I'm So Dave

Epilogue

2007-09-04T13:52:00.004Z

Click here to download a pdf of the account of this walk.

In January 2007, on my thirty-second birthday, I set off on an attempt to walk from Land's End to John O'Groats. This was almost as surprising to me as to the people who knew me. I am not an adventurous person. I do not have an obvious history of mental illness. I like chairs. Yet, somehow, there I was, windswept and sea-sprayed, at the southern tip of the land, taking the first steps of a journey, walking alone, in the middle of winter, between the two points of the British mainland separated by the greatest distance. How had it come to this?

For it had only been three weeks earlier that I had had no notion of doing anything other than continuing with my computer-based, office-bound, button-bashing career, the kind of role that, though often well rewarded, people fall into while they try to decide what they really want to do with their lives. And it had been only three weeks earlier that it occurred to me that I was inconceivably, mind-crushingly bored. That I needed a challenge that was as far removed from my normal existence as possible. A challenge that could be attempted with minimal preparation and no special skills, that didn't involve immunisation or visas or learning a different language, that didn't require a vast amount of savings or a team of people.

I would go for a walk.

So, in the three weeks between Christmas Day and my thirty-second birthday, I scoured the high street shops for appropriate equipment, poured over the internet for guidance, and attempted a couple of disastrous practice walks in the Peak District that saw me upto my arse in peat bog and wondering if I would ever find a pair of truly water proof gloves.

What I learnt from my quick studies was that there was no official route for the much travelled journey between Land's End to John O'Groats, and that there is very little in the way of published material. The best resource seemed to be the website of Mark Moxon, who had embarked on his own LEJOG in 2003. He had used a route and book by someone called Andrew McCloy, and as this route mainly followed long distance paths rather than busy main roads (which was something I was also keen to do), the decision was made.

As for kit, my existing boots and pants were complemented by a hastily acquired pile of gadgets, gizmos and goodness knows what. I was flailing in the dark, which is something I realised I may have to get accustomed to unless I began to focus on the essentials. The kit was pared down to what at the time I believed was an absolute minimum. Some decisions were easier than others. I wanted comfort and convenience, so the idea of a tent was quickly dismissed. This saved a great deal of weight, and allowed me to walk faster for further, but would result in the daily limitation of searching for accomodation in the pressing winter gloom.

Improbably, amongst the items I did not discard was a small laptop computer, which I reasoned was essential to plot the daily guide rope with which my bewildering GPS device could drag me to safety. Thankfully this proved to be the case, but the laptop also allowed me to maintain this daily blog of the walk, my first foray into writing of any kind.

I hope it proves to be of interest to any fellow chair-lovers, and of value to anyone who may be moved to attempt something similar.

May your feet be dry, your path be smooth and your landscapes inspiring.

It's all out there waiting for you.

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The link below will allow you to download a gpx file containing the GPS tracklogs for the entire walk from Land's End to John O'Groats.

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=1DGB0MGQ

This file is compatible with Google Earth and MemoryMap, amongst others. Google Earth seems to only allow you to view one day at a time so you may need to fiddle around a bit.

This is the actual route that I walked, so it includes all the mistakes and detours that I took, but it may be interesting to anyone intending to walk all or part of this route in the future as it includes large sections of the Pennine Way, West Highland Way, Great Glen Way, South West Coast Path, Severn Way, Cotswold Way, Staffordshire Way and Limestone Way.

When I walked, I listened to music. It was my constant companion. Nothing compares to those moments where a mood, a view and a song fell into place, to stir the senses and enhance the experience. There were songs that I happened to be listening to on certain days that completely encapsulated the situation, and so for each of the 60 days of the walk I attempted to nominate a relevant song.

You can download all 60 of the songs from the links below. Each song contains a photo and the written account of the relevant day. I hope they bring you as much comfort and pleasure as they brought me.

LEJOG Music Part 1 of 6
LEJOG Music Part 2 of 6
LEJOG Music Part 3 of 6
LEJOG Music Part 4 of 6
LEJOG Music Part 5 of 6
LEJOG Music Part 6 of 6

Have fun!
Dave

LEJOG Stats

2007-06-07T09:33:00.000Z

The figures below are the Daily Mileage, Cumulative Mileage, and Average Daily Mileage

1 Penzance 18.8, 18.8, 18.8 : South West Coast Path
2 Tregathenan 22.4, 41.2, 20.6 : South West Coast Path
3 Truro 21.5, 62.7, 20.9
4 Dunmere 31.2, 93.9, 23.5
5 Launceston 35.5, 129.4, 25.9 : Camel Trail
6 Launceston (Rest Day) 0, 129.4, 21.6
7 Okehampton 24.5, 153.9, 22.0 : Two Castles Trail / Granite Way
8 Crediton 22.7, 176.6, 22.1
9 Tiverton 16.9, 193.5, 21.5 : Exe Valley Way
10 Taunton 28.7, 222.2, 22.2 : Grand Western Canal
11 Glastonbury 29, 251.2, 22.8 : Bridgwater and Taunton Canal
12 Glastonbury (Rest Day) 0, 251.2, 20.9
13 Midsomer Norton 19.7, 270.9, 20.8
14 Bath 11.4, 282.3, 20.2
15 Old Sodbury 18.2, 300.5, 20.0 : Cotswold Way
16 King's Stanley 22.5, 323, 20.2 : Cotswold Way
17 Tewkesbury 25.4, 348.4, 20.5 : Cotswold Way / Severn Way
18 Worcester 19.7, 368.1, 20.5 : Severn Way
19 Bewdley 20.6, 388.7, 20.5 : Severn Way / Staffordshire Way
20 Wolverhampton 26.6, 415.3, 20.8 : Staffordshire Way
21 Penkridge 11, 426.3, 20.3 : Staffordshire Way
22 Uttoxeter 26.9, 453.2, 20.6 : Staffordshire Way
23 Dovedale 16.3, 469.5, 20.4 : Staffordshire Way / Limestone Way
24 Castleton 29, 498.5, 20.8 : Limestone Way
25 Edale 5.1, 503.6, 20.1
26 Padfield 20.2, 523.8, 20.1 : Pennine Way
27 Diggle 18, 541.8, 20.1 : Pennine Way
28 Hebden Bridge 17.4, 559.2, 20.0 : Pennine Way
29 Hebden Bridge (Rest Day) 0, 559.2, 19.3
30 Skipton 24.6, 583.8, 19.5 : Pennine Way
31 Horton-in-Ribblesdale 25.1, 608.9, 19.6 : Pennine Way
32 Hawes 13.6, 622.5, 19.5 : Pennine Way
33 Bowes 25.7, 648.2, 19.6 : Pennine Way
34 Langdon Beck 22.6, 670.8, 19.7 : Pennine Way
35 Alston 16.7, 687.5, 19.6 : Pennine Way
36 Haltwhistle 14.1, 701.6, 19.5 : Pennine Way / South Tyne Trail
37 Bellingham 19.6, 721.2, 19.5 : Pennine Way
38 Byrness 16.6, 737.8, 19.4 : Pennine Way
39 Jedburgh 20.7, 758.5, 19.4 : Pennine Way / Dere Street
40 Melrose 15.6, 774.1, 19.4 : St Cuthbert's Way
41 Peebles 24.5, 798.6, 19.5 : Southern Upland Way
42 Edinburgh 21.9, 820.5, 19.5
43 Edinburgh (Rest Day) 0, 820.5, 19.1
44 Linlithgow 22.9, 843.4, 19.2 : Union Canal
45 Twechar 24.7, 868.1, 19.3 : Union Canal / Forth & Clyde Canal
46 Drymen 23.4, 891.5, 19.4 : Forth & Clyde Canal / West Highland Way
47 Inverarnen 24.7, 916.2, 19.5 : West Highland Way
48 Inveroran 21.6, 937.8, 19.5 : West Highland Way
49 Kinlochleven 19, 956.8, 19.5 : West Highland Way
50 Fort William 15, 971.8, 19.4 : West Highland Way
51 Invergarry 28.8, 1000.6, 19.6 : Great Glen Way
52 Invermoriston 17.2, 1017.8, 19.6 : Great Glen Way
53 Drumnadrochit 14, 1031.8, 19.5 : Great Glen Way
54 Inverness 19.2, 1051, 19.5 : Great Glen Way
55 Alness, 29.4, 1080.4, 19.6
56 Dornoch, 20.9, 1101.3, 19.7
57 Helmsdale 29.6, 1130.9, 19.8
58 Lybster 23.7, 1154.6, 19.9
59 Wick 14, 1168.6, 19.8
60 John O'Groats 19.4, 1188, 19.8

Day 60 : Wick to John o’Groats (Duncansby Head)

2007-03-22T14:17:00.001Z

Thursday 15th March 2007

Distance Walked: 17.6 (+1.9) miles
Start Time: 6:01 (12:19)
End Time: 11:18 (12:53)
Elapsed Time: 5:17 (0:34)
Weather: Overcast and drizzly
Final Distance Walked: 1188 miles

Weekly Audio Update: Dave on The Steve Show - Day 60

“What do you think you’ll feel at the end of it?” said the guy in the pub back in Helmsdale.
“Overwhelming disappointment, probably” I replied.
“Oh, you’ll be overwhelmed, all right” he said, knowingly. “You won’t be able to hold back the tears”

We were both wrong. After an early start and a long, re-energised stomp through the final miles, I reach the small community of John o’Groats at the end of all the roads and the overriding feeling is relief. It’s over. The sadness and disorientation will come later. Now, it’s just pure relief. The fact that the deadline is hit and the minor celebrity’s pockets are briefly lightened is momentarily satisfying, but the sense of accomplishment is strangely absent. I don’t know what to do with myself.

As at Land’s End, the famous signpost is not in operation so I touch the battered stump, sign the book in the Groats Inn, and complete the final two miles along the coast to Duncansby Head, the true furthest point from the start back in Cornwall. It’s been a journey of 1188 miles through some of the most remote yet spectacular landscapes in Britain, taking sixty days to complete in a mild but challenging winter. Whatever else I haven’t done with my life, I’ve done this, and maybe, for now, that’s enough.

On the train home, it hits me. Passing the places I’ve spent days, weeks, walking through, it’s as if my heart has been nailed to the stump at the top and I’m being stretched away from it, with all the cares and worries that had unravelled during the trek being pulled back towards me, tighter and tighter, as the carriage drags me further away from the place that I’d struggled to reach for so long. The clarity of thought that this liberty provided drains away. Whatever dissatisfactions were present at the start, still remain.

What do you do when you realise that you’re not the person you imagined you would become? We can be so immersed in the daily struggle to maintain and improve our lives that it’s possible to lose sight of who we wanted to be, until we look up one day and realise that years have passed and the chance may be gone. And the comfort and ease that we may have created for ourselves through the years of hard work compels us to accept our fate, rather than risk losing everything by stepping away from it all.

I’ve realised, as the miles ticked by, that I wasn’t really looking for anything when I started this Walk, back in Cornwall. This has not been a metaphysical journey, an existential experience. The pain, the swellings, the blisters, the bleeding. It’s all real, and I welcomed it. I welcomed the rain and the snow and the darkness. The hardship and the discomfort and the frailties compelling me to stop, just as I welcomed the sunshine and the beauty and the urge to continue. I welcomed the meaninglessness of it, of doing something for its own sake.

No, I wasn’t looking for anything, but I wanted to see everything. It’s not clear if I’m now more connected to the country in which I live, or more displaced from it than ever, but there’s a certain understanding and appreciation that could not have been gained in any other way. I don’t know if the wanderlust that took hold of me was a love to wander or a search for wonder but, either way, the experience of the last sixty days has only increased its pull. Whether this is a way of embracing the world, or escaping from it, should not be a concern. As the pressing realities of the world close in, it’s the desire to keep moving that needs to be protected.

Song of the day:

Isobel Campbell & Marl Lanegan
“Revolver”

Now after all /
Don’t feel like nothing /
Like walking away /
Like a mouth full of rain /
At twelve o’clock a bell starts ringing /
A dog starts barking /
And you’re still missing /
Still missing something /
You’ve never known what it was

Day 59 : Lybster to Wick

2007-03-22T13:49:00.003Z

Wednesday 14th March 2007

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Distance Walked: 14 miles
Start Time: 9:15
End Time: 14:17
Elapsed Time: 5:02
Weather: Grey drizzle
Distance walked so far: 1168.6 miles

One of the guests of the Portland Arms had clearly heard about my quest and, as I was struggling along the road and attempting to quell the morning pains, he drove up alongside, wished me well and handed me a huge block of chocolate, before driving back again. An astonishingly kind gesture, which moves even my hardest of hearts, for this is the greyest of days, devoid of life and energy like the legs beneath me. I’ve ground to a halt. The body is deserting me, within sight of the finish.

There have been days where it’s felt as if I could walk forever, but now each step is a battle. At least there are no distractions to taunt me. It’s just the black road ahead and the dark sky above. The moisture turns to drizzle and, in the swampy lands surrounding Wick, the first swarms of midges emerge to torment and terrorise. This is the nightmare of the summer walker in Scotland, but my tasty flesh is swathed in layers of fabric and I manage to limp to the final major town of the journey without incurring their wrath.

I didn’t expect much from Wick, and that’s exactly what I got. If it hasn’t yet been dubbed the “Mansfield of the North”, then maybe it should be, though perhaps that does a disservice to both Mansfield and the North. It’s a surprisingly large town, particularly after the sparseness of last few days, but the time of prosperity here seems to be long gone. There is a Wetherspoon pub in the centre though, a rarity in Scotland, and its calmingly reassuring interior helps to banish some of the lingering aches. Tomorrow it will all be over. Some aches, I suspect, will linger longer.

Song of the day:

Nick Drake
“Day Is Done”

When the day is done /

Down to earth then sinks the sun /

Along with everything that was lost and won /
When the day is done

Day 58 : Helmsdale to Lybster

2007-03-21T11:31:00.001Z

Tuesday 13th March 2007

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Distance Walked: 23.7 miles
Start Time: 8:27
End Time: 16:21
Elapsed Time: 7:54
Weather: Strong wind and sun. Occasional shower.
Distance walked so far: 1154.6 miles

There’s a phrase that is plastered throughout the popular walking areas of the country that says something like: “Take only memories; leave only footprints”. Often it feels like I’m incapable of doing either of these things, that this journey is so brief and negligible that its effects will fade with the light of each dying day. Sometimes I feel like I slide through the world so undemonstratively that I’m barely there at all.

There’s a permanent conflict between wanting to make the most of this opportunity, to cherish every moment of this rare liberation, and yet simultaneously to want to shed such pressures, to simply walk and enjoy the sensation of walking, without really caring about either the location or direction, or whether a brief chance of freedom in my life is being wasted.

It’s hard though. With each new landscape I’m beset with flashbacks of encountering a similar vista, and am shocked to recall that the related events were so recent, and that they occurred just a few weeks ago on this very Walk. It seems such a long time ago that it all began that I’m struggling to remember a time when I wasn’t doing this. The prospect of returning to a former life presses heavily upon me.

Yet, the structure of the Walk propels me forwards, and I’m grateful for it. It’s a windy, corrosive part of the world up here. Whatever isn’t secured, is lost to the elements. In the morning I leave the “Be.grave Hotel” in Helmsdale, and this afternoon walk past the “Inver Gu.st House”. Somewhere in the North Sea, an L and an E are searching for a home.

What they’ve fled is the Ord of Caithness, the last real challenge of the Walk, and a bleak, blustery place it is too. The steep, coastal hills are something of a shock as the A9 climbs fiercely up the slopes out of Helmsdale, with the temperature dropping along with the clouds. This proximity to mountains and moorland evokes the spirit of the Highlands, but thankfully the wind is at my back and the sun emerges, and even the climb out of the steep Berriedale valley passes without incident. It has a fearsome reputation but, after so many miles and so many hills behind me, it barely registers, and certainly is not a factor in the rapidly increasing sensations of pain that fizz through the feet.

Maybe it’s the rare sunshine that does it, though it’s more likely to be the crushing tarmac, but the blisters on the heel can be felt as they form and spread, each step increasing the discomfort. If I didn’t have an artificial deadline now, the dilemma would be obvious. Would it be less painful to slow down and do fewer miles each day, but to therefore drag the pain out over more days, or to increase the pace to complete the task, but risk further damage? I try to calculate but I can’t do the sums. I don’t even know what the formula is.

Having treated myself to a pint at the Inver Arms in Dunbeath, a ramshackle portacabin of a pub containing a friendly bunch of ramshackle regulars, the final miles of the day merge into a stubborn relentlessness. The environment is increasingly desolate, with a succession of scattered farmhouses and disparate communities, clinging to the coastline. There are aspects of Cornwall here, but a Cornwall that has been stretched and decimated and denied investment. I pass villages that I presume have seen better days, though the concrete and tin structures seem timelessly tatty and the worrying procession of disbanded hotels ring the first note of panic, before The Portland Arms Hotel in Lybster comes to the rescue and I’m bathed and shiny again and ready to complete the job.

Song of the day:

Nico
“These Days”

I've stopped my rambling /
I don't do too much gambling these days /
These days I seem to think about /
How all the changes came about my ways /
And I wonder if I'll see another highway

Day 57 : Dornoch to Helmsdale

2007-03-19T19:13:00.001Z

Monday 12th March 2007

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Distance Walked: 29.6 miles
Start Time: 8:52
End Time: 17:33
Elapsed Time: 8:41
Weather: Sunshine and showers
Distance walked so far: 1130.9 miles

Your heart gets broken and you think that you’ll never love again and then, when you try, you find that there’s not as much love to give anymore. Something has died inside and so you guard your heart in case it happens again and you’re left unable to feel anything at all.

I’m hoping it’s not the same with feet. These are my weapons of self-destruction. After weeks of merciless punishment, I now dread the moment when I have to squeeze into the boots, locking myself into position for another day of relentless hammering. And the A9 is an unfeeling host. A truly dreadful way to finish any walk. Such great work has been done in opening up areas of Britain for walkers, and so many fantastic (or at least well-intentioned) paths have been created, that it does seem incredible that so much of the coastline is not accessible to the public. It would make such a huge difference generally, but specifically to a walk like this.

For I’m truly now on the coast again. I’ve walked besides sea lochs and firths, but today really feels like the first day actually alongside the sea since I dragged myself away from the bay at Saint Michael’s Mount, fifty-five days ago. But, like fire or a pert breast, I don’t have to touch it to know that it’s real, preferring to take the inland road to Loch Fleet rather than walk across the sands and grass of Dornoch Links.

From here it’s back onto the A9, where the grass verge disappears and the dodging of the lorries becomes an all-encompassing exercise. Thankfully though, there are a few delightful detours along the way which salvage the day from painful drudgery. From the town of Golspie, a footpath along the coast passes behind the marvellously eccentric Dunrobin Castle, a fairytale palace with Disney-like spires shooting into the air. But the personal highlight is the walk along the amazing beach at Brora; orange sands below and a perfect blue sea beckoning, with just the seabirds and a gang of lazy seals for company. It’s only a mile and a half, but it restores my faith and confidence, acting as a sedative for the final burst, along the A9 to Helmsdale.

These last few miles of the Walk are the hardest of all. It is becoming a slog. I know I’m going to get there now, so mentally it’s as if there’s no point actually physically getting to the finish. Basically, I just want it to end. I long for rest, and days of lazy sunshine. I picture myself in Southern California, or driving down the Surf Highway in New Zealand, with the waves on the right, the mountains on the left, tunes on the stereo, blue sky, hot sun and a sweet heart by the side. The pain comes and goes. The discomfort is constant. The battle is in the mind.

If I had had a reason for doing this then I’m sure I would have stopped by now. I would have argued myself into submission and given up. It must be hellish for those with people depending on the success of their Walks, those with charitable donations weighing on their shoulders or who had been planning and dreaming of it for years, who have engineered their lives to give them the time and resources to try, and to then be put in a position where they might cave in.

