Staggering Home For Christmas

4:43am

(1) The alarm does its obscene ungodly hour trilling thing

(2) Howard springs cheerfully out of bed.

Only one of these statements is true.

At least it's not cold, in fact it's a disturbing 13 degrees C .... at 04:43? .... on the 17th December?, so what we need is unlimited fracking. Apparently.

The 740 turns up early; Vic (our chauffeur for this morning) is legendary in his disregard of the niceties of the published timetable. After tanking along for twenty minutes at the ragged edge of the speed limiting device, we must be getting pretty close to the point at which the Doppler Effect breaks down or the overpressure sucks the windows out. As the bus pulls out of Gerrards Cross in the dark, the prospect of being slightly later to work seems slightly subversive. Not going all the way to Stockley Park? I feel like Winston Smith deliberately messing up the sock drawer of the Big Brother house.

"You're getting off a bit early today aren't you?" says Colin (Heathrow baggage control).

"He doesn't know where he's going" quips Alan (Heathrow security).

I give them a smug "Hey I'm just a crazy guy" wave and leap off into the Buckinghamshire darkness.

They're right. I have got off way too early, at least two stops too early, and it feels like I've jumped into a swamp or the entrails of a disembowelled diplodocus. The tangy whiff of dinosaur intestine is enough to get me moving and I'm soon waving cheerily to the happy motorists on the M25 as they speed off to their high impact board meetings and their intensive executive lunches. They decide not to wave back in case I take it as a cue to leap off the bridge and make a mess of the "Pearl Effect Daytona Grey" paintwork on their brand new Audis.

The garage that used to be Boyz Toyz (or Carz 4 Twatz) seems to have had an un-makeover and would now make a good scene for a low budget film about 1980's football gangs (let's call it "The Firm"). It looks lonely and deserted now apart from a strange scene being enacted by two shady characters lurking in front of a battered minibus.

They shake hands.

Two inappropriately dressed ladies get out of the minibus and wander dejectedly over to a Renault Clio. They look like they've just returned from a heavy night on the town in Darlington .... or Minsk.

The Clio must have been used in the violent opening scene of "The Firm" because the passenger door has definitely been on the receiving end of a good sized lump of timber and neither Tracy/Olga nor Kylie/Devochkina can get it open. They make do with the back seat. The minibus disappears in the direction of the M40 and the Renault limps off in the direction of Beaconsfield. The bloke in the minibus seems to be the happier with the deal, so maybe it isn't people trafficking after all, but all a bit strange at this hour. To be fair it's nearly 9am in Minsk and 1885 in Darlington.

My GPS tracker still isn't tracking, so these are free unrecorded miles. Not sure where the satellites have got to. Maybe they've all been worn out by having to beaming Major Tim Peake's unrelenting smile into everyone's living room.

Not far past the Gerrards Cross fire station (it says fire station, but they don't seem to have the equipment for tackling much more than a piece of burnt toast or rescuing a cat from the top of a medium-sized bonsai); the streetlights run out, so I can't see where I'm going. What was a pretty decent pavement has turned into a fetid bog cut straight from Southern Comfort or Deliverance. The sweet smelling Buckinghamshire air is replaced by something not so sweet; a bit early for trenchfoot, but you never know. The bog gets boggier and by the time I get to the bottom of the hill I could easily be mistaken for a Sealed Knot Society splinter group doing a one-man Passchendaele renactment. 

This is the junction with the road to Watford where the HS2 Nimbys have their main anti-marketing campaign.

The sign says "Bury HS2". 

Seems unlikely. I've been to Gigg Lane several times and you're lucky if you see a horse and cart let alone a steam train.

The Shell garage on the corner has a large cut-out picture of a policeman in the window. Not sure whether he's there as a deterrent for criminals whose vision only works in two dimensions or if they are actively touting for business from the law (free muffin and clock radio with twenty litres of 4-star to anyone who can whistle the theme tune from Dixon Of Dock Green).

As the M40 hoves into view, I catch sight of a man loitering furtively by the side of the road. He's cradling a large canvas bag with the tell-tale bulges of the greased-up parts of a disassembled Kalashnikov. The fact that he's written "TOOLS" on the side using a black marker pen is fooling nobody. However, before I can disarm him/wrestle him to the ground, he's whisked off by a small unmarked van with Hungarian plates. The van seems to be chasing another vehicle, a pick-up  with "Nelson Dairies" emblazoned on the side. Disappointingly there's no "England expects 2 pints and a small tub of double cream" or "Engage the enemy more closely with gold top from Nelson's" slogans on the side, although someone has drawn a crude picture of Lady Hamilton in a state of undress in the dirt on the tailboard. 

The Magyars move alongside, but intimidated by the presence of Britain's greatest naval hero, they run their guns back in before broadsides are traded and Nelson saves the nation again.

Perhaps this rear-admiral/milk retail occupational duality is what Napoleon meant by England being a nation of shopkeepers. "You make it Boney, we'll sell it".

Sadly, in the space of only two centuries we have become a nation of clueless DIY superstore assistants. 

"Yes Wayne, I can read the label too, but what I asked is why it costs £10 more than the other one".

On the Oxford Road into Uxbridge I come across a sign that lights up when people drive past too quickly. For me it changes from "Slow Down 30" to "Over The Hill 52".

I only work out that it means that I'm past it .... after I've passed it. On the plus side, I'll be able to do this journey with a free bus pass before long.

