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.

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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.


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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...


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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.