I love the fact that it’s difficult. That there are huge sections, days sometimes, that I hate. I love the meaningless of it all. I have no reason to be doing this whatsoever and, for that reason alone, I continue.

Song of the day:

Belle & Sebastian
“Le Pastie de la Bourgeoisie”

Wouldn’t you like to get away? /
Kerouac’s beckoning with open arms /
The open fields of eucalyptus /
Westward bound /
Wouldn’t you like to get away? /
Give yourself up to the allure of “Catcher in the Rye” /
The future’s draped in stars and stripes

Day 56 : Alness to Dornoch

2007-03-19T19:06:00.001Z

Sunday 11th March 2007

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Distance Walked: 20.9 miles
Start Time: 8:49
End Time: 15:24
Elapsed Time: 6:35
Weather: Overcast and windy
Distance walked so far: 1101.3 miles

Weekly Audio Update: Dave on The Steve Show - Day 56

She leaves in the morning, quietly, and is away. Though I relish the company, it only feels right that I finish this alone. One of the appealing aspects of the Walk was that it seemed like something that could be achieved with no support or preparation and, with the end almost in sight, I’m keen to push myself as hard as possible to see just how much discomfort I can withstand.

I’ve had no sensation at all in my big toes for about a month now, which is probably lucky as they’d be furious if they knew what was going on down there. I have adopted a walking technique which can only be described as “upright indifference”: arms folded, head back, spine straightened, eyes fixed down the length of the enormous nose. This form of arrogant plodding seems to alleviate the pain in the left shoulder but gets me some funny looks from the passing traffic. To hell with ‘em. Let see how they look when they’ve walked eleven hundred miles.

Today’s morning miles are rain-sodden and drab, along back roads between forest and farms. The thick cloud presses down and all is gloomy. Reaching the outskirts of Tain by midday, with the expanse of the Dornoch Firth beckoning before me, I join the A9 for the first of many miles over the final few days, this time as it heads over the bridge towards Dornoch. It’s a smart, elegant town, enticing visitors with its seaside location, impressive accommodation and world class golf course. It feels like I’ve walked into another world in a single day.

The minor celebrity that has been plaguing me on a weekly basis continues to interfere. Completing the walk is not enough to keep him entertained, it seems. Now there’s an artificial deadline and the spectre of charitable donations if the deadline is met. Not only is he trying to turn me into a performing monkey, he’s also trying to make me dance. Worse, he’s trying to add meaning to the Walk where previously there was none. Yet, as much as I’m indifferent to the notion of charity, the prospect of forcing such a Scrooge-like character to dip into his money-bin is too enticing to dismiss. It will involve completing the final five days worth of walking in three and a half days, but I suspect that I won’t be the one in the most pain at the end if I succeed.

Song of the day:

Rickie Lee Jones
“After Hours”

All the gang has gone home /
Standing on the corner /
All alone /
You and me, streetlight /
We'll paint the town - grey /
Oh, we are so many lamps /
Who have lost our way

Day 55 : Inverness to Alness

2007-03-18T09:48:00.001Z

Saturday 10^th March 2007

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Distance Walked: 29.4 miles
Start Time: 8:47
End Time: 17:36
Elapsed Time: 8:49
Weather: Sunshine and showers. Grey later.
Distance walked so far: 1080.4 miles

I know little of magic but, crossing the Kessock Bridge out of Inverness, I see the first road sign to John o’Groats (120 miles!) as a huge bold rainbow arcs across the sky, and it feels just about as perfect as anything is ever going to be. A fairytale. Of course, the pummelling wind nearly dumps me into the Beauly Firth below but, clinging on, I stagger down to follow the road as it hugs the shoreline of the Firth from North Kessock.

Walking into a headwind is a bit of a nightmare, and the road here is totally exposed. The air sweeps down from the mountains, along the expanse of water and into the face. Still, the sun is out and creates interesting silhouettes which I admire as I struggle on. More than anything, it’s a relief to have a change of scenery, a different kind of environment. The smell of the sea is enervating. No change is as good as a rest, but this is definitely a welcome change.

It doesn’t last long. Cutting inland between farms and fields, I pass villages of shire horses and Highland cows before joining the A862 as it heads towards Dingwall, at the mouth of the Cromarty Firth. This is where they bring the huge oil rigs for a holiday, but I can’t see any today. It’s not holiday season so this would be a logical place to stop for the night, but, of course, I carry on walking.

My feet start to break.

Nineteen miles seems to be the usual point at which the discomfort turns to pain, regardless of terrain, but nineteen miles of unforgiving tarmac is guaranteed to hobble. Every step of the next ten miles becomes an interesting exercise in sensation management. Eventually I pass through Evanton (where a note scribbled on the door of the Police Station says “Do Not Disturb”) and onto the road to Alness which, it seems, is extremely popular with boy racers, keen to use me as target practice as they scream up and down in their low-slung, rumbling lumps of crap. I’m itching for a fight, then, as one of them pulls up alongside.

“Do you need a lift into town pal?” he says, Scottishly
“No thanks mate. I’m walking to John o’Groats so that would ruin everything”
“Man alive!” he coughs, exhaling plumes of smoke “Good luck pal!”, and off he screeches.

Nice of him to ask though. Maybe Alness is not a reflection of its car-owning youths, I ponder. Wishful thinking. It is a nasty little place. The Support Crew had secured a room in the Station Hotel, a drab depressing place which, on a Saturday night, plays host to a throbbing disco for the bristling locals. It was Launceston all over again. Finally, at midnight, the bass ceases, the bedroom stops shaking and the drunks fade into the streets, obscenities spilling through the darkness.

Signs in the town centre proclaim that Alness is a recent winner of the “Britain In Bloom” competition. This I can understand. Flowers thrive in shit, and this place is full of it.

Song of the day:

Sigur Ros
“Hoppipola”

Hopping into puddles /
Completely drenched /
Soaked /
With no boots on /
And I get nosebleed /
But I always get up

Day 54 : Drumnadrochit to Inverness

2007-03-18T09:46:00.001Z

Friday 9^th March 2007

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Distance Walked: 19.2 miles
Start Time: 9:32
End Time: 15:42
Elapsed Time: 6:09
Weather: Windy and grey, with bright patches
Distance walked so far: 1051 miles

Joy! Someone must have stolen the sign that indicates the point at which the Great Glen Way swings upwards, away from the evil A82, because I certainly didn’t see it, and was left with a five mile jaunt on the tarmac to begin my day, sandwiched between roaring trucks and the grey expanse of water on the right. At least it allowed a consistent view of the loch, which is something that the irritating Way doesn’t do, and, glancing back, the views of the receding Urquhart Castle were almost worth the threat of imminent flattening.

Intrigued to see how much worse the Way could get, I fashion a route up the sheer slope towards Abriachan, and rejoin “It” as it follows tedious back roads over dull, exposed moor land. I wish I hadn’t bothered. The committee that designed this route must never have walked it themselves and, if they have, I suggest they do so over and over again, as punishment.

After a few miles through yet more pine, Inverness come into view, with the expanse of Beauly Firth behind. It looks like a grey kind of place from the approach, somewhat confirmed during the meandering wander through the housing estates and leisure centres that the Way insists upon before reaching the centre. The park through the river is pretty though and, with a stumpy cathedral on one bank and a stock castle on another, there’s something solid and imposing about the town.

The Great Glen Way ends in front of the castle and so do I. It may be a poor excuse for a Long Distance Path, but it’s the last one I’m going to get. I’ve run out of trails. From here it’s back to the roads. Until the roads run out. Then I’ll know I’ve made it.

Song of the day:

Cracker
“Low”

Sometimes I go and walk the street /
Behind the green sheet of glass /
A million miles below their feet /
A million miles, a million miles

Day 53 : Invermoriston to Drumnadrochit

2007-03-18T09:38:00.002Z

Thursday 8^th March 2007

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Distance Walked: 14 miles
Start Time: 9:45
End Time: 14:02
Elapsed Time: 4:17
Weather: Sunshine and showers
Distance walked so far: 1031.8 miles

He could snap me like a twig. Of that I’m certain. And once snapped, he could toss me over his shoulder and cart me up to the top of Ben Nevis, like the people in his stories who carry pianos and fridges up to the peak, leaving them on the summit for the mountain rescue helicopters to winch down. He has so many stories, the genial owner of the Glenmoriston Arms, and he works through the full repertoire from his place behind the bar. Tales of runners who pelt up and down the mountains in thirty minutes, or who conquer twenty-four peaks in twenty-four hours. Ridiculous tales. Of non-stop five day stomps as a member of the Special Forces. These days he is a friendly hotel owner but there’s something steely within and, impressed by my efforts, he yearns for the day when he can once again take on a challenge like mine. He’ll run it, he says. Fifty miles a day. Easy. I don’t disagree. He could definitely snap me.

The section of the Great Glen Way from Invermoriston to Drumnadrochit may be relatively short, but it’s by far the hilliest of the trail, with countless switchbacks to test the patience. Once again, it’s the high path along the Forestry Commission track through the firs and, as yesterday, the glimpses of the loch below are rare and precious. It looks moodier today too. Meaner. The myth of the monster is, of course, ridiculous but, just as I can’t help but check for lurking ghosts when having a piss at night, I involuntarily keep scanning the surface for any sign of the beastie. To no avail, thankfully.

Regardless, the Way soon pulls away from the water altogether, concluding the day with some dull, pointless miles along the high back road before dropping down to the tourist hub of Drumnadrochit. What’s most peculiar about this choice of route is that it totally avoids the one landmark that would logically be the highlight of the walk, for the picturesque remains of Urquhart Castle are two miles back along the A82 from Drumnadrochit, two miles that are definitely worth retracing as the ruins are some of the most iconic in the country.

And they’re iconic because they confirm most tourist’s preconceptions. This is what Scotland means to them. A land of castles and mountains and water and clouds and, at Urquhart, they can capture the single photograph that includes all those things. It’s beautifully convenient. They come from all over the world to see it, stepping straight from their Nessie boat trip into the history and romance of the neatly packaged castle, balancing on the edge of the water. Tellingly, the shop and café dwarf the size of the tiny museum at the Visitor Centre. This is a place of myth and merchandise, and I don’t really have any room in my pack for either.

Song of the day

Grandaddy
“Nature Anthem”

I wanna walk up the side of the mountain /
I wanna walk down the other side of the mountain /
I wanna swim in the river /
And lie in the sun /
I wanna try to be nice to everyone

Day 52 : Invergarry to Invermoriston

2007-03-14T19:15:00.001Z

Wednesday 7th March 2007

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Distance Walked: 17.2 miles
Start Time: 9:30
End Time: 15:37
Elapsed Time: 6:07
Weather: Sunshine and showers.
Distance walked so far: 1017.8 miles

Brad is from New Jersey and, on his first trip to Europe, has already seen more of the continent’s major cities than most Europeans will ever manage. Across the sunlit breakfast room we compare stories of our two contrasting journeys, and end up feeling rather envious of each other’s escapades. Rather than waste time in England, he spent a weekend in London then came straight up to Scotland. It’s easy to understand why. There may be many interesting sights down south, but Scotland feels unique and, just as importantly, actually seems to welcome visitors. I tear myself away from the warm hospitality of the Invergarry Hotel and head out into the light morning mist.

It’s a few miles along the A82, by the shores of Loch Oich, before I can rejoin the Great Glen Way at Bridge of Oich, from where it again follows the Caledonian Canal northwards. Like so many of the feats of engineering that allowed Scotland to prosper, the canal has Thomas Telford’s skilled fingers all over the design. Here it runs parallel with the River Oich and, as the sun finally usurps the grey bursts of rain, I almost begin to warm to the monotonous pounding, especially when it leads to Fort Augustus, the little town at the southern end of Loch Ness.

Now here’s a place that is known throughout the world, though probably for the wrong reasons. It doesn’t have the surface area of Lomond, but it is by far the bigger of the two. It’s almost unimaginably big, actually, but these two stats might help you to try. If you were sufficiently minded, and had a lot of help, you could fit all the people in the world into the waters of Loch Ness, three times over. And it’s so big that it holds more water than all the lakes and reservoirs in England and Wales put together. It’s a real monster.

True to form, the Great Glen Way lurches away from the shore and insists on plunging through yet more bland forests, obscuring the sight of the water for much of the time. Through the sporadic clearings though, the view is simply stunning, and I grudgingly admit that it’s only truly possible to appreciate the scale of the landscape from such an elevated position. It’s mostly a view of pine though, and a slog up and down the slopes. Most of the Great Glen Way uses the route of the Great Glen Cycle Path, and it’s certainly geared towards bikers rather than walkers. It also seems to lack the range of accommodation that was so reassuring in the Highlands, which is maybe why the stop in Invermoriston proves to be such a welcome relief.

I nestle into the beautifully comfy Glenmoriston Arms Hotel, just as the Support Crew arrives to administer a final hello. She tells me that I stink, and I say what I think of her too. To be fair, the sack of clothes hasn’t been washed since I set foot in Scotland and the hum is almost overpowering. I add the task to my “To Do” list, somewhere between “Finish Walk” and “Find A Job”. It’s good to set priorities, but at the moment mine do not especially centre on personal hygiene.

Song of the day:

The Arlenes
“Lonely won’t leave me alone”

There was a time I thought I knew /
About life and what to do /
And now it’s plain /
I know nothing at all

Day 51 : Fort William to Invergarry

2007-03-13T21:35:00.001Z

Tuesday 6th March 2007

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Distance Walked: 28.8 miles
Start Time: 8:37
End Time: 17:41
Elapsed Time: 9:04
Weather: Mostly wet and gloomy. Rainbows!
Distance walked so far: 1000.6 miles

Fort William is the self-styled “Outdoor Capital of Britain” but, in the same way that I’m the self-styled “Lord of Lingering Disappointment”, it doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s true. The town is certainly in an enviable position, wedged between mountain and sea loch, and, more importantly, it has loads and loads and loads of shops. I invest heavily in new socks to pamper my suffering soles and look for a Way out.

Just as the West Highland Way ends at one roundabout, so the Great Glen Way begins at another, sandwiched between a supermarket car park and a McDonald’s drive-thru. It leads out through miles of stained concrete houses before joining the Caledonian Canal at Corpach, where the multi-tiered lock system of Neptune’s Staircase allows the sea-going vessels to penetrate the inland waterway. It’s a huge canal, much wider and more imposing than any of the others I’ve encountered, but no more entertaining, particularly as the torrents begin to fall.

I should be used to walking along wet towpaths by now, but it still grates. At least there are sporadic glimpses of the diminishing, cloud-covered Ben, and the path is certainly smooth, but it’s a relief when the canal is left behind and the walk along the lazily-named Loch Lochy begins. Unlike with Lomond, here the path sticks closely to the shoreline, perfect for moments of quiet, if damp, contemplation, if that's your thing.

Heading up into the lochside forests, the seasonal lack of the dreaded Scottish midge is again a source of relief. They love the wet, wooded places, and they would love me too, but today my concern remains with the search for a bed for the night. Laggan appears to have been deserted, so I press on in failing gloom and falling rain, taking an annoyingly meandering cycle track which eventually drops down to Invergarry where, mercifully, I secure the last remaining room in the only hotel in the area. It’s a comforting kind of place, and I pad around bare foot trying to get my legs to bend, whilst the huge alsation eyes me suspiciously from his spot by the fire. Slowly, the feeling returns.

Song of the day:

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds
“Wonderful Life”

We can build our dungeons in the air and sit and cry the blues /
We can stomp across this world with nails hammered through our shoes /
We can join that troubled chorus who criticise and accuse /
It don't matter much we got nothing much to lose /
But this wonderful life /
If you can find it

Day 50 : Kinlochleven to Fort William

2007-03-11T22:33:00.001Z

Monday 5th March 2007

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Distance Walked: 15 miles
Start Time: 9:17
End Time: 14:34
Elapsed Time: 5:17
Weather: Overcast
Distance walked so far: 971.8 miles

Everyday I’m ashamed of the person I was the day before. The things I said and did, I seemed so naïve then. So much I didn’t know. Yet somehow, in the moment, I forget this, and persist with the notion that my experiences are not simply mundane. If my rampant arrogance wasn’t balanced by crippling self-doubt, I would be a monster.

In the Lime Tree Gallery in Fort William there’s an exhibition of Frank Hussey’s stunning photographs of Shackleton’s unsuccessful expedition to Antarctica. It’s astonishing stuff. True adventure. Even the rugged types in the huge Nevisport outlet at the other end of the High Street seem more genuine than me, as they discuss their recent exploits on the Ben, avoiding avalanches and leaping through the crags. What have I done? Walked from one B&B to another. I am a fraud.

To reach Fort William, the last section of the West Highland Way climbs steeply out of Kinlochleven, then slopes incessantly upwards through the long Lairigmor valley. With snow capped peaks on all sides, and the wind and sleet slamming into the face, it’s a pretty isolated place. Bending north, the stony path leads into the Nevis Forest, where timber felling has turned the path in places into a mushy mess that’s difficult to penetrate. Presumably these seasonal operations will be completed before the hordes of spring walkers arrive for, again, there’s virtually no one else around.

Those that are here, are here for the mountain. For looming above the pine trees is the bulky outline of Britain’s highest peak. Life should be as it’s drawn by four-year-olds with crayons. Cars should be boxes with wheels. Parents should have huge heads with strands of wispy hair. Mountains should be triangles with squiggles of snow on top. Ben Nevis at least has the snow, but otherwise it’s a pretty drab pinnacle, a squat behemoth. A minor mount in world terms, but it’s the biggest we’ve got. I toy with the idea of taking a day off to climb it, but decide against it. That would be too adventurous and I am a fraud. The Way ends beside a roundabout, car park and shop. I take a photograph, and track down another B&B for the night.

Song of the day:

Dave Mason
“Shouldn’t have took more than you gave”

Shouldn’t have took more than you gave /
Then we wouldn’t be in this mess today /
I know we’ve all got different ways /
But the dues we’ve got to pay /
Are still the same

Day 49 : Inveroran to Kinlochleven

2007-03-11T22:29:00.000Z

Sunday 4th March 2007

Distance Walked: 19 miles
Start Time: 9:13
End Time: 15:30
Elapsed Time: 6:17
Weather: Cloudy. Rain later.
Distance walked so far: 956.8 miles

Weekly Audio Update: Dave on The Steve Show - Day49

I’ve had plenty of opportunities on the walk to consider what it would be like to do this whole thing the other way round, from top to bottom. A JOGLE rather than a LEJOG. Aside from the obvious drawbacks, such as the map being upside down, it just seems that the country is designed to be walked from south to north. The manner in which the landscape reveals itself today, following the Way as it drills efficiently between the majestic mountains, emphasises this in the most spectacular fashion.

This is big sky country. Everything is distance. Rannoch Moor is vast and desolate, but the morning clouds are benign and the still air makes for comfortable walking on the gentle cobbled trail. Passing a friendly crew of weekend walkers who cheer me on and insist on a photo, I reach the Pass of Glen Coe and it truly inspires awe. This is how it should be experienced. On foot, savouring the power of the landscape. A moment to cherish. The trio of peaks, the Three Sisters, stand like guardians and I approach with head bowed as the wind rises.

The passage out of this place is up the ominously titled Devil’s Staircase, which winds steeply northwards up the hillside for a couple of hundred metres and, like the ascent of Jacob’s Ladder in the Peak District, it seems only proper that such a route be conquered rather than used as a means of descent. It’s an unrelenting climb, but the path is smooth and, with so many miles in the legs, I eat it up, just in time for the deluge to begin at the top. Thankfully, the long descent down the pass and through the forest at the end of Loch Leven is not too arduous and, donning the full suite of wet-weather gear, I make rapid progress.