The sky is changing from Event Horizon Black to Sinking Battleship Grey and even the soggy wreaths on the lampposts can't lift the spirits of the ghost of Uxbridge Christmas present. Although it's still quite early at The Good Yarn (ye locale 'spoons), the prospect of hanging around for an 8:30 budget fry-up and a couple of pints of 7.2% Black Dragon cider seems pretty tempting, but there's some serious Christmas window shopping to be done. Superdrug is selling box sets of Lynx toiletries for a price that seems ludicrous until you realise that they probably picked up ingredients for their "Dark Temptation" range for nothing when President Assad had to hand over his chemical weapons stockpile.

Just past Waterstone's and its Christmas Gruffalo mountain, a man appears to be stealing olive trees from the front of a cafe, or maybe they are just heading back to the Amalfi coast to be with the arboreal family tree for the Yuletide festivities. This spot of forest-rustling aside, there's not much else going on at 6:30 except a large delivery of "Artery Blocker Pasties" to Greggs and an upmarket couple who wander into a mini-mart leaving their Jersey island registered sports car running outside. I consider leaping in and taking the motor for a spin around the town, but this is a charity walk after all. 

Hillingdon Road is a "game of two halves". On one side is the "exciting" new St Andrews housing development, with its executive housing and care home (you can live and die here). According to the marketing board it's also "steeped in military history" which just is a disclaimer in case someone unearths some unstable WW2 munitions and the whole development has to be evacuated. On the other side of the road is Jack's Fish & Chips. 

Someone has posted a helpful comment on Yelp. Explains why it's so windy.
 

Not sure why tripadvisor has a section on "Things to do near Jack's Fish And Chips", but perhaps Japanese tourists have travelled specifically to the UK for their mushy peas and would like to take photos of other local landmarks and historic monuments afterwards. One other thing you can do round here is marvel at the quality of the gardening. Many of the houses have installed "Urban Rockeries", which is basically a skip full of avocado bathroom tiles and builders rubble on the front lawn. Like Zen gardens of beautifully raked gravel nothing can grow here apart from Japanese Knotweed, but this is more a statement about aspiration rather than authenticity ..... said the man from Oldham who chose to live in Swindon.

After a drive-by shouting from a man in a high-vis jacket on a wobbly push iron, I turn off towards Brunel Uni and the hospital. It's bin collection day and judging by the mountains of cardboard packaging by the side of the road, Amazon will be dodging even more tax this year. Heaven knows what mountains of electronic gadgets people will be giving their kids, but it won't be the small Dickensian stocking we had. Back in the 70's you were lucky to have electricity to cook your Butterball (became a big hit for Oasis two decades later) turkey let alone any actual gifts. You might get an Action Man with gripping hands and a "real" beard that made him look like the grumpy man from next door who'd never give your ball back when you accidentally booted it over his fence. Of course there would always be a boardgame from Waddingtons like Buccaneer or Exploration or one of the million obscure titles they produced before they went bust. It was rumoured that Bardsley's book shop on Y**kshire Street had a rare copy of Grey Top (the game of milk delivery and ladies fashion behind the Iron Curtain). The Christmas stocking ensemble would be completed by a Terry's chocolate orange which could only be separated by hurling it against the garage wall (tap and unwrap my arse). One year in ten you might get a bottom of the range Raleigh that would actually have been lighter if it was constructed entirely out of depleted uranium.

This wistful trip down Memory Lane is all very well, but I actually need Kingston Lane, Pield Heath Road, Colham Green Road and a gentle amble through the golf course. I arrive ahead of schedule at 7:30 with 7 miles on the clock. Just time for coffee, an end of year 1:1 and the last effort tracker of 2015 before heading back onto the road just after 10.

I'm behind hand now, so it's a quick trot along Horton Road where the Tesla showroom rubs shoulders with "Yes Marble Ltd". Not sure there's a market for lifesize statues of Rick Wakeman, but you can never tell with Prog Rock fans. Next to Yes Marble is a company called "Sel"; one letter at a time presumably.

Onto the towpath at West Drayton which the recent monsoon weather has turned into soup. Even with decent walking shoes it's like trying to climb up the side of a glass building liberally spread with "I Can't Believe That People Don't Think This Is Stork". Opposite the new waterside developments is a massive Tesco who are apparently helping us to spend less (a bit like George Osborne). Judging by the size of the people pushing shopping trolleys in the car park, we're not spending less on biscuits.

Most of the narrow boats here don't look like they've moved in the last 100 years and have set up washing lines and little gardens. Just to prove the point, Gandalf's stunt double (that's stunt as in very short) pops out of one and says "Arrrr". Maybe he thinks that's how all waterborne coves should communicate, or maybe he's just been smoking too much weed already this morning.

Further along is the good ship "Thorium 90". Moored up on the far bank and given a wide berth by all the other boats, I'm disappointed not to see blokes in full NBC gear with leadlined suitcases. Perhaps it had aspirations to be a nuclear submarine, but failed the exams. A <insert collective noun> of cherry pickers lie idle in a large compound. Not like the wonderfully named King Lifting near Stockley Park who always seem to be busy. Now that Juan Carlos has abdicated, you'd think they'd be quiet too, but perhaps Felipe VI needs a regular hoisting.

It's a mixed bag on the pub front. The Water's Edge hasn't turned back from holiday cottages into a pub, but the General Eliot has had a lick of paint and there's a board showing the entertainment options out front. Judging from the poster, this consists of three middle-aged ladies in unflattering Bavarian folk costumes and a couple who seem to be spilling Lambrusco over each other. Probably best not to ask. The Malt Shovel is much more inviting, but it's not quite opening time, so I'm saved from an early ale-related distraction and I push on to the centre of Uxbridge. Just time to boo at Parexel and marvel at the plump of moorhens (no charm of finches here) that are pecking around the beer garden of the Swan And Bottle. The avian invasion is being overseen by a scraggy cormorant that looks like it lost a fight with a garden waste shredder.

