was dealing with the lack of sleep. I leant my head on the table and could feel my mind wanting to drift off somewhere else but I shook it away. A hot sausage sandwich sorted that out. I was the epitome of grumpy and my answers were becoming short. Groups were giving each other pep talks, "we've got this far" they were telling each other. Each section's difficulty was severely heightened. It was now all about numbers, how many hours would it take? The next few kilometres were for me to be the worst of the whole damned thing.


-


You can still donate to me and Claire. I walked for the British Heart Foundation and you can donate here. Claire walked for the MPS Society, you can donate to her here.

London to Brighton: Part 1

I woke up from a short doze in the car and had dreamt I'd just walked to Brighton from London and my Dad was driving me home... except it was a reality and it continues to feel that way, a blur, as if it didn't happen, the feeling is quite surreal. I suppose it's quite a surreal thing to do.

I arrived at Old Deer Park in Richmond at 7:40 for an 8:40 start, it was a beautiful blue morning, if you could imagine perfect walking conditions, we had them. I was registered in a matter of seconds. Here I was given my event pass which contained my timing chip, which we later found could be scanned through our jackets like some kind of airport security check, mind blown. I found that last hour fairly tranquil. I lay down away from the hum of fellow participants and waited (waited for Claire who seemed to be running late!). Once she decided to turn up, the time came to collect myself and make it over to the starting banner, a countdown from 10 and off we plodded for a flat paved jaunt along the Thames.

Our first target was 12km away, the first of 8 official rest stops, with food and medics who specialised in blister popping, apparently. We tried not to stay long and press on whilst the energy was there. Looking around everyone looked positive, just taking a quick break before the next stage. Onward! These first 32km were OK, flat and suburban, we'd done this in training a few times, we knew what to expect. The next rest came at 25km, here we had lunch, checked the feet. I could feel the start of a couple of blisters so I plastered up, I'm glad I did. The intermittent support from strangers throughout was a really lovely thing to see and hear. We passed two little girls sitting on the wall outside their house with posters of good luck they'd drawn, their beaming smiles helped hundreds of people that day I'm sure.

We passed through a valley lined with buttercups, it was named Happy Valley, obviously whoever christened it wasn't walking to Brighton at the time. Off road paths began in earnest, I preferred this terrain to flat concrete sections, easier on the feet! Negative thoughts eventually began to creep in. We'd been walking for a good 6 hours and we hadn't even made it outside the M25, a little frustrating. But shortly after these unwelcome thoughts I heard clapping at the top of a harsh incline, I recognise those hand claps! As we both crested the hill my Mum and Dad were stood next to the car cheering everyone on, a nice surprise. Shortly after that we went under the M25 and then hit 40km and a rest stop. They had pick 'n' mix. My feet were really beginning to feel it at this point and we still had 60km to go, but they had pick 'n' mix. The discomfort in my feet told me it was time for the walking poles, which I found really alleviated a lot of pressure from my feet, they were pivotal in limiting the pain for the duration. And the rest stop had pick 'n' mix.

From here we were aiming for Tulley's Farm which came at 56km. And for us the separation between day and night. It was also the furthest distance between any of the official stops. Personally I found it the most beautiful. Old wise oak trees divided undulating fields of early green corn, stiles divided the fields further, stiles that we would soon begin to despise, collective groans echoed amongst us. Although, I saw them as an apparatus to stretch my legs, which sounds quite strange but my desire to stretch was strong. My legs were crying out for something different after the repetitive motion of walking. The terrain varied, unforgiving country lanes, muddied country tracks and stony descents were plentiful. All of which reacted differently to the feet and legs. 

I heard a cuckoo for the full length of a freshly ploughed field, which made me hope for a good dawn chorus, something I'd been particularly looking forward to, because I'm never normally awake at such an hour. The wildlife was a bit disappointing, I imagined I'd see all sorts, but the presence of a long, irregular stream of walkers made them a little shy. A long stretch of lane came and there it was, the 50km sign, half way, and half a day on the move. We did need our head torches just before the 56km point, which added a little excitement and took our mind off other more painful matters. 

             

Tulley's farm appeared out of the dark, we were welcomed by a jazz band, cheers and a buzz of activity, it also marked the finish for the alternative 56km route, what sensible humans those people were. Spirits were high, well mine were, sort of. Hot food was on my mind and hot food I ate. I aired my feet and got some clean plasters from St John Ambulance, who were at every stop with their as ever first rate service keeping very busy, in fact there were queues forming to have feet looked at. Claire's friend Lesley was here to support us, a friendly face under such circumstances is something I wholeheartedly welcomed!