It’s not until I step in a murky puddle and feel the water flooding into the sock that I notice the chasm between the sole and boot of the left foot. Ensconced in the cheery Tailrace Inn in the Twin Peaks-like town of Kinlochleven, with its pine tree setting and cast of kooky characters, I make a final attempt to seal the boot's fate. Grabbing the remains of the superglue, I spunk the whole tube into the gaping flap and hold on tight, for this is make or break time. These boots are going to carry me all the way to the top whether I like it or not. It’ll be the last thing they ever do.

Song of the day:

Midlake
“Roscoe”

The village used to be all one really needs /
Now it’s filled with hundreds and hundreds of chemicals /
That mostly surround you /
You wish to flee but it's not like you /
So listen to me, listen to me

Day 48 : Inverarnen to Inveroran

2007-03-11T18:46:00.000Z

Saturday 3rd March 2007

Distance Walked: 21.6 miles
Start Time: 9:50
End Time: 17:32
Elapsed Time: 7:42
Weather: Changeable. Like pants.
Distance walked so far: 937.8 miles

Of all the paths, in all the country, the West Highland Way is my favourite. Like a good lover, it is gentle and forgiving and undemanding, whilst simultaneously providing access to the goodies. And like all the best partners, I've got it all to myself. Bet she’s a tart in summer, but in the grey morning rain it was just me and the trail, nuzzling each other in unspeakable ways.

After an enforced late start, waiting for the drab processed breakfast at the Drovers Inn, the day began inauspiciously in the wet gloom. Walking up hills through a film of rain is not much fun, especially when the clouds are so low that they obscure the view, but when the sun slowly started to emerge to display the mountains all around I began to forget the dampness and simply marvelled at the expansiveness of it all. If I’d ever dreamt of Scotland, this is the Scotland of my dreams.

And the West Highland Way simply slides straight through it, dipping up and down, but never forcing a strenuous diversion into peril. It largely follows the old military road that was built to allow rapid movements of troops and supplies to squash the pesky local uprisings that threatened the influx of taxes, and as such it follows the contours of the hills, bending around rather than over, and for a walker it is a delight.

As is the Real Food Café in Tyndrum, which arrived at my feet for a timely lunchtime munch. If the pull of the hills wasn’t so strong I could’ve spent the afternoon working my way through the menu, which combines the rare feat of being both ethically sound and amazingly tasty. I loved the atmosphere. I loved the sausage roll and chip butty. I loved the community spirit. I had to go.

Through the rain and the rainbows, in the shadow of the magnificent Ben Dorain, along the military road down to Bridge of Orchy and then up and over the steep Mam Carraigh to reveal the shapely Loch Tulla and the isolated Inveroran Hotel, one of only three buildings in Inveroran itself. A perfect place for a romantic getaway, but I was alone, with just the memory of the special times I’d shared with the path and the prospect of more to come tomorrow.

Song of the day:

Nancy Priddy
“Feelings”

Feelings /
Are washing over me like summer rain /
I feel as if I’m being born again /
Alive and warm and free /
The way that I was meant to be

Day 47 : Drymen to Inverarnen

2007-03-10T07:22:00.000Z

Friday 2nd March 2007

Distance Walked: 24.7 miles
Start Time: 7:51
End Time: 17:26
Elapsed Time: 9:35
Weather: Atmospheric. Then very wet.
Distance walked so far: 868 miles

Loch Lomond has the largest surface area of any body of fresh water in the country, and today I walked its entire length, transfixed by the moody beauty of it all. The waters were still, the clouds slowly drifting across the peaks, and the grey morning light reflecting on the surface like a seductive mirror. This is a special place.

From the tiny harbour town of Balmaha, the Way attempts to hug the shoreline as it winds northwestwards. It largely fails in this pursuit, forced onto the road that leads towards Rowardennan, or settling for tracks through the wooded lands that sit by the water, but occasionally the path emerges on the very edge of the loch itself, at deserted stony beaches where the gnarly trees protrude from the water in sinister ways. Somewhere up above is Ben Lomond, the southernmost of the munros (the peaks above 3000ft that denote mountain status), but the overhanging fir trees prevent any view of it. It's the sporadic glimpses of water that dominate, each new vista exposing another delight as another island becomes visible or a brief burst of sunshine changes the greys to greens and browns. It’s splendid stuff, each new image inviting admiration and calm reflection.

But I had many miles to cover, for again my ambitions were threatening to cripple me. Passing through the logical stopping points of Rowardennan and Inversnaid, with their inviting but bland hotels, I pressed on. The literature says that the section of the way between Inversnaid and Inverarnen is the most difficult of the entire West Highland Way, scrambling sharply over rocks, roots and roughage, so of course, at that point, the rain began to fall to add an extra dimension to the challenge. It was certainly hard going, the prospect of slipping into the water never far from reality, but somehow both a snapped ankle and soaked arse was avoided. If you’re wondering what the perfect soundtrack for such an activity might be, try the soundtrack to “Shaun Of The Dead”. It worked for me and, as the last dregs of light faded along with the signals on the GPS and mobile, the clouds rolled in and I finally reached the point where the huge expanse of water narrows, almost inconceivably, to a minor river.

Once again, I hadn’t booked ahead for a place to stay, so all day there was the nagging concern that I was heading towards disaster but, though the facilities at Beinglas were closed, a treat was in store across the bridge in Inverarnen. The Drovers Inn claims that it’s not a Scottish theme pub. If so, this is what all theme pubs aspire to, for it’s a wonderfully evocative place. Three hundred years of history accumulating in the wonky rooms, held together with spittle and dust. The roaring fires in the wooded bar encourage celtic cavorting, as do the kilted barstaff, though they’re actually from the southern hemisphere and slightly tetchy.

They provide me with shelter, though, and a thoroughly decent feed, before I retreat upstairs as the bar band begins to twang the life from a dozen Americana classics. In the rickety bedroom there’s a rickety bedside cabinet, with a Gideon’s Bible stashed within. Inside the front cover somebody has scribbled, “All the best, God”. Unfortunately, that somebody was me.

Song of the day:

Richard Ashcroft
“Check the Meaning”

When I'm low, and I'm weak, and I'm lost
I don't know who I can trust
Paranoia, the destroyer, comes knocking on my door
You know the pain drifts to days, turns to nights
But it slowly will subside
And when it does, I take a step, I take a breath
And wonder what I'll find

Day 46 : Twechar to Drymen

2007-03-09T18:29:00.000Z

Thursday 1st March 2007

Distance Walked: 23.4 miles
Start Time: 9:06
End Time: 17:04
Elapsed Time: 7:58
Weather: Sunny after morning gloom
Distance walked so far: 891 miles

Last night’s scramble for food resulted in a dubious feast of Babybel, Pepperami, Guiness and crisps. To compensate, the morning breakfast is so bounteous that it completely covers two plates, with waves of toast to sweep me back out onto the towpath and along the few miles to Kirkintilloch, from where I escape the pull of the Glasgow suburbs and head north along the reformatted railway line towards the evocative profile of the Campsie Fells.

It’s such a relief to be away from the canal that even the myriad of mishaps that befall me cannot douse my spirits. The housing developments in Lennoxtown that block the path and cause me to wander for a mile in the wrong direction. The soggy, overgrown path from Strathblane that I use as a shortcut but which attempts to suck the boots from my feet. And finally reaching the West Highland Way, doing a little dance, and then realising that I’d dropped my hat half a mile back down the squidgey path and having to squelch my way back to get it.

Still, the West Highland Way is a veritable highway, slicing a flat, easy passage towards the beckoning hills. In the distance the snowy peaks glisten in the rare afternoon sun, and it’s a wonderful moment to realise that maybe it was the right decision to head west from the capital after all. As the last hill of the day is conquered, the huge expanse of Loch Lomond is revealed, and it is magnificent.

The village at the entrance to the loch, Drymen, is home to the oldest pub in Scotland and, for a night, it’s home to me too. The Clachan Inn doesn’t trade on its status, which is a refreshing change after the Edinburgh experience, and I’m able to enjoy a quiet evening admiring the fantastic hairstyles and beards of the Greenpeace crew sitting conscientiously in the corner of the bar as I hack my way through the biggest chunk of lamb I’ve ever seen. Some battles are definitely worth fighting.

Song of the day:

Iron & Wine
“Each coming night”

Will you say to me /
When I’m gone /
Your face is faded /
But lingers on /
Cos light strikes a deal /
With each coming night

Day 45 : Linlithgow to Twechar

2007-03-08T08:22:00.000Z

Wednesday 28th February 2007

Distance Walked: 24.7 miles
Start Time: 8:47
End Time: 16:57
Elapsed Time: 8:10
Weather: Strong wind. Driving rain. Pretty shitty really.
Distance walked so far: 868.1 miles

In Edinburgh Castle it’s possible to visit the room where Mary Queen of Scots gave birth to her son, the future James I. In Linlithgow are the remains of the castle in which Mary herself was born. I was born on the bathroom floor of a terrace house in Blackburn. It’s not currently a tourist attraction.

I follow the Union Canal out of Linlithgow fearing the worst, for today the wind pummels the face, with the rain crashing down with it. It’s not a high point of the Walk. The canal lacks the infrastructure that you might expect from a potential tourist mecca. No pubs are provided. Just pain, puddles and poo (dog’s, not mine). I sink into myself.

Having crossed the Avon Aqueduct, the second biggest in Britain but impossible to appreciate from the narrow path above, the canal ploughs on towards the dismal environs of Falkirk. Here the grimy houses and foreboding prisons are briefly obscured from view as the waterway plunges for nearly half a mile through a dark tunnel, dug purely so that the land owner at the time would not have to view the passage whilst eating his breakfast.

In its operational days, the canal used to terminate in a series of locks, dropping the boats down to join the Forth & Clyde Canal, before proceeding towards Glasgow. As part of the regeneration of the waterway, the locks have been replaced by a shiny modern marvel, the Falkirk Wheel, an S-shaped device which ingeniously rotates to raise and lower boats from one canal to another. In the Visitor Centre I learn that it is so efficiently engineered that it is powered by a toaster, or something. Today there’s more demand for toast than for boat lifting, and the foreign, elderly and work-shy visitors sit forlornly in the café, wondering what became of themselves and their lives.

Though the canal is different, the second half of the day is an equally vapid experience. The downpours intensify and, by the time I reach Kilsyth, I’m in no mood for the kind of town I’m faced with. Leaving the towpath, I get half-way towards the town centre before determining that I’d rather sleep in my own arse than stay there a minute longer. Dusk is descending, the feet are complaining and it’s five miles to the next major town, Kirkintilloch, but thankfully I happen upon a B&B only a couple of miles down the path at Twechar where, though there are no places to eat and I’m the only customer in the pub, I manage to dry off and inspect the new blister which has formed on top of yeterday’s, like a sixth toe. Stabbing it with the scissors, I swathe my pains in Savlon and look to the hills, for the Highlands are almost within reach.

Song of the day:

Johnny Cash
“Hurt”

I hurt myself today /
To see if I still feel /
I focus on the pain /
It’s the only thing that’s real

Day 44 : Edinburgh to Linlithgow

2007-03-05T20:43:00.000Z

Tuesday 27th February 2007

Distance Walked: 22.9 miles
Start Time: 9:34
End Time: 17:20
Elapsed Time: 7:46
Weather: Wet and windy
Distance walked so far: 843 miles

“There’s a reason why there’s so much water in the lochs over there, y’know” the landlady says, as she belays the morning sausage.
“Oh. Why’s that?”
“Because it never stops raining. Aye, reckon you’re in for a drenching.”
"…"
“Toast?”
……….

The price for walking all the way into Edinburgh is that I have to walk all the way out of it again, but thankfully the suburbs to the west are more scenic and hospitable than the southern passage and, though the rain is heavy, I have a luxurious supply of Jelly Babies to see me through the hard times. As the grim flats and warehouse outlets merge with the ring road and motorway junction, I slide down to the Union Canal which I’ll follow for the next day or so as it slithers towards Falkirk.

This is another path that has apparently benefited from recent investment and the walking is certainly easy but, christ, it’s dull. The project to regenerate the canal may have opened up the area to pleasure seekers, but there’s not much pleasure to be had. It’s drab, litter-strewn and brown. Not a sign of boats, cyclists or walkers. Even the sporadic wildlife looks depressed.

I tip-toe through the turds as the rain relentlessly falls. The Union Canal is famed for being at a single level for its entire length, winding around the hills and avoiding the possibility of interesting scenery or shelter from the elements. Walking along it in the rain and wind is a thoroughly miserable experience, and I’m left hoping that the decision not to go directly north from Edinburgh wasn’t a catastrophic mistake.

Even the bizarre highlights of the day, the huge slag heaps of rubble near Broxburn that stand like Ayers Rock above the grey, concrete estates, don’t elevate the walking above the mundane. At least, when the huge deluge arrives, I discover that the sexy coat is actually waterproof after all and that the moisture that had been gathering inside whilst walking the hills was purely internally generated.

But the coat doesn’t protect the feet, and the combination of leaking boots, driving rain and unforgiving towpath has resulted in bruising and an interesting blister beside the left big toe which I probe thoroughly once ensconced in the safety of the Star & Garter Hotel in the slim town on Linlithgow. With another day of pounding canal walking in store, I resign myself to the prospect of another stretch of struggle and strain.

Song of the day:

Shelagh McDonald
“Waiting for the wind to rise”

There used to be a time /
When I knew where I was /
And people would say to me “Are you crazy?” /
And I’d laugh at that /
There was no doubts, no complications /
Life was a game of situations /
For me to play, from day to day

Day 43 : Edinburgh (Rest Day)

2007-03-04T19:56:00.000Z

Monday 26th February 2007

Distance Walked: 0 miles
Start Time: n/a
End Time: n/a
Elapsed Time: n/a
Weather: Cold but bright
Distance walked so far: 820 miles

Today I’m a tourist. Strolling into the centre with the morning workers, the options for entertainment are astonishing. It’s believed that civilisation began when men first developed the ability to grow and harvest their own food. Freed from the constant cycle of hunting and scavenging, different pursuits became possible. The concept of the job was born, and with it the city, where the workers could gain access to the food that was provided for them. Money was created to determine the value of exchanged products, and with it was created the pursuit of money itself. Into the cities flooded every perversion and decadence. Whatever you desired, you could acquire.

Cities offer choice. It’s all here. And it’s overwhelming. I ride the tour bus and whip through the castle. This may be history, but it's not my history. The struggle of the rich and the royal is as relevant to me as the preening of celebrities. The tokens of Scottish power, The Honours, glitter and shine and are fiercely protected but are simply ridiculous symbols of supposed superiority. People are slave to symbols. Beware the dangers of the logo! There are tokens of wars, and statues to men (always men) long dead who mean nothing now. What did Walter Scott actually do to warrant such a huge memorial? There seem to be more monuments to Waterloo than any other event other than the World Wars.

Holidays are stressful. The pressure to make the most of the time available becomes too much. There’s always something else that could be done. What if it’s better, more fun, than the current activity? Life drips away. I give up, and sit in the café of the beautiful sunlit foyer of the Royal Museum and watch the people as they wander through. It’s more interesting than any exhibit. And more relevant. I’m tired of the Walk and long for normality.

Back in the B&B, having carried a puncture repair kit ever since the overtrousers were ripped on Bodmin Moor, I try to plug the hole in the left boot with superglue and positive thoughts, but only succeed in fusing the sole to the shower tray. I persist with the notion that it’s only proper that the boots I embarked with will carry me to the top, and am loath to contemplate replacing them. Of greater concern is the left shoulder which, even after a day without the pack, aches with every slightest movement. Motionless, I plan for the future.

The logical route northwards from Edinburgh would be to cross the Forth Bridge and head through the Cairngorns directly to Inverness. Perversely, I’m heading west, adding days to the journey, but in search of drama. For west are the mountains and the lochs and the monsters. The Scotland of myths and legends and romance. The heart swells as the allure of the city fades.

Song of the day:

Don Cooper
“A Better Way”

It’s a job just livin’ in the city /
Tough breaks the only pay /
I spent many a year /
And too many tears /
Now it’s time to stop and say /
Surely there’s a better way /
Tomorrow looks as bad as yesterday

Day 42 : Peebles to Edinburgh

2007-03-04T06:47:00.000Z

Sunday 25th February 2007

Distance Walked: 21.9 miles
Start Time: 9:04
End Time: 16:01
Elapsed Time: 6:57
Weather: Sopping wet
Distance walked so far: 820 miles

Weekly Audio Update: Dave on The Steve Show - Day 42

There’s a shop in Peebles that sells outdoor gear and, being in a bit of an outdoorsy mode at the moment, I popped in last night to look at all the kinds of things that I could be carrying, but aren’t. As I’ve progressed through this walk I’ve gradually become aware of the huge industry that is propped on man’s simple desire to experience nature from the comfort and safety of a Gore-Tex encased world. Yes, to a degree, I’m one of these people (there’s no doubting that I wouldn’t have got this far without my little black friend the GPS, or my light bouncy boots, or sleek sexy coat) but it seems that some are so obsessed with the gadgets and the gear that they forget that the intrinsic essence of a walk is the walking itself, and it’s slowly dawning on me that I’m pretty good at it, which is a pleasant surprise. As is the reaction of the woman in the shop when I tell her where I’m heading.

“Oh, you’re the first of the year!” she says “We always get them in, but never this early”

I’m beginning to wonder if my winter Walk is unique, though I seriously doubt that there’s much in this field that hasn’t been done before. Apart, maybe, from walking straight from Peebles to Edinburgh in the most direct, Northerly route possible. Rather than spend two days winding around the Pentland Hills before finally reaching the capital, my plan today involved a voyage into the unknown, initially along the remains of a disused railway line that seemed to allow access, though the legality of the passage was vague, particularly when hopping through a variety of back gardens and leaping over imposing fences. Finally forced onto the thundering, verge-less A703 by heavy industry, it was car-dodging mode for a few miles as the rain increased and my mood darkened.

From Leadburn, thankfully, a pavement, and though the ten miles of suburbs seemed to go on for ever, finally I was there. Edinburgh. Edinburgh!

Washed and polished I slipped out into the city night. And it was a marvel. Deprivation certainly heightens the senses and tonight everything tingled. The lights, the sounds, the atmosphere. I loved it all. Edinburgh is a beautiful city, but it was the overwhelming noise and vibrancy that moved me. The sheer energy of the place. I sucked it in. I’m going to need it.

Song of the day:

Van Morrison
“The way young lovers do”

And we’ll sit on our own star /
And dream of the way that we were /
And the way that we wanted to be /
We’ll sit on our own star /
And think of the way that I was for you /
And you were for me

Day 41 : Melrose to Peebles

2007-03-04T06:45:00.000Z

Saturday 24th February 2007

Distance Walked: 24.5 miles
Start Time: 9:03
End Time: 16:29
Elapsed Time: 7:26
Weather: Gloomy. Damp clouds on hills.
Distance walked so far: 798.6 miles

The suburbs of Melrose are strewn along the banks of the River Tweed and, walking west along the cycle paths, I bisect the industrial estates that lead towards the housing projects on the outskirts of Galashiels. These are not the places that tourists and walkers are encouraged to see. Poverty doesn’t really exist in Britain (even the high-rise council flats are peppered with satellite dishes) but this is a grim contrast to the rural idyll of the pamphlets. It’s refreshingly normal.

There are many miles to cover today, and I approach them with foreboding. The Pennine Way has scorched itself into my head to the extent that I contemplate a stupidly long, winding route in order to avoid the high places that I now associate with tortuous progress and potential disaster, but I put my faith in Scotland and Scotland does not let me down.

The Southern Upland Way is fantastic; safe yet exciting. It’s a steep climb up Cribs Hill but, having overtaken the wobbling bikers, the gradually rising path towards the forested and cloudy Minch Moor is a delight. No danger of disappearing here. The pockets of rain clouds sweep amongst the fir trees, but the downpours are so brief that I barely notice. The shapely hills elevate the forest above those on the English side of the border, and the view of Innerleithen on the descent is almost Alpine in its sheer prettiness. I drop down to the village of Traquair, famed for its beer and royal connections (apparently), and then it’s a long, long couple of hours on the winding B-road that eventually leads to Peebles, where a cute girl with big eyes let’s me stay in her hotel for the night, for a fee. Bargain.