Just round the corner we're tempted by the Rucola restaurant which advertises a Frank Sinatra tribute, an Elvis tribute and Robbie Williams. Perhaps he should have swallowed his pride and carried on with the reformed Take That. He could always become a Robbie Williams tribute if things get rough. If the Rucola is too upmarket then there's always Burger Kebab Galaxy which is either a very weird chocolate flavour or something akin to the Horsehead Nebula. Maybe there's a Godfather somewhere who's woken up with a pile of meat-based fast food in his bed.

Under the M40 and the back route towards Denham village I get an idea of how the other half (or in Bucks, more than half) live. Nestled amongst the 4x4's and the industrial sized patio heaters is a substation (even posh families need electricity). On the gate at the front is the usual "Help Prevent A Tragedy" sign. Someone has added "Sack David Moyes" underneath.

The ostentatiousness (a real word apparently) meter reaches 11 with Denham Court Farm. On the sign outside there's a a picture of a rectangular cow with a tiny head. Clearly livestock were kept aboard Thorium 90 while Noah was waiting for the winter floods to subside.

I arrive at the Green Man just as the sun climbs over the yard arm, if the yard arm wasn't obscured by low clouds. With the Rebellion IPA off, the beer options are limited to some Greene King nastiness and London Pride, but the Pride turns out to be drinkable and the company is excellent. I natter with work colleagues past and future about the impending holiday season, family foibles and not working too hard. Consistent with my forthcoming autobiography "Life Of Pie" I order the Steak and Guinness offering, but as usual it fails to meet EU regulations by having heretical puff pastry which only covers the top. I ring the pastry ombudsman OfPie and demand that the pub is closed within the week.

The road up to Denham Golf Club is narrow and busy and I'm passed three times by the same cyclist who is lost, weird or on the world's shortest and least adventurous étape du tour. 

The Denham Golf Club (the club, not the station) has about 5 million churlish "Trespassers will be turned into dog food" signs and a couple of "Please take care. Golfers crossing". No amount of peevish tutting can correct this obvious inconsistency, but I give it a good shot. This only attracts the attention of a gaggle of greenkeepers who are burying a couple of trespassers in a shallow grave by the water hazard on the tricky 8th. I would make a run for it, but my Walking With The Wounded hi-vis has slipped off my rucksack and wrapped itself round my ankles. I have visions of being beaten to death with bunker rakes, but they've had their fun for the day and I stagger off unharmed. 

Going under the M25 bridge feels like I'm escaping from Mordor, but I'm only half way home and what it's got in its pocketses is getting heavy. Slade Oak Lane becomes Denham Lane, but it's really the same road that goes ever on and on and my little legs are starting to feel a bit hobbity. The grey clouds that having being saying rain for the last hour show they actually mean it. Adding a waterproof to the t-shirt, shirt, fleece and hi-vis ensemble is like being a sweaty boil-in-the-bag meal, so I try to strip down by the side of the road. Not the kind of show that would get me a job as an "exotic dancer" in the White Horse on Oxford Road in Wycombe, but desperate times, etc.

After retrieving sparkly leotard and feather boa from a puddle I push on past the sign for Recycling Centre and Scout Camp. "Soylent Green is cub scouts!". There's an incident outside the local school that requires the intervention of two burly policepeople. The WPC wouldn't look out of place in the defensive line of the Steelers, so I try not to make eye contact in case I fall foul of the Police Act 1996 s 89 "looking at a police officer funny in the course of doing her duty".

From here it's a gentle amble down into Chalfont St Poshname.

The rain gets harder.

Just before the local Leisure Centre there's a man trying not to fall off a garage roof. He's getting very wet and very cross. The cable for his Christmas decorations has got snagged on the downpipe of the guttering and he's trying to get his wife to venture out from the shelter of the kitchen porch to help. His patience and festive spirit run out; "Oi, do you want this f**king reindeer up here or not".

I've reached the end of civilisation and the start of Welders Lane. It's very narrow, very wet and now very dark, so it's on with the head torch and the flashing rear bike light. For the next 40 minutes I'm playing an alternative version of "why did the chicken cross the road?", called "how can Howard stop himself from being flattened like a hedgehog by hanging on to a barbed wire fence?"

The wider expanse of Longbottom Lane is a false dawn and it's just an excuse for the drivers to go faster and with more lethal intent. I have to make the difficult choice of death by road traffic accident or death by drowning. Drowning wins, although I still get a call from PARASITICAL-AMBULANCE-CHASING-LAWYERS-4-U.COM suggesting a no win no fee action. First against the wall when the revolution comes (after Nigella and Trinny & Susannah and anyone related to a Kardashian).

By the time I get to Beaconsfield, I've integrated another 4 kilos of mud into my walking gear and had a mayday message from Allan who I'm supposed to meet in the Royal Standard at Forty Green. He's trapped in the car park by a new tributary of the Zambezi. He leaves the car to its fate and we try unsuccessfully to rendezvous near the Model Village. A Model tsunami carries away the Model Adams Park leaving the Model Wycombe Wanderers to be rescued by the Model lifeboat.