We encountered such a diverse array of charities being supported by such a diverse group of people. And each and everyone with a story to tell, we eavesdropped on conversations as we passed other walkers and as other walkers passed us. We spoke with others here and there along the way. We were amongst such brave, tenacious and strong minded individuals. And that was an honour.

I added another layer on top and a Buff headband to keep my head warm. I donned fresh socks, leg warmers (it was Eurovision after all) and enclosed my feet yet again. I clicked my head torch into life and we began the long slog through the darkness...


-


You can still donate to me and Claire. I walked for the British Heart Foundation and you can donate here. Claire walked for MPS Society, you can donate to her here. 

Blossom falls like one winged butterflies...

As the blossom falls like one winged butterflies, time quickens pace, just over one week until we begin our 62 mile march. I've managed a couple more training walks since the last post and some walks to work and back. The overriding feeling is now one of apprehension, will I even manage to finish this thing? The unknown is dominating. My inner competitor will have to get it done, I mustn't lose track of who I'm doing this for.

I managed a 22 mile solo jaunt. I wrote this about 8 miles in; 'Sparrow hawk. A robin close up and singing. A little wind but warm. The sun pops in and out at will. Shoes good. Speed good. Airing the toes currently, lunch break, short break. So far so good'. I walked paths I've never walked before, one of which led me along a 5 mile stretch which included a closed golf course, a buzzard, a kestrel and countless sunbathing peacock butterflies. A sinister wind chime hung outside the entrance of a deserted cottage.

I kept my eye on that kestrel in the hope for something more. Then, it swooped down, fast. An insect, a worm or something bigger. I don't have its eyes so I'll never know. I wrote this at mile 22: 'To round things off, a kingfisher. They're making a habit of flashing a bit of blue. Feet are beginning to hurt. Home. Rubbery cow parsley'...

That tiny spec against the blue, is a buzzard!

   

My second solo jaunt was one of only 14 miles, I was hoping for more, it felt like more. I lay in a field with a pair of binoculars away from headlines of post election sensationalism. It wasn't any old field, I'd chosen this one quite carefully. It's one I've passed a few times already this spring and it belongs to the skylarks. I was an intruder. A skylark nests on the ground, it will rarely go from flight directly to its nest, it will land a small distance away and then walk to it so as not to give away its location.

As I tried to follow these birds to locate a nest, I took their sudden silence as a clue I could be close, I could be wrong. I sat down, then lay on my stomach with my Dad's binoculars and watched them popping up like meerkats with their tufted heads, then hovering a distance above their territory singing that beautiful summer song. It's at times like this you can see why this bird makes an appearance in countless poems. Then, I ate my jam sandwiches.

On a walk to work I heard, knowingly, my first cuckoo. One of only a handful of birds named after the sound it makes, and only the male will call that familiar 'cuckoo cuckoo'. The female will lay its eggs in a nest of another bird, they have their favourites, even the eggs will resemble their hosts. Rude, lazy and unsociable if you ask me. Which is exactly what I fear I am becoming. I fear these walks are not enough for the task ahead.

I've no doubt I'll give this walk my best shot, pain will be endured (my feet are showing signs of wear), an adventure will be had. One thing I'm learning, without noticing the world around you, without attempts to break the monotony, walking can be dull. Walking is not merely about going from one place to another but about looking. And without wanting to turn this into Springwatch, I'll end it here.

P.s. Me and Claire have both reached our fundraising targets, and a bit more. However I'm not going to stop suggesting we want more. After all, it's why we're doing this. My donation page is here, and Claire's is here.

I have a skylark hangover.

I have cycled myself into this gently undulating landscape but never have I walked these fields and footpaths beyond Eynsford. We hit three small North West Kent parishes one after another, Farningham, Eynsford, Shoreham. They're enclosed within the M25, M26 and M20, but the trees, fields and waterways are unaware of these major highways, and I often need reminding.

Birds have a capacity to bring to mind nostalgic memories of summers past. Are there many sounds sweeter than the skylark, many sights brighter than the iridescent blue of a darting kingfisher? Robins, wrens, long tailed tits, a charm of goldfinches, I could go on, it was a good day for birds. Unless you're a female pheasant, I kept a souvenir feather, evidence of a scuffle.