Song of the day:

Emmitt Rodes
“Blue Horizon”

I’m not excited and I’m not enthused /
I’m disillusioned and so confused /
Ask your questions, I hope you’ll try /
I feel no judgement, I’ll answer with a smile /

Day 40 : Jedburgh to Melrose

2007-03-01T21:52:00.000Z

Friday 23rd February 2007

Distance Walked: 15.6 miles
Start Time: 9:35
End Time: 15:05
Elapsed Time: 5:30
Weather: Gloomy. Bright. Gloomy again.
Distance walked so far: 774.1 miles

Without the wooden hoardings and the running and the screaming and the fear, Jedburgh is actually a very picturesque town, centred around its large ruined abbey, and with an attractive collection of colourful buildings. I’d been looking for something uniquely Scottish with which to justify the clichés that have accumulated in my head but, apart from the haggis on the breakfast menu (which is actually delicious) and the change of bank notes, I’ve so far been disappointed. The only ludicrous ginger beard in sight is mine, and I gently escort it out of town as we take the back roads before linking up with the St Cuthbert’s Way at the River Teviot.

This long distance path runs all the way from Melrose to the coast (and beyond), linking the churches and abbeys that were apparently blessed with the holy guy’s presence and, though I don’t follow it religiously (ha!), the trip along today’s section was overwhelmingly positive. After the horrors of the Pennine Way's paths and markers, Cuthbert is comforting and reassuring. A real saint.

From the snowdrop-infused tracks by the river, to the long, straight and easy jaunt along Dere Street, and then the scoot through the villages by the River Tweed, it’s all pleasant and straightforward. Again, there’s nothing obviously Scottish about the experience. If anything, it feels like the Dales but, with the rain holding off, it’s a chance to recuperate and advance. A few miles are carved off the day by walking around, rather than over, the imposing Eildon Hills, and I’m into the small, historic midst of Melrose in time for afternoon cakes and evening beers. Sweet.

Song of the day:

Hayden
“Dynamite Walls”

Miles away or just up ahead.
It doesn't matter what /
Any of us is looking for.
We'll never find it, because /
It's not even there.

Day 39 : Byrness to Jedburgh

2007-03-01T20:30:00.000Z

Thursday 22nd February 2007

Distance Walked: 20.7 miles
Start Time: 9:07
End Time: 16:13
Elapsed Time: 7:06
Weather: Wet.
Distance walked so far: 758.5 miles

The nights of sporadic sleep continue. Weeks of strange beds have taken their toll and, despite the effort exerted daily, I’m up at six and strapping myself into the contraptions that will convert this skinny, ravaged shell into an unstoppable limping machine. It’s quite an operation, but it’s strangely reassuring to pull on the supports and apply the gels. We are creatures of routine, and this is mine.

The rain had been crashing down all night and there are rivers forming in the streets as I squelch up the path through the forest that leads to Byrness Hill. The Pennine Way has one more treat in store, for up here I’m enveloped by cloud and sucked again into the earth. It’s hard to quell the resentment that forms. How irresponsible of them to suggest that people could walk here! Don’t the fools know how dangerous it is?

But I’m the fool and this is my punishment and, as I extract my feet from the mire and slowly prance over yet another bog, I adopt my most stoical posture and plunge pathetically on. It’s not entirely clear at what point I first cross into Scotland, there was no obvious fanfare at least, but for me the celebrations begin when I leave the Pennine Way for the final time, flop over a fence, and follow the scarcely discernible remnants of Dere Street, the old Roman road that should sporadically take me straight to Jedburgh.

The party in my pants soon fades. If this is Scotland, it’s as wet and bleak and miserable as anything that England had mustered. The historic, but soggy, delights of Dere Street soon fade and, heading for the safety of the tarmac lanes, it’s a long damp trudge into Jedburgh, a town which, when I arrive is, strangely, at war with itself. Shop windows in the high street are boarded and rain soaked youths are splattered across the streets. People are running wild. Screams reverberate. It’s carnage. The horror, the horror.

At the B&B I’m reassured that I’ve simply stumbled upon the town’s ancient, annual street-football game, one of those peculiar British traditions that defies reason or interpretation, and whilst I’m apparently permitted to side with either the Uppies or Doonies and join in, I instead opt for a traditional Scottish curry and an early night. I’ve got enough to worry about at the moment without the prospect of a marauding Scotsman pounding my head into the road for mishandling his misshapen leathery ball. I may be a fool, but I’m not stupid.

Song of the day:

Sufjan Stevens
“They Are Night Zombies!! They Are Neighbors!! They Have Come Back From the Dead!! Ahhhh!”

I know, I know my time has passed /
I'm not so young, I'm not so fast /
I tremble with the nervous thought /
Of having been, at last, forgot

Day 38 : Bellingham to Byrness

2007-02-27T08:29:00.000Z

Wednesday 21st February 2007

Distance Walked: 16.6 miles
Start Time: 8:32
End Time: 14:24
Elapsed Time: 5:51
Weather: Foggy, then bright. Drizzle later.
Distance walked so far: 737.8 miles

Alfred Wainwright, the great overlord of British walking, believed that the Pennine Way should end at Hadrian’s Wall, and he was right. Instead it continues for fifty dreary miles until it nudges over the Scottish border and, if it didn’t, it’s almost certain that no one would choose to walk here. It is devoid of features and imagination.

My morning mood lifted with the fog and, as the light burned through to reveal the views below, I was admiring the way the bright morning sun toyed with the low drifting cloud on the hills and the horizon. Oh, how pretty, they’re drifting this way. Oh, I can’t see anything. Oh, I’m walking through marshland. The path is submerged. I’m sinking. My feet are wet. Bugger.

Walking is all about adapting plans to suit the conditions and my condition was that I was sick of the slow trudge through swamps. A detour down to the road from Abbey Rig and a few hasty minutes of replanning, and I was stomping along the lanes and tracks, free from the wetness and free from the Way. Not only was it liberating but it actually made sense, which for me was quite an achievement. Here the walking was smooth and easy, and led directly into the fringes of Kielder Forest, the huge, soulless expanse of firs, where the Pennine Way sheepishly rejoins me.

Kielder is manmade, and it shows. There's a lack of life and character, and the miles go by slowly. Finally I emerge onto a road through the trees. This is Byrness, a place that barely exists. If Wainwright had had his way there may be nothing here at all. Now there is a petrol station, a youth hostel, a hotel and the “First & Last Café in England”. I nip inside for a slow nibble of a chicken pie whilst the rain begins to fall outside, then head up to the Byrness Hotel where I’m initially greeted with desolation before eventually locating the entrance and being assaulted by three of the loudest, yappiest dogs you’ll ever see.

The standard of B&Bs varies greatly, but this feels mostly like someone’s house and my unwelcome presence is tolerated in small measures. I retreat to my room and think of Scotland, for tomorrow I will have walked through an entire country and will begin the assault on a second.

Song of the day:

The Shins
“New Slang”

I'm looking in on the good life /
I might be doomed never to find /
Without a trust or flaming fields /
Am I too dumb to refine?

Day 37 : Haltwhistle to Bellingham

2007-02-26T20:12:00.000Z

Tuesday 20th February 2007

Distance Walked: 19.6 miles
Start Time: 9:04
End Time: 16:06
Elapsed Time: 7:02
Weather: Overcast but dry
Distance walked so far: 721.2 miles

I’m not carrying all my sins on my back but each day the bag seems to get heavier and the first hill of the day is always the steepest. Thankfully today’s hill takes me away from Haltwhistle and towards the final frontier, for here is the snaking expanse of Hadrian’s Wall, the most visible sign of the Roman occupation of these lands and the indication that my days of English walking are almost at an end.

The Pennine Way follows the line of the Wall for a few miles, and so do I, and the initial joy of such a unique experience is soon diluted by the huge, and wasteful, effort required to get through it. The wall leaps steeply up and down the hillocks that span the country and walking it is similar to the coast path in Cornwall, without the benefit of the reward of a view at every peak, for on each of these crests there is just another bit of wall and yet more desolate fields on either side. A long distance path follows the wall from coast to coast, and a more depressing, unrewarding walk it’s difficult to imagine. This is truly the domain of the masochist.

Leaving the crumbling edifice near Milecastle 37 it soon becomes apparent why the Wall was plonked where it is, for immediately beyond there is virtually no territory worth claiming. Shitty fields and shitty bogs and soulless woodland. What a tragic waste of an afternoon. Through unkempt farms and unkind forests. Depressed animals and depressing weather. There’s definitely a small leak, somewhere, in my left boot, and my sodden sock is as damp as my spirits by the time I arrive in Bellingham, a remote town which lacks network coverage, street lights and options for evening meals. I eat, where I sleep, in the Cheviot Hotel, with its basic facilities but friendly owners, and mingle with the travelling builders, salesmen and bomb disposers as we watch the broadcast of sporting events occurring somewhere out there, in the real world.

Song of the day:

Aretha Franklin
“This Bitter Earth”

This bitter earth, can it be so cold /
Today you're young, too soon you're old /
But while a voice within me cries /
I'm sure someone may answer my call /
And this bitter earth may not be so bitter after all

Day 36 : Alston to Haltwhistle

2007-02-26T16:25:00.000Z

Monday 19th February 2007

Distance Walked: 14.1 miles
Start Time: 8:54
End Time: 13:49
Elapsed Time: 4:55
Weather: Overcast but dry
Distance walked so far: 701.6 miles

The beard, such as it is, remains. I’m hoping it may become a conversation piece, a modern day curio, a mechanism with which to integrate with the locals and to initiate sympathy when required. I am afflicted. A freak. It is my curse. My Merrick’s trunk. I name it Dufus, though tell no one of this.

The regulars at the bar of the Cumberland Hotel are clearly accustomed to stranger things though, and their brief acknowledgements of my presence mainly revolve around the fact that I’d best be taking the path along the old railway line if I’m heading northwards. Spent millions on it, they have. Millions. This fact is related with such passion that it’s clear that each and every one of them believes that those millions would have been rightly theirs if only the blasted path hadn’t existed. Damn the path. Damn it to hell.

For me, however, the path is a godsend. Following the route of what used to be the highest single-gauge railway in the country, the South Tyne Trail runs virtually parallel to the Pennine Way, but has the benefits of being flat, level and relatively straight. And though there is still a notion of a working tourist railway for the few miles to Kirkhaugh, the rails were under repair when I set off so I was safe in the knowledge that I would not be mown down when, like a wandering vagabond, I strode down the tracks whistling “The Littlest Hobo” and failing to invoke the spirit of some dustbowl-era drifter.

After Kirkhaugh, the railway line disappears, replaced by a succession of comforting surfaces. It’s a day without incidence and, apart from the trip under and along the Lambley Viaduct, almost devoid of highlights. It’s such a relief, though, to have easy day of walking, with no concerns about navigation or weather, that I find it all rather enjoyable, and hardly notice that, when I reach Haltwhistle, my destination is one of the gloomiest and sinister places I’ve yet encountered.

Haltwhistle proclaims itself as the geographical centre of Britain which, for someone who has just walked from one of the furthest corners of the country, has a certain appeal. The claim is based on maths and angles but, with my inherent distrust of geometry, I spend little time attempting to fathom it. I’m aware of other towns with similar claims, though I doubt any are as forceful in their proclamations, for Haltwhistle uses the mixed media assault of signposts, hoardings and bunting, all shouting the message that “This is the Centre of Britain”. This is reinforced by the Centre of Britain Hotel, Centre of Britain Launderette and Centre of Britain Fish & Chip Shop. Get the picture?

It’s hard to imagine a more unlikely town around which the rest of the country would revolve. Haltwhistle is odd. It feels like an outpost and, for the first time, I’m moving out of my comfort zone. I live in the Midlands. I was born in the North. Whilst there have been many areas that I have visited on this walk for the first time in my life, I had always been heading towards the familiar. Now I’m walking away from everything I know, and it’s beginning to feel like a real adventure.

Song of the day:

The The
“Lonely Planet”

I’m in love with this planet I’m standing on /
I can’t stop, can’t stop thinking of /
All the people I’ve ever loved /
All the people I have lost /
All the people I’ll never know /
All the feelings I’ve never shown /
The world’s too big and life’s too short /
The world’s too big and life’s too short /
The world’s too big and life’s too short /
To be alone…to be alone

Day 35 : Langdon Beck to Alston

2007-02-23T18:57:00.000Z

Sunday 18th February 2007

Distance Walked: 16.7 miles
Start Time: 9:13
End Time: 14:17
Elapsed Time: 5:04
Weather: Perfect
Distance walked so far: 687.5 miles

The resistance starts here. From Langdon Beck the Pennine Way veers South West to encompass the delights of High Cup Nick, Dufton and Cross Fell, the highest point on the way itself. Though these are amongst the acknowledged highlights of the whole trek, the two days of intense walking in the wrong direction do not sit well with my ultimate goal, or with me, so instead I spend an enjoyable morning on the quiet lanes and tracks that skirt Cow Green Reservoir, heading directly for Alston, thus saving myself an extra days walking, and my legs from some unnecessary hills.

Alston claims to be the highest market town in England and, under today’s clear skies, it certainly feels like I’m walking in pure, mountain air. It’s liberating, too, to be free from the shackles of the Pennine Way, and safe from the moors that beckon on either side of the trail. Having scooted along the B6277, I drop down the valley and finally rejoin the Way at Garrigill from where it’s an easy few miles along the river to the “Pennine crossroads” of Alston.

This is clearly a popular place in season, with an astonishing number of pubs offering sustenance and accommodation. But it’s very much a stopping-off point. This is the heart of the Pennines, and from here it’s onwards into the remoteness of Northumberland and the Scottish border.

Song of the day:

Electric Light Orchestra
“Mr Blue Sky”

Sun is shinin’ in the sky /
There ain’t a cloud in sight /
It’s stopped rainin’ /
Everybody’s in a play /
And don’t you know /
It’s a beautiful new day

Day 34 : Bowes to Langdon Beck

2007-02-23T07:42:00.000Z

Saturday 17th February 2007

Distance Walked: 22.6 miles
Start Time: 9:12
End Time: 17:12
Elapsed Time: 8:00
Weather: Overcast, then sunny.
Distance walked so far: 670.8 miles

It’s the spaces inbetween that are the most testing, the places that no one would normally choose to go. These are the places where there is nothing to see, where the paths unravel, the signs vanish, and the frustrations mount. The places that are plunged through, head down, until the reward of a new splendour appears. The curse of the Long Distance Walker is that the splendours can go by so briefly that the days become consumed with spaces. Sometimes these spaces inbetween go on for days. Today, it was only for a morning but the contrast was sharp.

The land north of Bowes has long been a warzone. Passing the remains of the old castle, the road plunges uphill through the MOD warning signs (“If you touch anything, you will die”) and up onto the moor, where the path is submerged in the marshland, and the walking is hard and heavy going. Slipping on a moist wooden bridge, I scatter gadgets into the bog all around. Disaster! Which one to save first? Can I survive without the GPS? Is it worth surviving without music, or photos?

Perversely, I pluck the iPod from the peat first and, satisfied that my priorities have been established, I slosh through the fields beyond the Grassholme Reservoir and down into the neat town of Middleton-in-Teesdale by lunchtime. Just when I’m thoroughly sick of the Pennine Way, it produces a delight, for the afternoon’s stroll along the River Tees from Middleton is an absolute beauty. It’s been surprising just how little I’ve seen of other walkers on the Walk but this is just about the most populated path I’ve seen so far, and rightly so. On a sunny Saturday afternoon, meandering west with the river through the fields and woods, with the fells of Upper Teesdale looming above, it’s a wonderful way to pass the time.

And the splendour, the reward after walking through all that space inbetween, is High Force, the dramatically named waterfall which is neither the biggest nor the highest in the country, but is hugely impressive nonetheless. The peaty brown water thunders over the edge, like bad beer, and is photographed from all angles by the weekend walkers.

“Can you take my photo, please” I ask of one. “I’ve walked here from Cornwall”
“No problem, mate” he says “I’ve walked here from the car park”

As always, I can’t linger long. Continuing onwards upstream along the path, suddenly I’m alone again. Back into space. As the sun sets, I arrive at Langdon Beck, which seems to consist of a road junction and a pub, and am met by the Support Crew who ferries us back to the comfort of Middleton. The morning fall has resulted in a worryingly stiff hip, and the increasing discomfort of the left shoulder is becoming a concern. Slowly, I unravel.

Song of the day:

Delaney & Bonnie
“Only you know and I know”

Only you know and I know
All the love we've got to show
So don't refuse to believe it
By reading too many meanings
'Cause you know that I mean what I say,
So don't go and take me the wrong way.
You know you can't go on getting your own way,
'Cause if you do, it's going to get you someday

Day 33 : Hawes to Bowes

2007-02-21T18:40:00.000Z

Friday 16th February 2007

Distance Walked: 25.7 miles
Start Time: 9:20
End Time: 18:03
Elapsed Time: 8:43
Weather: Wet
Distance walked so far: 648.2 miles

The days of slogging through the snow, ice and rain have taken their toll on my nose and throat. I hack phlegm and splutter snot into the sodden grass as I slide through the fields between Hawes and Hardraw where, behind the Green Dragon pub, for a small charge, it’s possible to gawp at the highest waterfall in the country. Having seen its mundane wonder before, however, I hit the hills and begin the long, relentless slog up to the flat misty peak of Great Shunner Fell, the highest point of the Walk so far. Again, the stone pavement through the bogs enables a safe and rapid passage, though the low clouds prevent the kind of views that would make this a worthwhile experience.

The Pennine Way continues to irritate. I naively assumed that not only would the walking be a constant delight, but also that the infrastructure would be in place to remove any worries about accommodation or navigation. Sadly, not. The signposts are sometimes useless or non-existant. The Youth Hostels are closed (“Open all year, except Oct-Mar” actually means “Open half the year”, doesn’t it!), and many of the B&Bs have shut down completely. Worst of all, the walking itself is often unrewarding. Yes, there are highlights, but the Way insists on plunging through every single marsh or shitty swamp on the map, meandering in the most perverse way so that not a single bog is omitted. I get the rage.

As the rain begins to fall, I pass through Thwaite and then follow the Way as it winds up and around Kisdon Hill on the rocky path to Keld. Even the moist view of Swaledale below, with the classic layout of walls and barns, doesn’t lighten my mood as, from Keld, I reach Stonesdale Moor, where all notions of a safe passage disappear. Maybe in a different season the ground would be springy and fun, but in a wet winter it’s tiresome and treacherous. To my dismay, my boots, which have been so faithful to this point, are starting to allow water to seep through and, allied to the drenching from above, I’m thoroughly bedraggled by the time I reach the safety of the Tan Hill Inn, the highest pub in England.

Though time and the light are against me, I stop for a symbolic pint, before beginning the assault on Sleightholme Moor. Unbelievably, it’s even more deadly than Stonesdale, and there are moments when it appears I’ll have to retreat, but the rage takes over and, making myself as light as possible by thinking happy thoughts and whistling Disney songs, I plough straight through it all. Then it’s a long, cold, wet stomp through tracks and fields to the small but comforting village of Bowes where, thankfully, the Ancient Unicorn pub provides fantastic food and warm, friendly beds. At the end of an exhausting day, as my clothes stew by the fire, I can ask for no more.