The brave model lads from the Bekonscot RNLI launch to save Gareth Ainsworth's model survivors

Using a system of semaphore, shouting and mobile phones we finally track each other down and try to get back to the pub. By this time I've lost track of where I am on the map and my GPS tracker has frozen, so we're lost in music, caught in a trap, no turning back and we're stuck in a housing estate where even the inflatable Santa looks like he might mug you for a mince pie. At least we have our his and his hi-vis jackets, so stand out like glow-in-the-dark Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

The Royal Standard is completely empty, but all the tables and even the bar stools are Reserved. It's nice to feel wanted. I try to make myself look less grubby, but I'd need a car wash for that. Still, there's an excellent pint of Windsor & Eton Mandarin on offer courtesy of my walking cheerleader and eventually the bar staff take pity on us and shoo us onto a corner table. After chatting for a goodly while, it's time to head off again. Allan manages to steer his car through the flood and I yomp down a misty lane towards Holtspur. Something seems to have gone wrong with my legs. Perhaps I should phone Sam Winder (Osteopath) whose clinic in Iver Heath I'd noticed on a previous stupid walk. A big intellectual leap from making taking hits for the Broncos to advising people about how to deal with their back problems, but I'm sure he'll know what's wrong.

H : My legs have stopped working and my feet hurt

Sammy : The foot bone's connected to the ankle bone, the ankle bone's chafing on the shin bone, the shin bone's grinding on the knee bone, the knee bone's scraping on the thigh bone, the thigh bone's connected to the .... actually the thigh bone doesn't appear to be connected to anything at all.

The rain has finally started to ease, but I feel like a Highland Terrier that fell into a dishwasher. Or in this case a dishdirtyer. 

Even though I'm back on track for time, the bright lights of The Harvester can't tempt me in; there's only so much iceberg lettuce a man can manage in a lifetime. I get a call from my son, who is risking a trip on an Arriva bus (even the kids who cling to the outside of trains in the subcontinent have been known to choose to walk instead) to meet me in Wooburn. 

Half way down the hill from Holtspur in the pitch dark I stumble across two lads who seem to be reenacting the Darth Vader/Obi-Wan Kenobi light sabre duel with their mobile phones. They look surprised to see anyone in the middle of nowhere on such a wretched night, but give their best "your powers are weak old man" pitying stares. How right they are. My stride pattern now resembles Spotty Dog from The Woodentops (the puppet TV show not the band) and only the prospect of crisps, beer and more crisps and more beer and crisps at the next boozer are keeping me from seizing up altogether.

For some reason I expect red carpet treatment, keys to the village, bunting and ticker tape, but I'm nearly taken out by a Volvo on a zebra crossing instead. I assume he's black and white colourblind and give him the benefit of the doubt because the lights of the The Queen & Albert are twinkling in a "come hither" configuration. I get two pints of the Rebellion Roasted Nuts and a catering sized collection of salty snacks and wait for Joe to arrive. Some young city types are yapping in a loud self-important way, so I complete the top row of my Bucks bingo card ("DERIVATIVES", "TOBY", "TAKEOVER") before the first pint has settled.

Joe finally appears after his white-knuckle bus ride.

Arriva's tagline is "Transport Leader, Talented People, Responsible Business", but 

"We get there eventually, bring a sick bag and a long novel" would be more appropriate. He tries not to look disappointed by the fact that I've nearly finished his pint as well as mine, but cheers up when we find time to squeeze in one more for the road.

Ah yes, the road. By now it feels like I'm pushing a lawnmower up Snowdon with the handbrake on (a bad dose of Sisyphus perhaps), but the barley-based anaesthetic is starting to kick in, so we make it to the General Havelock without losing any personnel. Caroline and Elisabeth form the welcoming committee and it's straight to the jugular with the Titanic Plum Porter which tastes like a mixture of Slivovitz, gravy and hydraulic fluid. We engage in what I'm sure is polite, witty and erudite conversation, but is probably me shouting, pointing and dribbling. At some point they bundle me out of a side entrance or the toilet window and we toddle home.

My Garmin says 29.9 miles. The Proclaimers say 500 miles. The odometer on my left ankle has stopped functioning, but in the scheme of things and relative to the wounded servicemen and women trying to rebuild their lives after shattering injury it's nothing ..... really nothing.

Solo Training Walk (27km Stockley Park to High Wycombe ... The Long Walk Home II)

Slightly delayed getting out of work means a bit of flustration along the stretch to West Drayton. A bloke on a mountain bike is shouting at someone on his phone and there's an I go right, he goes right, I go left he goes left moment when it looks like one or both of us is going to end up in the canal. He says something in Polish which probably translates into English as "I say old chap, recalibrate your radar or we may end up in the drink" or possibly "Get out of the way you moron". I respond with a witty "Dowiedz sie, jak cykl w linii prostej jest cholernym idiota", which makes him chuckle in the way that a serial killer might chuckle. I'm saved by the fact that he can't cycle, phone and fracture my skull all at the same time.

At this point I have a phone call from home to tell me I don't have suncream on.
"How does she know?"
This requires a detour along Yiewsley High Street. I can buy lots of things at the pharmacy but no suncream, so I'm forced to run the gauntlet of TOWIM (The Only Way Is Middlesex) wannabees at premier department store Wilkinsons. As I enter the store a voice over the tannoy says "Security Code 100". I take this to mean that any minute now, a burly security guard is going to jump out from behind Home Furnishings and wrestle me to the ground until my rucksack has been immobilised. Presumably the security guard is on his break because I make it to the suncream display without been accosted. Other than a dodgy brand that I've never heard of, I have the choice of Nivea at £5 or Wilko own brand at £3, which is no choice at all really. You can take the boy out of the North, but you can't take the North out of the boy. Outside the shop the reason for the price differential becomes obvious. Wilko suncream has the consistency of a 1:1 mix of PVA glue and beef dripping. After 5 minutes of vigorous rubbing, no cream has actually been assimilated and it looks like I have particularly nasty skin complaint. At least if I fall in the canal my face won't get wet.