We walked 20 winding miles for the long awaited training walk no.5. The ground was easier than the Thames Path but honestly, my feet still hurt. It's a new pain this time, I normally welcome change. I'm not using pain in a throw away sense here, my feet hurt, especially the right one. The fields of rapeseed shone as if whilst we looked, it owned all light. These intense yellow flowers do ease pain. The rain clouds even managed to stay over our shoulders, it wouldn't dare.

As the shadows grew ever longer and still with miles to cover our journey back brought in the golden hour, that window of rich evening light. We browsed the second hand books of Martin Finch, a quaint village bookshop within Farningham's high street, opposite the curry house. A few stops for water, a pause to let a runner through and a moment to redo laces we were done.

Walking into my garden only one feeling came to mind, the feeling to keep going, go do that walk again, twice over, and only then are you done. I took off my boots, wiggled my toes, that's better. We're doing alright. We really are because we've both gone beyond our fund-raising targets, so thank you to each person who has made that happen. It's genuinely helping me put one foot in front of the other. This was once an easy task, then a difficult one and now a stupidly difficult one. I'm still excited though...

We don't want the money raising to stop, obviously. Donate here for me and here for Claire if you so wish! London to Brighton, just over 3 weeks away, 62 miles await us. But for now, I have a skylark hangover.

Islands in the Stream

We spied Canary Wharf some way off, until it almost disappeared behind a shield of grey. The same grey that soon hung over our heads and relieved itself, pouring down upon us. Maybe not in quite such biblical terms, but we did get wet. My waterproof jacket would have worked brilliantly, had I bought it with me. The majority of training walk no.4 happened under a blanket of cloud. When the sun eventually poked out the wind picked up, so very timely.

We decided on a relatively short walk - compared to our last - from Erith to Greenwich along the Thames Path. This stretch of the Thames is mostly industrial. The view of Ford Dagenham across the river comes with its very own smell of the sewage works on our side, holding your breath just won't do, we tried. Cormorants, a solitary heron, shelduck and wigeon (at least I think they were wigeon) pilfer along the muddy banks. I never expected such an array of bird life, which was foolish, because there's lots.

The planes fly in to land at City Airport, almost close enough to touch. You have to stop and admire them swooping down, wheels deployed. A few sections of the path begin to straighten out, the kind of path that seems to never end. Yet, we plod on. Canary Wharf still marks our end, toying with our minds.

The further you get towards the city, the cranes (not the birds) spring up and the wildlife dies down. The urban sprawl is sucking us in, with weary legs and feet, the thought of food gets ever stronger. I wore proper walking boots for the first time, my feet still hurt but enough to bear. It's becoming more real, this walking lark, but preparation is going in the right direction. It's officially spring so the weather can only start to get better too... The blossom is blooming and buds are, budding...

And now for the grovelling. Alarming news, I need half my sponsor money by April 13th, or I can't even stand on the start line. You can find my sponsor page here and here. And also here. My walking buddy Claire's page is here. Regarding the title of this post, you can do the detective work here.

A brisk walk south...

...100km south. Late last year, when longer days were a thing of the past and a distant and difficult to see future, I was asked a question, "Hey, Wil, would you like to walk with me to Brighton, from London?". My colleague Claire said it very matter-of-factly. After a few seconds of deep thought, I said yes. It's a cliche to say "How hard can it be?!", so I said that too.

I consider myself physically fit but after the first of three 20, give or take, mile training walks the answer to that question punched me in the face. The answer? Bloody hard. Real bloody hard. Hard on the feet, hard on the legs. Not forgetting mentally tough. Nearing the ends of these few walks I find myself revisiting the back of our family car as a child somewhere along the A303 asking that question, "Are we there yet?". Flashbacks of arduous journeys, where initial excitement fades into the simple want to arrive. Corners breed corners, where is that finish line? I just tell myself, that come May 23rd I will have to do this but three times over, 20+ hours of continuous walking, and that's not helping. There's no silver lining.

I may have made it sound like something I don't want to do. But I did say yes. Of course I want to do it, if it was easy, I'd back out. And to be blunt, I'm excited. Steinbeck once said; 'What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness'. I think of this quote a lot. Along with Claire's tiresome offer of a can of man up at every moan that leaves my lips. 

This isn't just a walk for the hell of walks by the way, we're both walking for charity, mine being the British Heart Foundation, which means something to a lot people, including myself. You can support me by donating here. And Claire is walking for The Society for Mucopolysaccharide Diseases, you can donate to her here. 

I'll try and blog a little about our progress from now until the big, big day.