Song of the day:

Memphis Slim
“Mother Earth”

Don’t care how great you are /
Don’t care what you worth /
When it all ends up /
You got to go back to mother earth

Day 32 : Horton-in-Ribblesdale to Hawes

2007-02-21T15:52:00.000Z

Thursday 15th February 2007

Distance Walked: 13.6 miles
Start Time: 9:23
End Time: 14:02
Elapsed Time: 4:39
Weather: Very windy but dry.
Distance walked so far: 622.5 miles

I was drugged. Overdosed on the elements. High on the air, my mind lost to the light and the wind. That was no angel, just the Support Crew, back to lift flagging spirits. The night’s haven turned out to be the grotty Golden Lion Hotel, with its surly service, tiny rooms, plastic sheets and disturbing décor. The come-down was rapid and sobering.

There are only three things required for a good day’s walking: a consistent path, pleasant weather, and a view. Today provided none of these. For a start it was a gloomy day, and the hills and valleys which sparkled so brightly yesterday were deadened and dulled. But the real killer was the wind which blustered and blew, buffeting the bag and backside, making every step a lottery. Compounding this, the route largely followed stony, ankle-wrenching tracks and, despite my roars of frustration, progress was uncomfortably slow.

Thankfully it was a relatively short, uneventful walk and, once the climb up the flank of Dodd Fell had been accomplished, it was simply a case of picking a way through the remaining snow drifts on the top before descending sharply to the small, touristy town of Hawes. You can determine the popularity of a place from the size and quality of its Tourist Information Centre, and the TIC in Hawes is huge and shiny, with its own shop, museum and learning centre. On a cold day in February it’s largely deserted. I take my leaflets and slink off into another Yorkshire night.

Song of the day:

Brendan Benson
“What I’m Looking For”

Well I don’t know what I’m looking for /
But I know that I just want to look some more /
And I won’t be satisfied /
Till there’s nothing left that I haven’t tried /
For some people it’s an easy choice /
But for me there’s a devil with an angel’s voice /
Well I don’t know what I am looking for /
But I know that I just wanna look some more

Day 31 : Skipton to Horton-in-Ribblesdale

2007-02-18T21:40:00.000Z

Wednesday 14th February 2007

Distance Walked: 25.1 miles
Start Time: 8:49
End Time: 17:06
Elapsed Time: 8:17
Weather: Euphoric.
Distance walked so far: 608.9 miles

On a clear day you can see forever. Fashioning a route out of Skipton, through the conifers of Crag Wood and along the lanes to rejoin the Pennine Way at Airton, the Yorkshire Dales today were as vibrant and enticing as any scenery you could wish to encounter. This was a day for big skies and bright colours, for the bluest blues and greenest hues. And though the path by the river squelched with every step, it took me to Malham, through the rarity of mild crowds, and to the foot of Malham Cove, which loomed like a glacier, eating all in its path. The scale is astonishing and, indeed, this land was shaped by glaciers, with the Cove the remnant of a huge, ancient waterfall, and the limestone pavements on the plateau above carved by the weight of snow and ice that once sat here.

Through the stones I danced, down and around Malham Tarn, a limestone lake propped on the impervious rock below, and then a slog up the relentless Fountains Fell to reveal the first sight of Pen-y-ghent. This is why I walk. The effort is genuine. The experience is unique. The rewards are instant and unparalleled.

As the sun set, the peak, like a mighty ship ploughing through the land, shimmered and shone. How I yearned to climb it, but the night was coming and, for once, sense prevailed. Skirting the flanks, I headed for Horton and, descending from on high, I floated down into the arms of my angel. For a brief moment at least, all was well in the world.

Song of the day:

David Ackles
“Love’s Enough”

Cos everytime you fall in love /
That’s the one and only time /
It’s living through the final verse /
Of a one and lonely rhyme /
Cos you know this one will last forever /
And you turn and watch tomorrow drift away /
Cos tomorrow is forever /
And love’s enough for anyone today

Day 30 : Hebden Bridge to Skipton

2007-02-18T21:33:00.000Z

Tuesday 13th February 2007

Distance Walked: 24.6 miles
Start Time: 8:37
End Time: 17:06
Elapsed Time: 8:29
Weather: Gloomy but dry.
Distance walked so far: 583.8 miles

The road pulls steeply out of Hebden Bridge on the way up to Heptonstall. Here the houses huddle together, hugging the hillside, and as the sun cracks the glowering sky, the blackened town glistens in the valley below. In its way, it’s as beautiful as anything I’ve seen so far. As pretty as Bath. As inspirational as Dovedale. Following the road above Hardcastle Crags, I rejoin the Way to wander through yet more reservoirs before the higher ground and dark peat bogs again take over.

This is Bronte country, and out on the wild windy moor I encounter two Japanese women, taking photos of a small, ruined farmhouse.

“Excuse me”, says one “Where is Top Withens?”
“You’re standing in front of it”
“Oh. Really?” she says, disappointed. “And waterfall? Where is that? It’s very important”
“It’s down the valley, just follow the signs” I say, and leave them, clicking.

For indeed the signs here are uniquely in both English and Japanese. Quite why that nation have taken so strongly to these tales is hard to fathom for, if I recall, “Wuthering Heights” is the story of a murdering psychopath and one woman’s inexplicable love for him. Maybe there’s something in the expression of repressed unfulfilled passion that corresponds with the Japanese psyche, but it is as unrepresentative of Britain then as Bridget Jones, Notting Hill and Eastenders are now.

Free from snow and ice, and with good visibility, the walking over the moors is fun and easy going. I sing “Tiny Dancer” to the wind and eat my third Snickers of the day. In most places the winding stone pavement plots a safe passage through the perilous blackness beneath and I’m soon back into fields and into the fringes of the Yorkshire Dales. Standing on the hill above Lothersdale, I confidently phone ahead to the B&B there, only to find that they no longer provide that service. Oh well. I try the B&B in the next town on the route, Thornton-in-Craven, and get the same reply. Ah. And the place in East Marton is full. Bugger.

Time for some hasty replanning. When in doubt, head for the biggest town on the map, so I leave the Pennine Way and scurry north-east, through Carleton-in-Craven (where I’m forced to help with some furniture removal in return for useless directions), before reaching Skipton just before nightfall. Chancing upon a row a B&Bs, I pick the one with the least tawdry façade and spend the evening planning a route back towards the recommended destination. The Pennine Way doesn’t seem to be doing me any favours so far though, and the urge to abandon it is strong.

Song of the day:

Coldplay
“Don’t Panic”

Bones sinking like stones /
All that we've fought for /
All these places we've grown /
All of us are done for
And we live in a beautiful world /
Yeah we do, yeah we do /
We live in a beautiful world

Day 29 : Hebden Bridge (Day of Rest)

2007-02-18T21:27:00.000Z

Monday 12th February 2007

Distance Walked: 0 miles
Start Time: n/a
End Time: n/a
Elapsed Time: n/a
Weather: Gloomy and wet.
Distance walked so far: 559.2 miles

This is the story of a boy dissolving. With every step I’m ground away and dispersed. There is clarity now. I feel it. All that was superfluous is shod. The single purpose is all encompassing. I have one direction, and that is northwards, to the top. There has been struggle and moments of doubt. The past three days have been the most challenging of all, and today I rest in the home of my closest friend.

This is the chance to gather my breath and get my bearings. I purchase maps which will take me to Scotland. Supplies are replenished. The aches are tended but do not fade. My toes are numb. I don’t know whether this is good or not.

Whilst my face was turned, the beard appeared. It is as sporadic and unattractive as I suspected. I try to distance myself from it, and it from me. It is a separate entity. A companion, of sorts. For now its execution is delayed.

Song of the day:

Fairport Convention
“Who knows where the time goes”

Across the evening sky, all the birds are leaving
But how can they know it's time for them to go?
Before the winter fire, I will still be dreaming
I have no thought of time
For who knows where the time goes?
Who knows where the time goes?

Day 28 : Diggle to Hebden Bridge

2007-02-18T21:20:00.000Z

Sunday 11th February 2007

Distance Walked: 17.4 miles
Start Time: 8:58
End Time: 15:00
Elapsed Time: 6:02
Weather: Urgh. Cold wind, rain, sleet and fog. Bit brighter later, though.
Distance walked so far: 559.2 miles

Curse you Joss Ackland! Curse you!

Everything I know, I’ve learnt from TV. School taught me how to pass exams. University taught me not to bother. But television filled my head with real knowledge. Johnny Ball, Mrs McLuskey and Norris McWhirter were my teachers. And television first introduced me to the concept of the end-to-end walk when, sometime in the late eighties, it beamed the image of a fat, ageing man slogging up a dark hill in the rain in an ill-fitting blue cagoule into my pre-pubescent goggle-brain.

Ackland and the John O’Groats walk. Of course, he wasn’t actually doing it. He was using acting. All lies. But the concept was real, and it was the concept that stuck with me, embedded somewhere, until somehow it emerged and insistently forced me to comply. And it was the image of that bloody blue raincoat that dominated my thoughts as I plodded up the road from Diggle in the fog and rain this morning, reluctantly dragging myself back to the Pennine Way and the dreary snowy peaks of yesterday’s misadventure.

The night’s rain had cleared some of the larger drifts and, as opposed to the virgin vista of yesterday, at least there were occasional boot prints and even bike tracks that I was able to follow when the path was obscured. Indeed, out of the mists soon emerged a herd of mountain bikers whose progress in these conditions was embarrassingly slow, but nonetheless amusing. I wasn’t the only hopeless case up here after all.

Having crossed the narrow misty bridge that swings high above M62, the Way eventually descends to the Roman Road and finally, below the cloud level, the valleys came into view, the sun, unbelievably, emerged, and I began to feel almost human again. Walking through the country certainly provides plenty of time to appreciate how the land shapes our lives. We are subject to it. The towns and cities are rare, sporadic outposts in a vast sea of earth and grass. The power is in the hills. The pylons and wind turbines are the modern signs, but the energy here once flowed down the valleys, into the mills and factories of Manchester and Sheffield, Leeds, Blackburn and Halifax. Here industry flourished. The revolution. This is the real heart of England, the engine that drove the land. You can feel it still.

I pass the Stoodley Pike Monument, another cock planted on another hill, and drop down the Calder Valley into the increasingly aspirational town of Hebden Bridge, where organic shops and right-on thinkers mingle with the tourists, hippies and junkies. The mills and factories are now luxury apartments. The canals are watery playgrounds. In such small ways, we try to reshape the world.

Song of the day:

Cat Stevens
“Sitting”

Life is like a maze of doors /
And they all open on the side you’re on /
Just keep on pushing hard boy /
Try as you may /
You’re gonna wind up where you started from

Day 27 : Padfield to Diggle

2007-02-18T18:57:00.000Z

Saturday 10th February 2007

Distance Walked: 18 miles
Start Time: 7:45
End Time: 15:21
Elapsed Time: 7:36
Weather: Deep snow and zero visibility.
Distance walked so far: 541.8 miles

Holy fucking fuck! What an absolutely amazingly awful shit of a day. This was such an intensely miserable and shocking experience that at times I clutched it to my chest and tried to cherish every moment. This is what it’s like to be alive and in peril. For today I could have died.

I’d often thought it would be interesting if I could be a given a list, a top ten at least, of the moments when I had been closest to death. As far as I’m aware, I’ve been lucky. Death, particularly my own, is not something that has inconvenienced me, though maybe the list would indicate that I’ve had some narrow escapes that I was completely unaware of. The avoided crash. The bungling hitman. The antidoted allergy. I think today made it onto the list and, for now at least, it’s probably higher up there than I’d like to consider.

There’d clearly been another snowfall in the night but, as I trudged the miles back from Padfield to rejoin the Pennine Way, it was already turning to slush in the driving rain and my only real concern was the flapping wound in my overtrousers that I hadn’t quite got around to fixing. As I began to climb higher up Black Tor however the sleet was turning to snow, the dense clouds were moving in and the snow on the ground was above the boots. If there was a path it couldn’t be seen, and my feet were constantly sliding off the concealed rocks below the surface.

It was probably when I was crossing the ridge of Oaken Clough with the drifting snow, in places, above my knees that I began to worry. And when I reached the exposed upper ground it’s fair to say that panic was setting in. For this is a treacherous place even in the fairest weather. Huge grassy groughs with peat channels running between. In places a path has been marked out, with a snaking pavement to guide the adventurous walker. But, today, all was snow covered and virtually flat. The groughs were filled so that only a few grassy tufts remained, as I discovered when I strayed from the upper levels and sank up to my nuts in snow. Whilst this is certainly preferable to walking through bog, at least in a bog you have a chance of knowing where to aim for. Here nothing could be seen and, as I flattened myself to the snowy mounds and crawled onwards, the realization that I was lost and heading in the wrong direction crept upon my befuddled brain.

Oh.

Fuck.

The GPS saved me. With no landmarks against which to take a bearing, I desperately headed for the point where my pre-programmed route told me the path should be and, amazingly, after twenty leg-sapping minutes of floundering, there it was. Intermittent stone slabs and, beyond, the trig point at the top of Black Hill. With renewed hope I descended and, though there was stumbling and flailing, I finally dragged myself onto the tarmac of the lonely A635, as the infrequent cars sloshed by, indifferently.

From here the snow was less deadly and even though the trudge through the dull reservoirs of Wessenden seemed to go on for hours, I was giggling. I’d made it. Surely nothing would be as challenging, as fraught, as this, and I’d made it through. Maybe I could actually do this, after all. The boundaries between bravery and idiocy are hard to define, and very much depend on the end result of the action in question. History defines us. I’d been reckless, but prepared enough to survive. A brave idiot.

I slithered down the hill to Diggle (simply because I loved the name!) and, having found a B&B willing to take me in and dry my bedraggled belongings, I nestled in the bar of the Diggle Hotel and tried to pull myself together. There I read an article in a newspaper written by Paul Theroux in which he described the difference between holidays and travel. We go on holiday, he says, for fun. We travel, however, for experience. To learn more about different places and more about ourselves. Travel, he says, should never be fun.

Thanks for that Paul. I’m really travelling now.

Song of the day:

Tindersticks
“Can we start again?”

I’ve been wading through it /
Don’t you know it’s up to my neck /
And it won’t be long /
Till it’s over my head

Day 26 : Edale to Padfield

2007-02-16T08:28:00.000Z

Friday 9th February 2007

Distance Walked: 20.2 miles
Start Time: 7:35
End Time: 14:50
Elapsed Time: 7:15
Weather: Snow. Fog.
Distance walked so far: 523.8 miles

The classic first day of the Pennine Way starts with a gentle upward slog through the fields from Edale towards Upper Booth and the hills above. This is popular walking country, but again I was alone, and with just a light covering of snow on the ground I tracked up Jacob’s Ladder into the icy wind and dense mist on the top. This is the start of the North. The differentiation is difficult to define. There are big hills in the South. There’s challenging weather in all parts of the country. But in the North, the hills are relentless, the weather is more extreme, more often. The red contour lines on the maps now proliferate. The North is hard and harsh. I walked through it.

Through Kinder Low, and past the frozen Kinder Downfall. Navigation was tricky in places, but my trust was in my little GPS friend, clutched tightly in gloved hand. Up onto the more exposed moor, where the snow was drifting and the wind drives into the face. To protect the peat bogs, and to protect the walker from disappearing into the peat bogs, a winding stone pavement has been laid in the more desolate areas and it’s relatively easy to make rapid progress. This path leads over the Snake’s Pass road and into Bleaklow. Here the scenery changes, although with reducing visibility all that could be seen was the nearest grassy hillock and the dark peat channel that runs through it.

This is one of the harshest, most unforgiving areas of the country. Under white skies, with the sinister mist dropping, it was easy to believe that people could vanish here. The ground, though, was largely frozen, and the danger of disappearing into the bog below was reduced. Snow-covered ice on the rocks was the biggest risk and, having crashed to earth on a number of occasions, my steps were increasingly wary. Finally, as the wind and sleet began to increase, I slid down off the moor towards the Longdendale Reservoirs.

I’d assumed that if any area of the country was geared towards supporting the needs of walkers, then this was it. But I’d learned whilst at Castleton that the recommended stopping point for the first night on the Pennine Way, the Youth Hostel at Crowden, was closed, so a three mile detour along the Trans Pennine Trail cycle path was required. This took me to Hadfield, the real Royston Vasey where, fittingly, there were no places for non-locals, so back I looped to Padfield. There, two of the three B&Bs were full, but I was saved from a night in a snowy field by the third, the White House Farm, where I attempted to dry my pants and gird my loins. Outside though, the snow was again beginning to fall.

Song of the day:

Radiohead
“How to disappear completely”

In a little while /
I’ll be gone /
The moment’s already passed /
Yes it’s done /
And I’m not here /
This isn’t happening

Day 25 : Castleton to Edale

2007-02-15T21:23:00.000Z

Thursday 8th February 2007

Distance Walked: 5.1 miles
Start Time: 11:15
End Time: 13:22
Elapsed Time: 2:07
Weather: Snow, above and below.
Distance walked so far: 503.6 miles

Essentially a rest day, this was supposed to be a chance to gather strength and resources before the initial assault on the Pennine Way tomorrow. Yet, between waking at 7am and breakfast at 8am, enough snow had fallen to close half the town, including the TIC, and left me bereft of info or confidence. A whole industry is supported by people’s desire to walk, study and experience the Pennine Way, with numerous books, maps and leaflets published, but I had nothing.

Despite the heavily falling snow, I decided to press on over the hill to Edale. Maybe the facilities there were more robust? There were no boot prints or tyre tracks on the ground as I tramped up the lanes and footpaths towards the ridge that separates Castelton from Edale. Who else would be out here, after all? There were no tourists, the locals had more sense than to go out, and any intrepid walkers would have had to have negotiated the tricky roads to get here in the first place. I had the place to myself.

Though the heavy clouds were low, it was just possible to make out the shape of the hills above. The paths were obscured however and, thinking I was heading for Hollin’s Cross, I instead ended up on Back Tor. Still, it was a chance to spend a fun few minutes sliding around on my arse as I admired the layout of the valley, before skidding down into the small town.

All too was closed except for The Old Nag’s Head pub, the alpha and omega of the Way. Having persuaded the surprised owners of the Mam Tor B&B that I really did want to use their facilities, I spent an afternoon by the pub fire absorbing as much information as I could about the days to come. If I’d stopped to think about what exactly I was attempting to do on this walk then I probably would never have got this far, but now the difficulties posed by the Pennine Way were hard to avoid. With the snow continuing to blot the features outside, the prospect of adventure was both daunting and enticing.

Song of the day:

Joanna Newsome
“Monkey & Bear”

The hills are groaning with excess /
Like a table ceaselessly being set /
Oh, my darling /
We’ll get there yet

Day 24 : Dovedale to Castleton

2007-02-14T07:52:00.000Z

Wednesday 7th February 2007

Distance Walked: 29 miles
Start Time: 8:16
End Time: 17:33
Elapsed Time: 9:17
Weather: Frosty morning. Cold and sunny.
Distance walked so far: 498.5 miles

Dovedale is a magical place. The sides of the valley are so steep and sharp. The river so shallow. The light, flooding in, warming the hillsides. The fog drifting on the water. It’s a place of poetry and romance. Artists flood here, but none can truly capture such beauty. Today, I had the rare and joyful privilege of being completely alone for the entire journey from Dovedale to Hartington. If I remember nothing else from this walk, I’ll remember this. For the entire seven mile stretch I was enraptured, and commemorated this holy event with a warm sausage roll in Hartington, before climbing the lanes into the heart of the White Peak.

This is where the Limestone Way gets its name, for the white stone walls are dazzling in the morning sun. It all seems so perfectly arranged, that I barely resented the return to tarmac as I floated down to Monyash, with its clichéd duck pond and friendly café.

It was only when I missed the turning in Miller’s Dale that the day started to go wrong. Wasting a mile walking up and down the wrong hill wasn’t fun, but it was really when I unwisely consulted McCloy rather than followed my instincts that the afternoon turned into a stinker. There I was, happily following the Pennine Bridleway, a flat, stable route on the top of a ridge that I was pretty sure would take me straight to Castleton, when I glanced at the cursed book and inexplicably decided to descend into the valley to Peter Dale, which turned out to be a gloomy, boggy miserable rocky hole.