Just then the sun goes in.

The Residents get punchy over a misplaced apostrophe

To get back onto the canal towpath, I engage in a one man protest against Tesco by wilfully walking through their car park with no intention of making a purchase.
"Ha!  That'll show them".
As usual Tesco have the last laugh by displaying a sign that says "Resident's Parking Only". They've obviously done their homework about my grammar/spelling OCD.
I put on my casual "Ho, ho, I'm sure that's because only one resident can park there" face, but it doesn't work and I can almost hear the evil chortling of the man watching the CCTV.

"Curse you Mr Tesco"

A stone in my right shoe provides a timely distraction. I go through the usual rigmarole of taking my shoe off and shaking the nonexistent stone out while hopping around in circles. I put the shoe back on. The "stone" is still there. More hopping, shoe shaking, sock changing and foot rubbing fails to dislodge the "stone", but provides amusement for the local narrow boat crew who are sat on the roof of their barge, getting very stoned.

I'm now well behind the clock and the 9pm arrival time target is starting to look optimistic, so a pace injection is required. At the Denham roundabout I'm nearly mown down by an empty open-top bus with tatty union jack bunting. The red, white and blue theme is extended to the paintwork, but the patriotic effect is spoiled by the fact that it looks like it was painted with children's (Tesco take note) finger paints, by children, with their fingers.

I decide to give "the land that time forgot lane"/Zambezi confluence a miss this time. Walking along the A40 isn't as much fun, but it's a lot drier and by the time I cross the M25 and reach The Apple Tree (nope, sorry, still not that desperate) I've made some time back. Head, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes are all letting me know that they aren't happy. It'll be important for the real walk that we don't try to push on too quickly at the start.

I finish up the last of my water and have visions of crawling towards an untimely death by the BP Garage. I'm not sold on the idea of having my eyes picked out by crows by the side of the A40, so I phone ahead to arrange a rendezvous at the drinking oasis that is The General Havelock.

They're still filming Disney-nasty Maleficent at Bulstrode Park. After the previous "Angelina Jolie mistaken identity lingerie theft incident", Brad's clearly had a word and I'm now monitored by two security guards. One of them looks reasonably handy, but I reckon I could outpace the second one from the comfort of an armchair.

The walk is now becoming a slog and the bravado novelty of walking home is wearing thin, but I am cheered by the grubby looking animal that is stuck on top of the White Hart in Beaconsfield. It looks like a cat that has made its (Tesco take note) way onto the roof and can't get down, only bigger and not so white. Perhaps the fire brigade were called, but decided that they didn't have the gear to lift it down.

The last few miles from Beaconsfield to Wycombe seem to take forever, but I finally arrive at the pub and order salty snacks to replace the salt and beer to replace the .... errrr .... beer. Pints of Summer Ale and Wild River go down very nicely and I'm now ready to take on the tricky quarter of a mile walk home.

Chips are purchased, eggs are fried, the world is suddenly a beautiful place.

Training Walk V (72km South Downs/Tring double-header) .... Like A Hurricane

Two days walking in different locations; this is the walking equivalent of the two centre holiday, assuming your two centres are Srebrenica and South Central LA.

Day 1 - South Downs Way
Today's walk is designed to cover some of the real South Downs Trailwalker route to get familiar with the section that we'll be walking in the dark in July. The theory is that we're less likely to get lost if we've seen the ground before. There's absolutely nothing worse than having to backtrack a couple of miles or running the risk of being carried off by big sweaty bears, just because we got lost. OK, listening to Boyzone's Greatest Hits is worse, but I'm hoping that won't be a problem on a long distance footpath in Sussex at three in the morning. If we do see Ronan Keating warming up for a rendition of No Matter What we can always smother him with my Cag-in-a-Bag. Breathable fabric?  I don't think so Ronan.

We kick off midmorning with a rendezvous at Matt's house and a nervous peek at the weather forecast. There are amber warnings of rain and gales in the south, so heading off to the south seems somewhat foolish. It's probably too much to hope that the "occasional" sunny intervals have an occasion that lasts nine hours, so we've packed waterproof everything. Even Pete's chicken drumsticks have a Gore-Tex-Mex coating.

The plan is for Derek to drive us down towards Brighton and park up at Trailwalker Checkpoint 8. We then head to Checkpoint 9, back to 8, then to 7 and finish up at 8. [Ed. No I don't understand it either]. The idea is that we can leave kit in the car and pick it up as we pass Checkpoint 8 later in the walk. The confusing itinerary should also help to give Irish boy bands the slip in the event that Stephen Gately is miraculously resurrected for a comeback tour. Unfortunately this to and fro direction changing means that half of the directions from the Trailwalker have to be read backwards.
"Road slip along left turn and road concrete follow"
What?

When we arrive at Checkpoint 8, it's almost impossible to get the car doors open because of the wind. At least the view is very nice when your eyes stop watering and the windmills (Jack & Jill) are both impressive. I assume they're not going round due to broken crowns, tumbling after or the wrong kind of wind.
Ask the expert #8 : Why are the windmills called Jack & Jill
- The windmills were probably first given the names of Jack and Jill by day trippers, taking the train from London to Brighton in the late 1920s.
Of course the first job is to get some calories on board, but it's difficult to find somewhere where you don't have to lean at 45 degrees to avoid being blown off the hill. By lying on a damp grassy bank we get out of the worst of the wind, but the environment is not exactly conducive to the fine dining experience that we've come to expect from a cheese butty and some sweaty chicken satay.

