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.