Having unnecessarily added at least three miles to my journey by the time I managed to rejoin the Limestone Way, the light was fading and my feet were aching as I scurried over the hills and down into Castelton. Mam Tor and its friends were foreboding silhouettes on the horizon, but all I could think about as I collapsed into the room at The Castle Inn (with its jacuzzi!) were my aching limbs, the prospect of the Pennine Way, and the severe warnings of snow that were making news readers and school children around the country so giddy with excitement. I was too tired to consider the implications.

Song of the day:

Tim Buckley
“Buzzin’ Fly”

Just like a buzzin’ fly /
I’ll come into your life /
I’ll float away /
Like honey in the sun

Day 23 : Uttoxeter to Dovedale

2007-02-12T12:09:00.000Z

Tuesday 6th February 2007

Distance Walked: 16.3 miles
Start Time: 8:57
End Time: 15:22
Elapsed Time: 5:35
Weather: Cold and frosty, with light snow. Crisp and sunny later.
Distance walked so far: 469.5 miles

The enforced decision to cover the extra miles to Uttoxeter yesterday certainly turned out to be a blessing. The thought of having to do them in addition to today’s stint is almost too much to contemplate. When even the permanently chipper McCloy says that this section involves stomping through “endless fields”, you just know that it’s going to be monotonous.

And it’s not just that. I don’t know who touched the countryside last, but it’s a disgrace. You should see the state of some of these fields. They’re an absolute mess. If you want to know how many different varieties and textures of shit there are, then come and have a look at my boots, as I’ve been dragging most of it along with me all day.

What’s most annoying is that I’d really been looking forward to today’s walk, for today I was heading towards Dovedale, into the Peak District, and the first steps into a National Park on the route so far. What’s more, as I left Uttoxeter and crossed the River Dove into Derbyshire (briefly), I was serenaded by a light flurry of snow, to add to the crisp, frost-covered ground beneath. It was finally starting to feel like winter.

Unfortunately, it was also today that, having followed the Staffordshire Way to Rocester (pronounced “roaster”), I had my first encounter with the Limestone Way. Quite why it was decided that just when the environment gets more treacherous and confusing they should cease to provide adequate or accurate guidance from the waymarkers, I can’t say. What I can say is that whoever made that decision needs a damned good talking to. With force.

It’s bad enough plodding through endless fields, on rutted, boggy ground, without the added problem of constantly having to backtrack because either the signpost is missing or even pointing in the wrong direction completely. Maybe the Limestone Way is supposed to be a secret as, even though I was definitely mostly walking on the right path (having confirmed it on the GPS track log later), not one of the signs actually stated this until I’d virtually reached the A52, at which point everything brightened and the world was a beautiful place one again.

For there, on the horizon, was the familiar, romantic profile of Thorpe Cloud, standing like a sentinel as the gateway to Dovedale, to the Peak District and ultimately to the Pennines beyond. The pull towards it was irresistible and, though it resulted in a night at the opulent Izaak Walton Hotel rather than a more economical alternative, I convinced myself that the luxury of the evening was reward for the distance covered so far, and an impetus towards the hard days of hills yet to come.

Song of the day:

The Scientists
“Swampland”

In my heart /
there’s a place called swampland /
Nine parts water /
One part sand

Day 22 : Penkridge to Uttoxeter

2007-02-12T11:56:00.000Z

Monday 5th February 2007

Distance Walked: 26.9 miles
Start Time: 7:53
End Time: 16:57
Elapsed Time: 9:04
Weather: Overcast. Brief rain shower. Then sunny.
Distance walked so far: 453.2 miles

I thought I was in fairly good shape before setting out on this trip. I’d staggered to the end of three marathons in the last three years, and had tried to maintain an active lifestyle, but the past three weeks have taken me to another level completely. I feel fitter, leaner and stronger than I ever have in my life. Posing in my pants in front of the mirror has never been so rewarding. And this was a day when the enhanced fitness came to the rescue.

I should’ve known that things were going too well, but the morning stroll out of Penkridge, alongside the canal and under the thundering M6 was really rather pleasant. It was hard to believe at times that this was such a heavily built up area, especially when the Staffordshire Way leads into Cannock Chase which is such a bizarre contrast to the surroundings that it feels like a Scottish Highlands theme park, complete with heather, wild deer and the first rain shower I’d experienced in two weeks.

A quick ramble through the grounds of Shugborough Park, and then east along the Trent and Mersey Canal, running parallel with the River Trent itself. This feels like a milestone, for I live by the Trent and, indeed, much of my training for this walk had been done running up and down its banks. Then it’s across the fields again, through Colton, and past Blithfield Reservoir. I’m ahead of schedule, heading for Abbot’s Bromely, home of the bizarre Horn Dance, and anticipating a relaxing afternoon.

When you approach a town and see a woman walking down the main street with a cow on a lead you know you’re in for a good night, so I saunter into the centre believing that my walking is done for the day and looking forward to working my way through the indecent number of pubs that are located in this tiny village. Unfortunately, for the first time during the walk, all the accommodation that I try is fully booked. Oh dear. I eat a pork pie in a state of semi-distress and realise that the only option is to press on to Uttoxeter, a further six miles away. Having been unable to pick up an OS Map for this section, I’m reliant on signposts and GPS, but thankfully the Staffordshire Way doesn’t let me down and I reach my goal as dusk descends, with feet crying out for respite. Perhaps some form of forward planning would help.

Song of the day:

Aimee Mann
“Wise Up”

It’s not what you thought /
When you first began it /
You got what you want /
Now you can hardly stand it, though /
By now you know /
It’s not going to stop /
It’s not going to stop /
It’s not going to stop /
‘Til you wise up

Day 21 : Wolverhampton to Penkridge

2007-02-12T11:46:00.000Z

Sunday 4th February 2007

Distance Walked: 11 miles
Start Time: 8:44
End Time: 12:00
Elapsed Time: 3:16
Weather: Cold and clear.
Distance walked so far: 426.3 miles

Weekly Audio Update: Dave on The Steve Show - Day 21

It doesn’t take long to escape the Wolverhampton suburbs, and once again I’m walking down country lanes in the winter morning sunshine. This land is mostly farms and fields, and whilst the Staffordshire Way meanders through the turf, I stick to tarmac and cross motorway and canal, through Codsall and Brewood, and reach Penkridge by midday. We all have to deal with the consequences of our actions, and for me, today, it simply means that I’m weary. Weary from yesterday’s walking, and weary from the late night. And weary from the relentless daily effort. I settle into The Bridge Inn, one of two rather fancy pub/restaurants in the town, and attempt to will myself back to life.

I’m hoping I’ve still got the touch. I once, in order to avoid having to write a history essay at school, managed to convince an army of doctors (with their thorough, probing examinations) that I had appendicitis, which resulted in the useless organ being removed, despite the malady being a complete fabrication. Surely someone with such powers over their own body as to be able to make healthy attributes become withered could manage to breathe some enthusiasm back into this deflated soul. With beer and burger as my props, I set to work.

Song of the day:

Charlie Rich
“Feel like going home”

Lord, I feel like going home /
I tried and I failed /
And I’m tired and weary /
Everything I done was wrong /
And I feel like going home

Day 20 : Bewdley to Wolverhampton

2007-02-09T16:10:00.000Z

Saturday 3rd February 2007

Distance Walked: 26.6 miles
Start Time: 8:06
End Time: 15:48
Elapsed Time: 8:39
Weather: Frosty and foggy morning. Then cold and sunny,
Distance walked so far: 415.3miles

There’s an atmospheric fog drifting over the frosty riverbank as I follow the Severn Way for the final day, out of Bewdley and through the fringes of the Wyre Forest. Today I have a lot of ground to cover, for I’m heading towards the suburbs of Wolverhampton to meet up with friends and, hopefully, to enjoy a relaxing and sociable evening assuring them that I’m not actually in the middle of a life crisis as some might believe.

It’s quite a trek though and, rather than following the circuitous route of the Staffordshire Way (the next Long Distance Path on my walk), I attempt to piece together the most direct combination of roads and footpaths that I can find. Despite being so close to the populous sprawl of Birmingham and its satellite towns, my chosen lanes are peaceful and, as the sun burns through the morning mist, the walking in the Staffordshire farmland is surprisingly enjoyable.

It’s on the enforced stomp into the Wolverhampton suburbs that the fatigue sets in, and it’s with aching feet that I finally reach the destination. I’ve been here before, of course, but I’ve never walked here. From Cornwall. And as the evening unfolds I find it hard to move from one regime to another. My days are so full at the moment that it’s difficult to leave the routine that I’ve created for myself, even for an evening. Outside of the walking itself, which can take up to ten hours on a bad day, I’m usually just about finding time for route planning, accommodation & food hunting, writing and sleeping. The temptation to slip out of this habit and sink into the comfort of friendship is insistent, but I settle for a late-night feast in the curry capital of the country and resolve to leave in the morning whilst my will is still intact.

Song of the day:

Wilco
“How to fight loneliness”

How to fight loneliness /
Smile all the time /
Shine your teeth till meaningless /
And sharpen them with lies

Day 19 : Worcester to Bewdley

2007-02-09T16:07:00.000Z

Friday 2nd February 2007

Distance Walked: 20.6 miles
Start Time: 7:49
End Time: 15:48
Elapsed Time: 6:59
Weather: Sunshine and clouds. Spring, really.
Distance walked so far: 388.7 miles

The Severn Way winds out of Worcester on the west side of the river, past the lines of grand, opulent houses overlooking the racecourse on the far bank. The path here is flat and stable and it’s easy and fairly pleasant walking, as the morning sun threatens to rise. As the city recedes though, the river reverts to type. There’s still nothing to see here. I flirt with the Severn swans but they’re too serene to respond.

It’s only when the path leaves the riverbank, at Grimley and again near Winnall, that I briefly appreciate the ease of following a track by a river. Slogging up and down fields and along lanes, stretching the mileage to negotiate obstacles, certainly makes you appreciate the bland monotony of an almost straight, semi-stable path.

I’d been thinking that the time required to complete this walk would be the perfect opportunity to experiment with facial hair. True walkers have beards, after all, especially those of the rugged explorer varieties. Everyone needs a quirk, and maybe a beard could be mine. It’s something I’ve never tried at least, and with good reason, for I suspect that the end result will be thin, patchy and ginger. Not a good look, even for one as indifferent as myself, so for now I resist.

My smooth cheeks and I reach Stourport-on-Severn, with its attractive riverside promenade and park, and then gambol into the picturesque town of Bewdley, where both the accommodation and the dining are fine and refreshing. My attempts to entertain the people of Bewdley with some challenging selections on the pub jukebox are received with scorn. Here the songs of Dianne Warren rule, and none shall dissent.

Song of the day:

Dennis Wilson
“River Song”

Walkin' down by the river /
Water running through my knees /
River, oh river moves so free /
Oh mighty river endlessly

Day 18 : Tewkesbury to Worcester

2007-02-06T20:15:00.000Z

Thursday 1st February 2007

Distance Walked: 19.7 miles
Start Time: 8:44
End Time: 17:15
Elapsed Time: 8:39
Weather: Oppressively warm.
Distance walked so far: 368.1 miles

If ever there was joyless trudge of a day, this was it. Maybe it’s the lack of a breeze, or lack of view, or the constant scene of riverside devastation, or the leg-sapping mud, but the combined effect is brain-numbing. Even the pleasure at the eventual arrival in Worcester was short lived as I found myself in the smallest, dingiest Guest House imaginable.

After a morning of unspectacular walking, arriving at the array of riverside pubs in Upton-upon-Severn before they actually open was perhaps not the most comforting of events, but further upstream I’m able to enjoy a rare lunchtime sojourn at the Rose & Crown in Severn Stoke. Having suddenly developed a small blister at the bottom of my heel, and not knowing how best to treat it, I simply stab it with scissors and set sail again into the effluent of the riverbank and the endless flotilla of static caravans on the fringe of Worcester, with their territorial warning signs and zealously guarded boundaries. These are the highly-prized white metal coffins of the retiring classes. Away from it all, in the middle of it all.

I can only imagine that, in its pre-flooded state and in a different season, this path would be a delight. I’m certainly not averse to walking by rivers, and it’s definitely offering a flat and relatively rapid route towards my destination. Ultimately, though, I’m bored of the Severn Way. I long for hills and mountains and scenery and drama. The river has provided an easy passage northwards, and will continue to do so for at least another day, but it’s not offering me anything stimulating. The caravans are here because it’s a watered down waterfront way of life. It’s neutered nature. The Severn Way is safe and dull. Maybe this is all that middle England actually is?

Song of the day:

The Grateful Dead
“Ripple”

Ripple in still water /
When there is no pebble tossed /
Or wind to blow

Day 17 : King’s Stanley to Tewkesbury

2007-02-05T21:28:00.000Z

Wednesday 31st January 2007

Distance Walked: 25.4 miles
Start Time: 8:36
End Time: 17:15
Elapsed Time: 8:39
Weather: Bright sunshine and clouds. Feels like Spring to me.
Distance walked so far: 348.4 miles

A beautiful and successful day’s walking. Once again I flirt with the devious Cotswold Way and enjoy the spectacular views from the ridge above Stonehouse, before tumbling down through the leaves of Standish Wood onto the Gloucestershire plains below. Rather than take the winding route, I leave the Way for good and take verges and pavement straight into the city of Gloucester, the tedium of the three miles of suburbs lessened by the neat and friendly centre where I replenish my supplies of maps and food.

Then onwards, and at last to the River Severn, and it’s associated Way, which I plan to follow as it winds northwards into the heart of the Midlands. It’s instantly obvious that this area has recently been subject to very heavy flooding. The riverbank is an area of devastation. Brown-grey mud coats everything within fifteen feet of the water. Trees, plants, everything within touching distance has been drowned, and now stands dead and white and ghostly. The path consistently fails to support the weight of my steps and, in places, has been washed away completely. A high-watermark of debris, a jamboree of litter, clothes, shoes, toys and trees, marks the way.

Slipping and sliding, clambering over the fallen trees, I fight my way along the path. The signs tell me that no Elvering is allowed and, not knowing what an elver is, I hope that I comply as there seem to be an awful lot of men with shotguns in the near distance. But today is the first without pain since the very start and finally it feels like I’m able to walk comfortably. The combination of bandages and supports and lubrication has been carefully honed, and when the quaint and soothing town of Tewkesbury is finally reached as the sun sets it feels as if progress has most definitely been made.

Song of the day:

The Byrds
“The Ballad of the Easy Ryder”

The river flows /
It flows down to the sea /
Wherever that river goes /
That’s where I wanna be

Day 16 : Old Sodbury to King’s Stanley

2007-02-04T21:49:00.000Z

Tuesday 30th January 2007

Distance Walked: 22.5 miles
Start Time: 8:34
End Time: 16:17
Elapsed Time: 7:43
Weather: Overcast and mild. Again.
Distance walked so far: 323 miles

Another day without rain. The mildness of the month is of newsworthy note, and once again I’m in shirtsleeves as I hit the trail. The fears of winter walking are proving to be unfounded, so far. The only seasonal problem is the lack of available daylight, with darkness descending by 5pm. Lack of pre-planned accommodation each night results in a controlled daily panic from 3pm, as I desperately head towards the most likely area of shelter. Attempts to counter this by setting off earlier in the morning are hindered by the enormous amounts of sausages I’m forcing myself to eat. I’ve paid for the bloody breakfasts, and I’m damn well going to get my money’s worth.

Once more, it’s a day on the Cotswold Way and, whilst it’s nice to be walking in the country again after miles of tarmac, the erratic nature of the path is really starting to get on my tits. The route is clearly not designed with the End-to-End walker in mind and veers around the landscape in a wild attempt to encompass every single aspect of each potential landmark. Just when it seems that there are no more inclines to tackle, the waymarkers invite the walker to launch themselves up yet another slope to gaze with wonder upon the marvels of the Gloucestershire countryside. I’m all for wonder, but I’ve also got knees to consider, so, whilst I climb both Nibbley Knoll and Hetty Pegler’s Tump (yes, really), and admire the views of the Severn valley stretching across the horizon, over to Wales and the Brecon Beacons, I trim the edges off some of the extreme wanderings and take the more direct route on the roads and lanes. Through this mixed approach, progress is made and I reach a safe harbour in King’s Stanley, on the fringes of Stroud, in time for beer, bath and bed.

Song of the day:

Grand Drive
“Wheels”

Don’t let the grass grow /
Don’t let the wheels take control /
Your hat is on /
You’re on your way now

Day 15 : Bath to Old Sodbury

2007-02-04T21:45:00.000Z

Monday 29th January 2007

Distance Walked: 18.2 miles
Start Time: 10:13
End Time: 15:39
Elapsed Time: 5:26
Weather: Overcast but mild again.
Distance walked so far: 300.5 miles

All art is an attempt to capture and convey our experiences to others. We present our interpretations in order to articulate our emotions about events, in whichever medium is most relevant: painting or dance or words or music or stories or photography. For some, the urge to capture each moment in which they live is so overwhelming that they risk removing themselves from those things in which they are ostensibly participating in order to attempt to absorb every nuance. They are detached, almost unknowingly. Alone in a crowd. Sadly, I think that I am one of those people.

The loss of a camera for today’s walking is such a mortifying catastrophe that I even consider having a rest day to charge the battery of the new model that I’m forced to purchase when the shops open. I’m not sure if this is self-validation (“this really did happen”) or self-aggrandisement (“see what I have done”) or merely just a natural desire to communicate. Why experience anything if it cannot effectively be captured and shared? Sadly, I leave Bath and its many sights behind, with two unusable cameras failing to record the moment.

...........................

I quite fancied the idea, if I ever had a baby, of taking a snapshot of my child, once every year or six months throughout it's entire life, with both the child and the camera placed in a set position. The child would be surrounded by objects that were special to it at that moment in time, and also surrounded by loved ones (parents during the early years, and then girlfriends/boyfriends, spouse, children of it's own, etc). After my death the child would continue the project, recording an image of itself every six months until death. The resulting collected set of images could be played in order to illustrate, in time-lapse fashion, the entire life of one person. Would it tell the viewer anything about the subject? Perhaps. If each image was on screen for only a second then the entire display would last no more than three minutes. A pop video of a human life, 70+ years in the making.

..........................

Thus far, whilst the funnel of Devon and Cornwall was being negotiated, there had been limited choices regarding the End-to-End route, but now the guts of England were waiting for exploration. Whilst there are many acknowledged options, there is no official route from Land’s End to John O’Groats. The couple I met on the way to Glastonbury had spent 80 days on their walk, travelling up the east coast. An alternative is to head towards Wales and the Offa’s Dyke path. For now, I stick with McCloy and follow the Cotswold Way as it winds out of the city, past the Royal Crescent and up into the villages on the Cotswold Edge. My determination to go in as straight a line as possible is challenged at every turn, as the Way guides the walker in loops of increasing perplexity, but at least the signposts are clear and the views rewarding. My memory of them may be less permanent than any photograph but, for today, will have to suffice.

Song of the day:

Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
“Carry On”

The sky is clearing /
And the night has gone out
The sun, he come /
And the world is all full of light
Rejoice, Rejoice /
We have no choice /
But to carry on

Day 14 : Midsomer Norton to Bath

2007-02-02T20:50:00.000Z

Sunday 28th January 2007

Distance Walked: 11.4 miles
Start Time: 9:08
End Time: 12:48
Elapsed Time: 3:40
Weather: Overcast but mild again.
Distance walked so far: 282.3 miles

Weekly Audio Update: Dave on The Steve Show - Day 14

A short day’s walking today, over the hills and straight into Bath, the biggest and most impressive urban centre yet encountered on the walk. McCloy’s suggested route involves a meandering detour following the Kennet & Avon Canal as it bends around the east of the city, but I opt for a more direct approach, along the lanes, and reach the centre by lunchtime.