As we get going we see the first of many crazy individuals who are doing some long distance running activity over the downs. There are also a few teams of walkers clutching the same photocopied instructions as us. We try to get a sense of their strategy and technique, but they're walking so much faster than us that it's difficult to see how we could actually be taking part in the same event.

We're overtaken by a boy/girl running duo who Derek swears passed us on a previous walk in the Chilterns. Given that we've already been lapped by a bearded lady on a Shopmobility scooter and two under fives in a pantomime Shetland pony costume we shouldn't be too surprised.

Boyzone road crew move the Blackcap trig point

Although the path is pretty straight we nearly come unstuck a couple of times and fall into the trap of trying to read the Trailwalker instructions, look at the blurry Trailwalker handout map and follow the OS 1:50000 map all at the same time. We take the wrong path at Blackcap, which is fine in the daylight, but could be catastrophic at night. I blame Louis Walsh and his "Trailwalker Detour --->" signs.

At least the terrain is pretty reasonable at this point although some of the tracks have pretty serious puddles. How it'll look in the dark with a few more weeks of English summer thrown at it remains to be seen. It also takes a bit of a hammering from mountain bikes.

The sun is trying its best to outdo the clouds and the wind is mostly behind us, so we're able to make decent time.

The route descends and the path gets much narrower and quite boggy. We make a mental note to particularly not enjoy this bit when we come to it on the 15th. This is of course assuming we actually make it this far. When we get to Lewes prison there's a great opportunity to go wrong because the path almost doubles back and this could be disastrous.

The sun has come out properly now and it's actually pretty warm in the shelter of the valley. There is no real evidence of what checkpoint will look like, so we keep going past yet another windmill which has been desailed. We wander down a private road and almost end up in somebody's garden. Matt lies with his feet in the air which he reckons helps his feet and legs. Howard changes his socks (again), while Pete and Derek investigate the contents of various pastry products.

Matt spots a sheep being blown past

On the way back a number of things happen. It gets cold, the sun goes in, the wind from the channel notches its way to the previously unknown 13 on the Beaufort scale

Beaufort 10 [Storm, whole gale] = Trees are broken off or uprooted, saplings bent and deformed. Poorly attached asphalt shingles and shingles in poor condition peel off roofs.

Beaufort 13 [Apocalyptic wind] = Utter devastation. Forests are disintegrated into their component molecules. Whole towns are ripped from the soil and carried to the moon. Walkers experience unpleasant flapping of their waterproofs.

At Ditchling Beacon, a cyclist who has slogged his way up the hill, is struggling to avoid being blown back down again and is contemplating suicide by falling on his pump.

Pete and Derek raid the ice cream van for anything that isn't frozen and after a break we head off again.

Back at the car, Derek decides that his knee isn't going to hold up for another ten miles and contemplates the alternatives ....
- Sitting in a warm car reading a book
- Sitting in a warm pub watching the football
- Sitting in his warm sister-in-law's house (the house is warm, not necessarily the sister-in-law) drinking tea
Needless to say, walking into a gale with a dodgy knee doesn't get much of a look in. After fighting their way out of the car, Howard, Matt and Pete head off towards the aptly named Devil's Dyke. It's now getting starting to get dark.

At least it can't get any worse ....

It starts to rain.

As the rain turns to stinging hail, Matt remembers a time during his chuildhood when he accidentally stood in front of a pebble-dashing machine. We briefly warm ourselves in the cosy warmth of nostalgia and put all our spare clothes and waterproof trousers on.

It stops raining.

We think we can see the lights of Brighton in the distance, although it's difficult to tell with Pete's hair in your eyes. In a quaint NT farm we are worried by some rare breed sheep with a baaaaad attitude and those curly horns that look like they are just aching to give you a nasty bruise. We make it safely to Devil's Dyke or at least we wander into an empty field that claims to be Checkpoint 7 in a future life.

It's time to turn around and go back and now that we're heading east with the wind behind us, the wind seems to have dropped. Pete jogs down the hill in his pretend fancy dress gecko-on-a-horse outfit. Delirium is starting to kick in, but the warm fuzzy glow of the Plough at Pyecombe is encouraging us home. We meet Derek who has spent the late afternoon with his sister-in-law (who turns out to be quite a normal temperature). A very nice pint of Dark Star Hophead slips down nicely, as we discuss the ups and downs of the day before Derek drives us all back. Pete picks up his car and is last to bed just before one in the morning.

Day 2 - Chilterns

The Hollywood film version :
Drrr-Drrr-Drrr-Drrr
The alarm goes off bright and early. Howard springs from his bed and is just glad to be alive. What a great day to go for a 20 mile walk.

The grim reality version :
Drrr-Drrr-Drrr-Drrr
The alarm goes off at the ungodly hour of 5 o'clock. Howard reaches over and knocks over his glass of water, fails to connect with the alarm clock (Drrr-Drrr-Drrr-Drrr), throws something in its general direction, and finally silences it by sweeping everything off the bedside table into the puddle of water on the bedroom floor. He suddenly becomes aware that someone has replaced his leg muscles with piano wire. "Good job we haven't planned to do another stupid walk today ...... arrrggghhhhh".

The only small crumb of comfort is that we've seen most of it before, so getting lost shouldn't be a problem. In fact we aren't going to be walking fast enough to get lost.