Bath is an elegant city, nestling in a bowl shaped valley that invites adoring glances from all sides. Walking down through the large limestone buildings of the suburbs, the town feels both grand and powerful, reflecting the wealth that was, and clearly still is, present here. There’s a class about both the architecture and the locals that certainly elevates it above the norm. Are the people here beautiful because they’re rich, or are they rich because they’re beautiful? Regardless, this is a place of substance. It is all eminently photographable, which is unfortunate since I drop and break my camera as I enter the town centre and spend the rest of the day failing to fix it.

So, the south-western section of the walk has been completed in two weeks: twelve walking days and 282 miles. There were moments when the possibility of getting this far seemed too remote to contemplate, but now it seems that the initial pains are fading and that continuing is not only an option, it’s the possible only course of action. From here it’s into the Midlands and north all the way to Scotland. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee……..

Song of the day:

Led Zeppelin
“Bron-Y-Aur Stomp”

As we walk down the country lanes /
I’ll be singing a song /
Hear me calling your name.
Hear the wind within the trees /
Telling mother nature ‘bout you and me

Day 13 : Glastonbury to Midsomer Norton

2007-02-02T20:14:00.000Z

Saturday 27th January 2007

Distance Walked: 19.7 miles
Start Time: 9:08
End Time: 15:45
Elapsed Time: 6:37
Weather: Overcast but mild.
Distance walked so far: 270.9 miles

I guess that there had to be day of boring walking and nondescript scenery, and this was it. To say that the early morning, two mile, dead straight stretch of tarmac that is the Queen’s Sedge Moor was the highlight of the day gives some indication of the mind numbing tedium of the route. This road through the drainage channels has fading views of the Tor to the right, silhouetted by the weak morning sky, and, after the day of recuperation, at least allowed me to get acclimatised to the idea of walking again. Somewhere to the east was Worthy Farm, the site of the Festival itself and, negotiating this safe route through the wetlands, it emphasised the peculiarity of hosting a major public event in an area that is clearly so unstable.

I walked on. On roads like this the process of walking itself becomes automatic, almost mechanical. You start to think about the movements of each component of the body, to try to make everything as efficient as possible. All that exists is the road ahead and the feet that meet it. You are machine. You stride and pull the horizon towards you. You stride again, and the planet is rotated beneath you. I walked on.

After briefly losing my way near the non-event of a mound that is Maesbury Castle, I headed through the pebble-dash wasteland of Chilcompton and reached Midsomer Norton by mid-afternoon. Now, if your only knowledge of Midsomer Norton is from the sunny, fluffy, country-death show, Midsomer Murders, you may believe that the town would be an attractive place to visit or even live. Except for all the murders, obviously. In fact, it is an ugly lump of a town with ugly roads and ugly houses and ugly people. A place of rust, litter and decay. Of caps and prams. Booming bass bins, concrete walls and alloy wheels. The bungled and the botched.

Unsurprisingly, there are few B&Bs in Midsomer Norton, nor in the neighbouring town of Radstock, another former colliery town. The Support Crew tracks down an aspirational and overpriced hotel/country club near Radstock, and there the feet are pampered and the soul is fed. I will not happily return here.

Song of the day:

Ron Sexsmith
"Gold in them hills"

There’s gold in them hills /
There’s gold in them hills /
So don’t lose heart /
Give the day a chance to start

Day 12 : Glastonbury (Rest Day)

2007-02-02T20:11:00.000Z

Friday 26th January 2007

Distance Walked: 0 miles
Start Time: n/a
End Time: n/a
Elapsed Time: n/a
Weather: Cold, overcast and wet. Like grey milk.
Distance walked so far: 251.2 miles

Religion is man’s greatest folly, and Glastonbury is where the fools gather. This, they say, is where Christianity was first brought to England, by Jesus Christ himself. And, here, the Holy Grail that held His blood is buried beneath a well. Come, drink the water and be healed. And here is where King Arthur and his Queen were buried. There’s such a muddled mix of myths and mantra here that it’s unsurprising that it attracts such a wide range of devotees. Whatever you believe in, there’s something here for you to clutch. The tawdry collection of shops on the otherwise nondescript high street panders to the desperate and the deluded. Here you can be rebalanced, re-aligned and reformed. In recent times Glastonbury is most famous for the overpriced and over-popular music festival, but the colourful freaks that make that event such a unique experience are commonplace here. Even the woman at the Tourist Information Centre is spaced out.

At the centre of the town is the Tor, a huge and apparently natural outcrop that erupts from the surrounding flatness in such an astonishing way that it is impossible not to contemplate the possibility of the supernatural. One thing that has been inescapable on the walk so far is that, no matter how small or unassuming a village may be, it will always have an attractive and undeniably impressive old church at its heart. No wonder religion took such a grip on the people of this country. Who could fail to be impressed by buildings of such grandeur and beauty? Britain consists of decaying churches, rotting statues and monuments to the dead. The past, partly preserved. The steep climb to the top of the Tor leads to a solitary tower, all that remains of the abbey that once stood here. All natural wonders are appropriated by the gods.

I have no time for the divine today. I shun the help on offer and have faith that the path that I’ve chosen will take me where I need to go.

Song of the day:

The Handsome Family
“Weightless Again”

This is why people OD on pills /
And jump off the Golden Gate Bridge /
Anything to feel weightless again

Day 11 : Taunton to Glastonbury

2007-01-31T21:53:00.000Z

Thursday 25th January 2007

Distance Walked: 29 miles
Start Time: 8:02
End Time: 19:11
Elapsed Time: 11:09
Weather: Cold, bright and sunny.
Distance walked so far: 251.2 miles

The Bridgwater and Taunton canal is particularly well named as those are the two towns that it connects. Today’s route follows the canal for the first few miles as it winds out of the suburbs of Taunton, between the industrial units and modern housing estates. The canal has a slightly different feel to it than the Grand Western. This is a working waterway. There’s more life here, both on and off the water and, whilst the wildlife is always a pleasure, it feels less magical and remote than the inactive stretch yesterday.

It should be pleasant and easy, but I just feel knackered before I even start. My feet are still aching after yesterday’s mileage and every step is a pain. As I leave the canal, and branch off to join the path along the River Tone my mood gets darker. Every day there’s a different injury, slowing me down. Today it’s my battered, flattened feet and my right shin which is now horribly swollen.

The river path isn’t helping. The whole area sits on reclaimed flood plains, with a grid system of water channels feeding out from the main course of the river, which means that a steady walking rhythm is impossible as every few metres there’s yet another stile or gate to flop over. Combined with the soft ground underfoot, and clinging mud, the effect is exhausting.

I trudge on, wallowing in my own misery, until I encounter a couple coming the other way.

“We have to ask”, they say, as one. “Where are you going with a bag like that?”
“Scotland”, I say.
“Oh, really? We’ve done that”

This is a first. People who have actually been through this themselves, and wish they were doing it again. I try to force a spring into my step and to remind myself how lucky I am, and eat my sandwiches on the top of Burrow Mump in the sunshine. The Mump is a large mound topped with the shell of a perfectly ruined church. The mound rises above the surrounding area of reclaimed swampland and the views on a clear, bright day like this are astonishing. In the far distance is Glastonbury Tor, my destination for the night. It looked a long way.

Maybe the reason that Glastonbury is believed to be a magical place is that it seems to float above the watery surroundings, which means that it must have been very hard to reach in ancient times. These days, for cars, there is the busy and narrow A361, whilst the walker is confronted with the King’s Sedgemoor Drain, a long straight channel which runs for 1.5 miles eastwards, before back lanes head towards Street, Glastonbury’s low class neighbour. It was only when I was half way along they Drain that I looked at the map and noticed that the path was actually on the other side of the water. Ah. This side leads to a dead end. Oh. Shit. I press on, hoping that there’ll be a way to cross the water, or somehow to rescue the situation but, no, I’m screwed. So back I trudge. It doesn’t make sense. There was a stile on this side. Why put a stile on this side if it leads nowhere?

So, having wasted 1.5 miles of walking, by the time I get back to where I started I’m so sick of the sight of the Drain that I opt to complete the day by road and take my chances along the A361.

Mistake.

When the walk started, roads were avoided as much as possible, and when I had no choice but to walk on them it was with great hesitancy, an apologetic figure cowering from the oncoming traffic. Now I don’t give a flying fuck. The fucking cars can fucking get out of my fucking way. Bastards. I sway out of the way of lorries, but everything else can just fucking slow down and wait till they can move around me. It kind of works, but I’m dead on my feet by Greinton and, by the time the A361 becomes the even busier A39, it’s dark and I’m too tired to fight the flow.

A wandering detour through Walton is required, and then a slow painful plod through the back streets of Street, a town that seems to exist solely to house the workers of the all-consuming Clark’s factory that is so unavoidable here. By the time I’d made it across the river and up the hill to Glastonbury, my left knee was refusing to bend and all the blood in my feet felt as if it was seeping into my socks.

If I was ever going to quit, it was now. Lying under a blanket on the floor of the B&B, shivering from pain, shock and exhaustion, the idea of doing something a little easier (and more fun) seemed almost inescapably attractive.

Song of the day:

Townes Van Zandt
“Waitin’ around to die”

Sometimes I don’t know where this dirty road is taking me /
Sometimes I don’t even know the reason why /
Well I guess I keep on gambling /
Lots of booze and lots of rambling /
Well it’s easier than just waiting around to die

Day 10 : Tiverton to Taunton

2007-01-30T20:57:00.000Z

Wednesday 24th January 2007

Distance Walked: 28.7 miles
Start Time: 8:26
End Time: 5:35
Elapsed Time: 8:51
Weather: Mainly clear, crisp and sunny. Invigorating.
Distance walked so far: 222.2 miles

There was a time when the British were so ridiculously confident that even the most outrageous schemes were accomplished before it was acknowledged how mind-boggingly ambitious they were. The Grand Western Canal is a rare example of a scheme that never quite came to fruition. The plan was to create an inland waterway route to connect the Bristol and English channels as a way to prevent the loss of shipping along the south coast. Only a small section of the canal was ever built before the advent of the railway made it obsolete, but for the walker it means that the first 11 miles of the route to Taunton are a breeze.

Then it all goes wrong. The canal just stops, suddenly, in the middle of nowhere, and after having enjoyed some mindless walking along the flat nature reserve that the towpath has now become, the remainder of the day is spent slogging along the lanes again. Somewhere along the way I pass into Somerset, but my feet feel flattened by the time they finally reach its capital.

Taunton is a neat and tidy little city but, after a full day of walking, the last thing that’s needed is to trudge through miles of bland suburbs before reaching the town centre. It’s dark and, once again, I’m limping by the time I’m finally done, but thankfully my one-woman back-up crew is in town and accommodation has been sorted, and even though the night is spent in the smallest hotel room you’ll ever see, there is a bath and a chance to tell tales of the journey gone and still to come.

Song of the day:

The Woods Band
“Dreams”

Dreams / Where can I buy them /
Please don’t hide them or I’m lost /
Dreams, oh, who sells them /
Go tell them /
I need them at all cost /
Without them all is lost and I won’t live forever

Day 9 : Crediton to Tiverton

2007-01-30T20:56:00.000Z

Tuesday 23rd January 2007

Distance Walked: 16.9 miles
Start Time: 8:15
End Time: 14:56
Elapsed Time: 6:41
Weather: Beautiful. Cold but clear, bright and sunny.
Distance walked so far: 193.5 miles

“Hello. That’s a big bag. Where are you walking to?”
“Scotland”
“Really? That’s a long way”
“It feels like it”
“Are you doing it for charity?”
“Nope”
“Why are you doing it then?”
“Er…”

………………….

No child dreams of working in IT. Children dream of being heroes and adventurers, explorers and superstars. I was no different. I also dreamt of the day someone would open a Mousetrap theme pub. It would be fantastic. An entire pub dedicated to the fiendishly overcomplicated, Heath Robinson-esque board game, in which each trap would be set after a certain amount of alcohol had been purchased, up to the point when the ‘diver’ was set to spring and the cage would descend upon a random table, resulting in free drinks for the captured revellers.

My dreams never came true. Somehow, the last ten years of my life have been spent staring at a computer, in an office, in an industrial estate. It’s highly likely that the next thirty years of my life will be exactly the same. I’ve been told that I’m crazy to be doing this walk. I think I’d be crazy not to do it.

People get trapped. There are houses to buy, children to feed, careers to pursue. And somehow the point of it all is forgotten. Some people aren’t lucky enough to have a choice, but right now I do have a choice. I choose to see some of the country that I live in whilst it still might mean something to me. I choose experience over money. I choose dreams over reality.

And I’m still waiting for that pub to be built.

……………………

At last a view. After days of greyness, the sun was out and the sky was clear. After a quick jaunt eastwards through Shobrooke and Thorverton, the route turned north and the Exe valley was laid out below me. With a relatively short day of walking planned, the pace was easy and more rewarding as a result. After a first five miles of hobbling, I resorted to ripping off all the plasters swathing the toe and immediately I was able to walk comfortably for the first time in days. Vowing never to stick another plaster on my feet, I cruised on, joining the Exe Valley Way as it wound down towards Bickleigh, with it’s small but elegant castle and five arched bridge (the inspiration for “Bridge Over Troubled Water”, no less). The waters of the Exe were both high and troubled, and the path along the river to Tiverton was a mess of boggy clay, but the town was reached and accommodation found in good time. An evening of drinking and writing, of sausage and mash, and renewed confidence for the days ahead.

Song of the day:

Vashti Bunyan
“Diamond Day”

Just another life to live /

And a word to say /
Just another love to give /

And a diamond day

Day 8 : Okehampton to Crediton

2007-01-29T20:22:00.000Z

Monday 22nd January 2007

Distance Walked: 22.7 miles
Start Time: 8:44
End Time: 17:12
Elapsed Time: 8:28
Weather: Bitterly cold and windy.
Distance walked so far: 176.6 miles

It was only when my freshly washed clothes were returned to me by the landlady at the Okehampton B&B that I realised that my pants were previously so stiff that they could’ve walked to Scotland by themselves, which, given the state of my limbs, would’ve been a great help. Instead I hobbled out of Okehampton as the glowering school kids flooded towards their lair, and crawled into Crediton as they spilled back out into the world again. Even the fact that I wasn’t stuck in the Monday morning traffic jam on the way to work (this is my work, at least for now!) couldn’t cheer my spirits.

It’s the pain, y’see. It consumes everything. Every step becomes a catalogue of sensations. Blisters below the toes, and blisters forming above. The twinge in the ankle. The throbbing knee. The slowly swelling shin. I cycle through the four limps at my disposal and try to decide which one is the least horrendous. At least it keeps my mind off the weather, for today it is cold. Really cold. And the wind forces itself through the layers and into the places where I don’t want places. Or wind.

When people heard about what I was intending to do, one of the main reasons for their incredulity seemed to be that I was choosing the worst possible time of the year to do it. And they were right. Winter in Britain can be grim. It’s not the snow, particularly, as that is increasingly rare these days. It’s the drops in temperature, and bitter winds, and mainly the overwhelming greyness of it all. Britain can be a miserable place in winter, and I was planning to walk northwards, straight into the heart of grimness.

But, so far, the timing of the stomp has only brought benefits. For a start, I have the paths and lanes to myself. I’ve hardly seen another walker so far, and the isolation is liberating. I fart and burp and piss freely, wherever I choose. I roll into towns and villages with the confidence that there will be room at the inn. No pre-booking for me, and with it the ability to tailor the length of my walks to match my appetite each day. And I’m able to drift into my own world, free from distractions.

For I’m in Devon now, and at this pace I’m able to slowly absorb the subtle changes in the scenery. There’s slightly more space here. Cornwall seemed squeezed. The hills were steep, the houses piled onto the cliff faces. Devon breathes a little easier. The slopes are more gentle, the gradients softer. The reddish hues of the earth here are more vibrant than anything I’ve seen so far. I relish the change.

I walk through the pretty village of Spreyton, and the procession of picture-perfect, thatched roofed cottages begins. Spreyton is the kind of place that competes for, and wins, Best Dressed Village awards. It must be a nightmare to live there. Then it’s more tarmac lanes, punishing the feet, until Crediton, which seems to consist solely of a long, drab high street with a succession of dour, dusty or derelict shops.

At the B&B, the owners are clearly veterans of catering for end-to-enders. They’ve seen it all before. They have one regular, they say, who is 83 and who recently completed the walk for the ninth time. Takes him nine months to do it, they say. What an idiot, he must be insane, I think, as I plan my route for tomorrow.

Song of the day:

Merz
“Dangerous Heady Love Scheme”

With the wind /
Through my senses /
Always with the wind /
Come dangerous heady love scheme

Day 7 : Launceston to Okehampton

2007-01-28T22:00:00.000Z

Sunday 21st January 2007

Distance Walked: 24.5 miles
Start Time: 7:06
End Time: 15:20
Elapsed Time: 7:10
Weather: Cold and sunny. Then overcast and wet.
Distance walked so far: 153.9 miles

Weekly Audio Update: Dave on The Steve Show - Day 7

I couldn’t leave Launceston fast enough. Skipping breakfast, I snuck downstairs and was out of the door and back on the road by 7am. I didn’t care how much my knee hurt. I just wanted to get away from that place. I’d missed the walking too, after my day of immobility. There’s a great freedom to it. And there’s a strange, simple purity to this particular pursuit too. The geography of the island provides a perfect structure for an end-to-end walk and, unlike in other countries, it’s easy to break it up into manageable sections without finding yourself stranded in a wilderness, without shops or pubs or accommodation. And in Britain, there’s a variety of scenery and terrain and weather and architecture that theoretically makes each day a new experience.

The Two Castles Trail follows an almost logical route along a succession of lanes, footpaths and villages, as it surges eastwards. Within an hour it crossed the bridge over the River Tamar, and finally I’d made it out of Cornwall and into Devon. At last, a second county. Making good progress, I reached The White Hart Inn in Bridestowe by lunchtime, so for once felt justified to stop for a pint and a rest, and to try to sort out my blistered little toe. Believing that Compeed plasters were the answer, I had swathed the little bastard in cushioning but the only effect seemed to be that the toe no longer fit into the boot and now the top of the toe was also beginning to blister. Sweet.

People are curious, and curious people even more so, and the sight of a large bag being carried by a dirty, limping idiot certainly catches the eye in these kind of places. Having discussed my ridiculous trek with the curious drinkers at the bar, and re-annointed my aching knees, I set off again towards Okehampton. By now the sky was darkening, and my limp was become more pronounced and the last thing I needed, particularly after my Bodmin experience, was a trek across the edge of Dartmoor, which the Trail was suggesting. Thankfully I was saved by The Granite Way, a long, flat stretch of tarmac that runs parallel with the railway line, forming part of the National Cycle Network, which carried me over the Meldon Viaduct and straight into Okehampton.

So, a week's walking completed then, but there's definitely concern about the growing discomfort. I knew that there'd be problems, but I never imagined that my legs would be dissolving quite so soon.

Song of the day:

The Decemberists
“As I Rise”

I have come a few miles /
I got blisters on my slippered feet /
As I rise, as I rise /
California’s ok /
But I think I might stay in the shade /
For a while, for a while

Day 6 : Launceston (Day of Rest)

2007-01-23T21:38:00.000Z

Saturday 20th January 2007

Distance Walked: 0 miles
Start Time: n/a
End Time: n/a
Elapsed Time: n/a
Weather: Cold and sunny. Then wet. Hail.
Distance walked so far: 129.4 miles

Launceston is a hole. Or rather, a hole with a hill. And on the hill, there sits a ruined castle. The castle is a round, pretty little thing, but not something in itself that would draw the crowds, which is probably why it was closed for winter. Having limped up the hill, and determined not to waste the trip, I went for a full tour of the town. Two minutes later, I did it again, just to be sure. Oh well.