We start off at Startop's reservoir near Marsworth, and the car park is deserted. No dogs, anglers or super strength cider drinkers (apart from us obviously).



Things to see in Marsworth (Part I)
(from left to right) Heron, Grass, Mallards, Swans, Sun, Digger

We pass some anglers on the bank, who follow normal angling protocol; wave rod around to inconvenience civvies, adjust keep net and at all times avoid eye contact.
Some fleecy clouds float gently across the sky and we wade through a field of mud that the farmer wanted to be crops, but is playing agriculturally hard to get.

Muscles seem to have eased a little now until it's time to climb up to Wendover Woods again. The cafe is nearly open, but after a quick Penelope we keep on moving. Pete starts to have pork withdrawal symptoms, but we promise him that he'll get some cold turkey later.

Much of the route this morning is stuff we've done before. The Bridgewater monument is exactly where we left it, although there's a large lake where we previously encountered Mr Rotivator.

We go past the Hastoe road sign for the third time on our travels. It's an opportunity to take stock of the situation, change socks and moan about the state of our feet.

Pete's sylph-like figure is completely hidden behind the road sign
Only his enormous arse gives him away

At Tring station, the conversation naturally turns to the subject of visits to relatives and the stuff you ate while you were there. Apart from Mateus rose and excellent runner beans, there was the Mock Turtle soup incident. Something that is still not talked about to this day in the Bishop household. It's just a good job I never knew what was in it.

Ask the expert #3,653 - What is Mock Turtle soup
- It isn't made out of mock turtles, but it is supposed to taste like green turtles

Howard makes a note to bring some along for the walk.

Mrs. Fowle's Mock Turtle Soup : "Take a large calf's head. Scald off the hair. Boil it until the horn is tender, then cut it into slices about the size of your finger, with as little lean as possible. Have ready three pints of good mutton or veal broth, put in it half a pint of Madeira wine, half a teaspoonful of thyme, pepper, a large onion, and the peel of a lemon chop't very small. A ¼ of a pint of oysters chop't very small, and their liquor; a little salt, the juice of two large onions, some sweet herbs, and the brains chop't. Stand all these together for about an hour, and send it up to the table with the forcemeat balls made small and the yolks of hard eggs."

Howard's Mock Turtle Soup : "Take some tomato soup, heat and serve"

There's a good reason why Heinz don't make Mock Turtle Soup isn't there Mrs Fowle?

We get within falling over distance of Ivinghoe Beacon then veer off towards Ivinghoe itself. Feet and legs are now really starting to hurt, especially once we get on the hard pavement. We see what might be a Spitfire going through its paces in the distance, which briefly takes our minds off unpleasantness down below. We up the pace just to get the thing finished, but are almost overtaken by a narrow boat. The prospect of a cool one at the Angler's Retreat finally pulls us over the finishing line.

We've done 46 miles in a smidge over 24 hours, but that's over 16 miles shy of the target AND we had a sleep in the middle. Every silver lining has a cloud.

Training Walk IV (Night Walk To Thame & Back 57km) .... And Then There Were Three

And then there were three?    Oh please God tell me I don't have to be Phil Collins

Derek has reluctantly decided to throw in the towel from a walking perspective. His swollen knee is not getting any better but he has stepped up to provide us with a first class support option. This is the first walk for the new six-legged rather than eight-legged groove machine. More Motorhead than The Wonder Stuff.

Howard is fretting over the route and the possibilities of getting lost in the dark, lost in music, caught in a trap, no turning back, etc.  He's read enough stories to his kids to know that if they take the wrong turning in the woods they could fall into a heffalump trap or be captured by a Hansel and Gretel-napping witch. Even a ... And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Bread, trail of bread wouldn't save them. The team packs chicken bones and an "ACME gingerbread house demolition kit" just in case. At least the route gives them a second shot at The Red Lion at Whiteleaf, assuming they get there before it closes that is.

Howard prepares a greasy repast for himself and Pete which later on turns out to be "not such a good idea" and we rendezous at Matt's house in Totteridge in pleasant evening sunshine. Matt has been delayed by a work flavoured real life crisis and is trying to collect kit and eat at the same time. We set off from Matt's house at Dark Helmet Ludicrous Speed which turns out to be "not such a good idea" either and before you know it we've gone past Disraeli's country gaff Hughenden Manor and we're striding along the main road in Naphill getting admiring glances/hoots of derision from the locals. The Naphill Mob are particularly taken by the car cleaning sponge cubes that Pete has taped to the underside of his rucksack straps to take the pressure off his sore shoulders. Heath Robinson and indeed Robert Robinson would have been impressed. Each of the walks has thrown up another interesting problem to deal with, but the team is nothing if not resourceful and wherever there's a branch of Halfords or Hawkins Bazaar there's a solution.

The Wheel in Naphill has an Aylesbury Vale CAMRA Pub Of The Year 2011 banner outside which soon locks its tractor beam onto the team. Only Derek's pre-match advice that it's a bit overrated saves us from getting sidetracked "early doors". We take a nice path down to North Dean past chez Derek who is either hiding in the cupboard under the stairs or helping out with the Scouts. As we approach Speen, Pete's temptation to add an "L" to the WELCOME TO SPEEN sign almost gets the better of him. Outside Speen Scout HQ, some cubs are tying knots or lashing poles together, which seems a bit harsh considering they've not been in the EU that long.