I stocked up on bandages, creams, gels and drugs with which to admonish my aching limbs, and finally tracked down the Tourist Information Centre, which predictably was also closed. My plan for tomorrow was to walk the Two Castles Trail, another of these fabricated long distance routes that use occasional footpaths, but mainly country lanes, to encourage the tourists to wander through the splendour that is the countryside. This particular trail joins the towns of Launceston and Okehampton, or rather the castles within, but no one in Launceston seemed to be aware of its existence or had any information about it. I hobbled back down the hill to the pub and applied my unguents with fanatical devotion, speaking incantations to increase the potency. Then I waited for the healing to begin.

The good thing about The White Horse Inn is that the food they serve is fantastic. Go there for the food, certainly. Then leave immediately, for, unfortunately, the accommodation is located directly above a fault line, a crack in the fabric of the earth, out of which pours the foulest, loudest music known to man. And Saturday night is karaoke night. The only reason to attend is that you know that, no matter how tuneless the contestants, the sound is so deafening that you will lose consciousness before brain damage sets in.

Sleep wasn’t really an option, which is why I was more than a little disappointed when, as the music finally stopped sometime around 1am, a couple bundled upstairs into the room next to mine and proceeded to have a loud drunken argument before, DURING, and after sex. They then both threw up, and immediately went straight back at it. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard anyone having sex (and I admit there’s a certain thrill at the sheer unexpected naughtiness of it all, like you’ve caught a glimpse of the Queen on the toilet) but the excitement is soon replaced by a grim tedious exasperation, especially when it’s obviously so inexpertly executed and, moreover, unappreciated by both parties. I piled the pillows on my head and held my breath until I passed out. This wouldn’t happen to Michael Palin.

Song of the day:

Dead Kennedys
“Too drunk to fuck”

But in my room /
Wish you were dead
You ball like the baby in Eraserhead /
Too drunk to fuck /
Too drunk to fuck /
Too drunk, to fuck /
It's all I need right now /
Too drunk to fuck

Day 5 : Dunmere (nr Bodmin) to Launceston

2007-01-23T21:33:00.000Z

Friday 19th January 2007

Distance Walked: 35.5 miles
Start Time: 8:57
End Time: 19:10
Elapsed Time: 10:12
Weather: Strong winds. Rain. Poor visibility on moor.
Distance walked so far: 129.4 miles

I don’t know if any of you were thinking of carrying a 12kg bag for 35 miles over a desolate boggy moor and dark country roads in gale force winds and driving rain with zero visibility and aching legs having walked 100 miles in the last 4 days? If you were, my advice to you is - don’t. It is FUCKING CRAZY. At first I thought that Bodmin was a pussy cat. In fact, it’s the kind of cat that shits in your mouth when you’re asleep and then, when you wake up, it claws your tongue off.

The day before the walk started, as I was driving down to Cornwall, I got a phone call from someone I used to know who’s become something of a minor celebrity, asking me to have a small cameo in a radio show he was about to start. When I told him about what I was about to do, it was suggested that the walk was incorporated as a running feature. Now, this is all very well, but suddenly it’s a public event. Previously, barely anyone knew what I was doing. I wasn’t raising money for charity; no one was counting on me to complete it; no one would know if I finished or not; if it all got too much I could just stop and no one would be any wiser. And when you’re stuck on Bodmin Moor in terrible conditions, desperately searching for a footpath that seems to be somewhere just beyond the next few treacherous bogs, you begin to regret the lack of easy escape route from this folly.

Today the weather was bad. Very bad. Elsewhere in the country, buildings were falling, boats were sinking and people were being winched to safety. And this was the day that I decided to cross Bodmin Moor, make a couple of wrong turnings, and then walk for two hours in the dark and rain on one of the narrowest main roads you will ever see. Nice one Dave. Well done.

The Camel Trail is actually a lovely walk alongside the river on a flat comfortable path through attractive woodland, and I kept up a good pace for most of the morning. Leaving the trail, the road winds up the steep hill to Saint Breward, which may be the highest town in Cornwall, or somesuch stat. Thankfully, it had a shop which sold OS maps, so I was able to grab the map for Bodmin moor, without which the day would have been even more disastrous (if that is possible).

Now, rushed though the preparations for this walk were, I did manage to sort some of the essentials. I’ve worn glasses and contact lenses for more than fifteen years, so when I decided to actually go through with this thing I realised that it would be something of a disadvantage to be confronted with bad weather whilst wearing either. Today was the kind of day that I would’ve dreaded. So, just after Christmas, I took the plunge and got my eyes lasered. A momentous decision, and obviously I was nervous. I asked the surgeon if I’d be able to play the piano after the procedure. “Yes”, he replied “You’ll be able to play perfectly”, which was nice cos I couldn’t play at all beforehand.

So it was with my new laser eyes that I saw that my decision to persist with the climb up Brown Willy, the highest mountain in Cornwall (and most ridiculously named) was something of a waste of time as there was zero visibility at the top. That I’d wandered into a quagmire and would have to backtrack hurriedly before I was absorbed as a new bogman for future Tony Robinson’s to gawp at. That I’d ripped my waterproof trousers on a barbed wire fence when trying to vault my way eastwards to safety. And that I’d somehow missed the road turning that would’ve taken me straight to Launceston on a flat, quiet road by the river and was instead condemned to six miles of walking up and down hills in the dark on a narrow A road with busy rush-hour traffic armed only with a flashlight and a limp. Nice one Dave. Well done.

Vowing to take my first rest day tomorrow, I finally reached Launceston and collapsed into the first accommodating pub, The White Horse Inn.

Sixty-six miles of walking in two days.

Feet crushed.

Knee on fire.

All is pain.

Song of the day:

Piano Magic
“You can never get lost when you’ve nowhere to go”

I know nothing of tides /
And I’m confused by the stars /
But you can never get lost /
When you’ve nowhere to go

Day 4 : Truro to Dunmere (nr Bodmin)

2007-01-23T21:30:00.000Z

Thursday 18th January 2007

Distance Walked: 31.2 miles
Start Time: 9:07
End Time: 17:34
Elapsed Time: 8:27
Weather: Grey. Cold. Miserable.
Distance walked so far: 93.9 miles

Despite being the supposed capital city of Cornwall, Truro is a small, squat place, cascading across the junctions of the rivers Allen and Kenwyn. There is, however, a good selection of shops to replenish supplies, so before setting off in the morning I made sure that my flapjack levels were sufficient, and marched off northwards alongside the river towards Idless Wood. My general aim on the walk is to cover as many miles as possible each day, but also to end each day in a decently sized town, the premise being that it would remove the need to book accommodation in advance and increase the likelihood of finding decent food and supplies each day. The suggested route plan from Truro says that today would be a gentle 13.5 miles to Indian Queens. Recklessly reckoning that I could cover three days worth of walking in two days, I increase the pace and hope to reach the Bodmin area by nightfall. This may have been a mistake.

With my annotated map clutched firmly in my hand I made an almost perfect exit from the city and was on my way into Idless Wood. Run by the Forestry Commission, I’m sure it’s a delightful place in the spring and summer, with a multitude a walking paths through picturesque woodland trails. In a wet winter it’s hard to keep your feet long enough to admire the scenery. And anyway, all I was interested in today was mileage. There would be other days for scenery and a leisurely pace. I put my head down and headed back to the country lanes, skirting the A30 once again. Through the villages and past the farms I flew, through all manner of endearingly ludicrous place names. Cockmunch, Flange Panel and Parp they may have been. Or not. Through the quarry town of Indian Queens (a genuine name) with its Gnome World attraction and owl sanctuary, and on again. The pre-programmed route in the GPS was telling me the destination wouldn’t be reached before dark and a mild panic was beginning to set in.

I headed up and over the old fort formation of Castle-an-Dinas from which the views are supposed to be spectacular, but on a grey day like this it was difficult to see beyond the busy main road below. Clearly the farmer who owns the land below is not too happy about the fact that a public footpath runs through his property as he’d decided to place a herd of particularly frisky bulls in the field and as they darted towards me on the descent I was forced to make a comically inept escape over the barbed wire fence.

Maybe that’s when the knee finally gave up, or more likely it’s just an accumulation of abuse, of going too far, too fast, on too much tarmac, but it soon became apparent that I was unable to bend it fully and it was extremely painful to the touch. And I’d also developed my first blisters of the trip, underneath the little toe of my left foot.

With torch strapped to my head I finally approached Dunmere, a village straddling the Camel Trail, my route for tomorrow, which is a long flat walking/cycling trail that follows the route of the River Camel northwards towards Saint Breward and the moor. Thankfully I tracked down a B&B in an old lodge house, which was run by a delightfully eccentric looking man who looked like a Captain who’d lost his army and didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He also had a peculiar limp, and as I hobbled up the stairs behind him I hoped he wouldn’t notice my similar affliction and think I was mocking him, if only because I doubted I’d be able to find another B&B if he kicked me out.

I swiftly doused my swollen knee with deep heat, which seemed to do nothing but make my leg unbelievably hot. And you wouldn’t believe how much vaseline I had to smother on my nethers to soothe my frictioned arse. And somehow I’ve developed a massive black bruise on my inner thigh. What the hell is going on? I spent the evening in the pub, overlooking the trail, drinking as much muscle relaxant as I could. I’m going to need it.

Song of the day:

Jackson C. Frank

“Blues run the game”

Try another city baby /

Another town /
Wherever I have gone /

Wherever I’ve bin and gone /
The blues come following down

Day 3 : Tregathenan (nr Helston) to Truro

2007-01-21T20:47:00.000Z

Wednesday 17th January 2007

Distance Walked: 21.5 miles
Start Time: 9:11
End Time: 15:54
Elapsed Time: 6:43
Weather: Grey. Cold. Miserable.
Distance walked so far: 62.7 miles

This is where the reality kicks in. Anyone can walk along a path for a couple of days. Not everyone can walk for day after day, when there is no path, along road edges, fields, moors, hills and mountains. That’s the challenge here, and it hits me almost immediately today. On a shitty grey day, I realise the value of preparation. Of paths. And maps.

You see, I don’t have a map for today’s route. I meant to get one, but I didn’t have the chance. And this causes problems.

Let me tell you about GPS devices. I bought a Garmin GPS device for this walk. The GPSmap 60CSx. It’s great. A neat little black gadget. It will tell me where I am and it will save me life. Of that I’m certain. What’s not great about it is that the digital maps that are supplied with it are so ridiculously basic that they are fundamentally unusable. You can however purchase, for a further £150, the Topo software which provides more detailed maps, for a limited area, to be downloaded to your device. You can also purchase the Memory-Map software which will allow you to pre-plan a route and export this to your device. The software for the whole of Britain costs £200. The device may save my life, but I was beginning to wonder whether that would be a wise financial investment. So I just went for the Memory-Map stuff. This means that I vaguely know which way I should be heading, without knowing precisely where I am or which road/path I should be following. This causes problems. And I experienced most of those problems today.

Today was spent pounding along tarmac, on a miserable wet day, walking on narrow Cornish lanes. With Cornish cars. And Cornish drivers. I felt completely unwanted. The only thing visible from Cornish Lanes are hedges and the occasional cow. The route suggested by McCloy mentions pleasant footpaths and country routes, but the footpaths that I found were impassable waterlogged bogs. Without an OS map I wasn’t entirely sure which country lane to take at each junction, and found myself dragged imperceptibly towards the foreboding A30. The A30 is a great road. Ploughing straight through the heart of Devon and Cornwall ,it plunges right to the very tip of the country; miles of slick, unadulterated, smooth tarmac, taming the wild moors and hills that surround it. It must be bliss for the end-to-enders who choose to travel on wheels. For walkers it is a constant torment. All surrounding roads are sucked towards it, and it is virtually impossible to avoid crossing it an some point of the walk. It's a constant reminder to the walker of the slow and antiquated progress they are making.

I finally worked out where I should be going but the necessary detour added unwanted mileage to the day and by the time I finally reached Truro my feet felt completely flattened. I wearily admired the cathedral, though fittingly it is encroached on all sides by a ghastly collection of shops and distasteful concrete monstrostities. The Phones 4 U salesmen next door are the modern clergy. Maybe if the Church rebranded as the ChristFaith Warehouse they'd start pulling in the punters again.

Booking a B&B through the Tourist Information Centre, I also purchased as many of the relevant OS maps that I could find and spent the evening tending to my aching joints and planning the route for tomorrow. I don’t mind walking, but it’s the meaningless extra miles that really get me down.

Song of the day:

Andrew Bird

“Headsoak”

I was walking /

With my feet /
A disposition /

Fell over me

Day 2 : Penzance to Tregathenan (nr Helston)

2007-01-21T20:41:00.003Z

Tuesday 16th January 2007

View Larger Map

Distance Walked: 22.4 miles
Start Time: 9:30
End Time: 17:06
Elapsed Time: 8:06
Weather: Cold and sunny early on; overcast and drizzly later
Distance walked so far: 41.2 miles

Penzance looks tired. An attempt has clearly been made to smarten the edges, but at heart it’s a fishing village that entices summer visitors with its relatively large selection of shops and restaurants. In winter it’s largely dormant. I walk along the seafront and follow the curved shore of Mount’s Bay eastward. As the morning sun emerges it becomes impossible to look away from the growing silhouette of the island castle across the bay. It seems impossibly perfect from this distance. A fairytale castle on a fantasy island, reached by a magic causeway. Or a ferry. Of course, at this time of the year, it’s closed. Taking the opportunity, with the elderly dog walkers, to walk along the beach, I symbolically dip my boots in the sea. Soon the end to end route will head north and won’t encounter the coast again until northern Scotland, if I make it that far.

The Coast Path emerges again and dips in and out of coves and bays. The scenery is unquestionably fantastic, and I realise that the first two days of this walk are almost certainly spoiling me. Here there’s always something to look at. It won’t always be the case. At regular points the walker is confronted with a choice of routes; up and over the cliffs or along the shore. After a couple of misjudged choices along the lower route which resulted in scrambling over rocks I realised that I had enough of a challenge ahead of me without having to put myself through such an obstacle course.

On the cliff tops the senses are assaulted by field after field of rotting cabbage stalks, and the accompanying stink. Fishing isn’t the only industry in this part of the world. With the wind at my back I speed on and finally reach Porthleven, and my first pub of the walk, The Harbour Inn, which disappointingly is a modern, tacky and sanitised affair. Still, I reckon I’ve made good time and have plenty of opportunity to reach my B&B for the night in Helston before the light fades, so I enjoy a leisurely pint whilst the TV jukebox spews Sam & Mark’s classic cover of “With a little help from my friends” into my eyes.

It’s only when I’m back on the road that I realise that the B&B isn’t actually in Helston. It’s further than that. Over a couple of really steep hills. I consider walking to Helston anyway, but decide against it. I’m not confident enough yet to just turn up somewhere in the hope that I’ll be able to find accommodation, even though my destination, Tregathenan, is in the middle of nowhere and would almost certainly mean no dinner for me tonight.

I plough on as the dusk falls. Pounding up mud strewn lanes, I walk past herd after herd of miserable looking European youths coming the other way. Bus loads of them. Stopping to chat with one of the drivers, it turns out that they’re the workforce who pick the daffodils that are emerging at this time of year.

When I finally reach the B&B in darkness, it became clear that I had nothing to worry about. Ian and Liz were delightful, allowed me to get cleaned up, ran me back to the good pub in Porthleven, The Ship Inn, and then took me to their regular Tuesday night quiz at The Crown Inn. Whilst I’m dubious that we weren't cheated out of a victory, so pleased were they with our second place that the packed lunch in the morning is wrapped with a tenderness that I will do well not to expect from all my future hosts.

Song of the day:

Bill Fay
“Omega Day”

Inside a bar of a sleeping town /
there lay a sleeping man /
he wore a frown
A stranger woke him /
he looked around /
then he spoke /
I wrote it down

Day 1 : Land's End to Penzance

2007-01-18T21:21:00.000Z

Monday 15th January 2007

Distance Walked: 18.8 miles
Start Time: 9:25
End Time: 15:16
Weather: Cold and sunny early on; overcast and drizzly later
Distance walked so far: 18.8 miles

Weekly Audio Update: Dave on The Steve Show - Day 0

"So, you're really doing it then?"
"Yep"
"It's not a wind up?"
"Nope"
"Bit of a cry for a help, isn't it"
"Possibly"
"Y'know, if you're lonely, you just need to say"
"Thanks"
"You don't have to put yourself through all this just to get some attention"
"Right"
"They have help groups and everything these days"
"Oh really"
"And drugs"
"Yes...look, I don't mean to be rude, but who the hell are you and will you please get out of my house?"

........

There was no one at Land's End when it started. Just Nikki and me. In January, Cornwall is closed. The small tacky theme park on the edge of this westernmost cliff was deserted. It was so early that the man who owns the official Land's End sign (and charges people to take photos, a nice little earner!) had not yet surfaced. Only the landmark's stump remained. In an attempt to avoid analogies, metaphors and similes in this account I shan't analyse the significance of this.

I'm not the first person to have attempted this of course, to walk from Land's End to John O'Groats, and some of those who have succeeded have organised themselves into a little club, to bask in their own achievements. They have badges and merchandising, and there is a form that prospective applicants have to get stamped at Post Offices en route to validate their walk. Their clubhouse sits amongst the theme park attractions. As it as closed I was unable to obviously snub them. No form for me. That's not why I'm doing it.

So why am I doing it, people ask? I have no idea. Maybe the real reason will dawn on me as I go. All I know for certain is that I can see no reason not to do it, and right now that's good enough for me.
........

I haven't prepared much for this. I haven't definitively decided on a route. It's been a spur of the moment decision to attempt a forgotten long-held ambition. I've jacked in the day job in the hope that the time that this walk will take will allow me to think about what I'd really like to do with myself. As far as fitness is concerned, I've done some walking, and I've done some running. I've consulted the excellent website of Mark Moxon and I've purchased the book by Andrew McCloy. I've got the gear. I've got the time. Everything else I'll discover on the way.

There are three routes from Land's End. North along the South West Coast Path; centrally alongside the A30; or south along the Coast Path to Penzance. I like the coast, and having a vague idea of what's to come later on I like the idea of a path so I head south east, into the rising sun. No need for maps here, as everything is clearly signposted. Don't underestimate the coast path though. The views are fantastic, with bay after sandy bay coming into view, but it's hard work. Pounding up and down sharp cliffs takes its toll. Someone tells me that walking the entire length of the coast path is the equivalent of going up and down Everest three times. It's the kind of stat that I would struggle to disprove so I accept it as fact and pass it on to you, unquestioned.
I pass all manner of tiny fishing villages, all of which appear to be closed. I eat my flapjack and sing to the seagulls. As the drizzle starts, I approach Mousehole (pronounced Mowzel, to be awkward) and the impressive sweep of the Penzance harbour comes into view with the silhouette of Saint Michaels Mount in the distance. Even on a grey evening it looks good, but typically it's not quite as good as Mont Saint Michel, the French equivalent, which is altogether bigger, better and more flamboyant (and has a bigger car park to match). I rattle past the fish warehouses of Newlyn and I'm done. I sit in a shelter overlooking the sea, and try to work out what percentage of the total distance I've just completed. It's tiny. I'm joined in the shelter by four dishevelled men of East European extraction, drinking litre bottles of Stella. Maybe a true adventurer would've engaged them in fractured conversation, accompanied them in their descent into brain mushing numbness, and awoken four days later in a ditch in Riga but, not yet quite brave enough for such an experience, I slink away and sidle back to the B&B to celebrate a disaster-free start.

I was thirty two today.

Song of the day:

Jackson Browne
"These Days"

I've been out walking /
I don't do too much talking these days /
These days I seem to think a lot /
About the things that I forgot to do /
And all the time I had the chance to