After a bit of umming and ahhing we think we've got the right track out of Speen although it's a bit boggy underfoot. We see a shape on the path ahead and we unstealthily approach. When we get closer, we see that it's a badger cub drinking from a puddle. This has to be a wildlife watching result in anybody's book and it takes our minds off the fact that it's actually getting quite dark. Grubbins Lane turns into Lily Bottom Lane, but the Pink & Lily pub at the end is yet another country inn that has closed its doors, despite having Rupert Brooke as a previous regular.

We're now on a fairly busy road in the woods in the dark and there's much scuttling onto the verge to be done. The other problem is trying to read the map using Howard's deflicted eyes and an ineffective torch. By some miracle we make it out the other side alive, in time for Pete to nearly leave his hat behind after a roadside leak. Matt's astronomy app confirms that "the aircraft that isn't moving" is in fact Venus and we have a Professor Brian Cox moment. Howard tries to remember him from their time at school together, but the prof would only have been a spotty oik in the years when Howard was fine tuning his underachievement and trying to avoid being bogwashed by the upper 6th.

Pete's shoulder is now giving him serious grief, but Matt's Snake Oil & Mobile Apothecary contains enough drugs to stop a charging elephant and some pain relief is administered. We head away from (now) twice shunned Red Lion along the Icknield Way with a trio of head torches lending a Blair Witch Project feel to proceedings. Before long we're in Princes Risborough and it's time for snacks (Matt has a banana, Howard munches something out of date from the fridge and Pete has the first of 236 packs of chicken satay).

Howard's plan is to use the Phoenix Trail to Thame, because "it's long and straight and we can't get lost". We can get seriously bored though and the relentless pace is starting to make things uncomfortable. There's chafing and Waddington's Formula 1 tyre wear.


Swedish Formula 1 - It's at least 3 in the Slitage-markering column and Antal varv hasn't reached 1.

Three Dog Night tribute band Three Badger Evening complete their set when Bodger and Badger scuttle across the path. Sheesh, badgers are just so passe darling.

We miss the dodgy syringe and special brew section of the Phoenix Trail by taking the Chinnor Road into the centre of Thame. Pete's prayers are answered and there is an all-night garage selling cold Lucozade. We also manage a proper coffee. The glucose and caffeine hit lifts the tempo again and we mark this down as a required item for the real walk. The local constabulary are investigating an altercation at Thame's premier nite spot and we head back to the ringroad before things start to get ugly.

Although it's well past 1am, all the houses in Towersey seem to have their bedroom lights on and the pampas grass out front tells of a community rich in marital flexibility and Argentinian gardening. A sign in the bus stop suggests that duck rustling is also rife.



Yes and they tasted wonderful

Leaving Towersey's steamy hotbed of intrigue and crime behind we climb wearily back onto the Phoenix Trail. By the time we reach the outskirts of Princes Risborough, there is a watery light in the sky. We walk across the railway to ensure that we're back on the wrong side of the tracks (where all the nasty hills are). Everything is starting to creak now and the pace has dropped off to a shuffle.

Pete checks out a new set of wheels

In a cruel twist of timing we hit a mobility low point, just as we pass the Mobility Equipment & Advice Centre. Strangely there's nobody there to provide either equipment or advice. The fact that it's only 5 in the morning may have something to do with it.

The next big hill is Wardrobes, although it looks like someone has stacked a sideboard, a bedside cabinet and a Welsh dresser on top of it. Howard's starting to get dropped from the peloton now. The broom wagon would have swept him up, but Mr Broom is still in the land of Nod (Dudley).

Just in the nick of time we get a text from Derek who has mobilised his army field kitchen and we arrange to meet him in Lacey Green for breakfast. The military precision of the operation doesn't quite extend to the bacon, which is performing a territorial reserve role in the fridge when Derek rolls up. However, egg rolls, porridge, coffee and folding chairs turn a Diem Horribilis into a Diem Mirabilis. Pete and Matt have a tyre change, going from walking shoes to running shoes. It's difficult to describe the impact on our spirits of a hot drink and some proper food and we get into a good stride on our way back to Speen as the sun scrapes over the horizon.

Reasons to be (briefly) cheerful Part #1

Between Lacey Green and Speen we kill time by going through our Top 5 Cooked Breakfast items which reopens the wounds of the Hash Brown Heresy but there's enough consensus around bacon and black pudding to avoid bloodshed.

Back in North Dean, Pete's monster blister has exploded and Howard's calves have turned to mahogany. We've also underestimated how far we've still got left to walk and even a gentle incline takes its toll. North Dean seems to go on forever, but eventually we're climbing north again towards the Mushroom Farm. Some surly Jerseys give us the evil eye and force us to up the pace through the field.

We're in the home stretch now, but there's still time for some more injuries and more mud wading. Pete has one final Coke "pop" stop to get him through the last half mile back to Matt's.

Pete drives home with matchsticks holding his eyelids up.
Matt buys a paper and sits in a warm cricket pavilion.
Howard walks home from Totteridge and thinks about amputating his feet

Howard's feet prior to amputation

Some more important lessons have been learned :
1. Sponges don't stop your shoulders from hurting. Enormous quantities of drugs are a good alternative.
2. Changing your socks and shoes regularly is the best way of reducing blisters.
3. The psychological and physical benefit of support crew is impossible to overstate.
4. It gets boring walking for 12 hours in the dark, even with people who make you laugh.
5. It hurts a lot after 36 miles. The pain after 62.5 must be unimaginable.
6. Coffee and drugs are essential to get you through the night.

War is hell ...... and so is Trailwalker

Solo Training Walk (28km Stockley Park to High Wycombe .... The Long Walk Home)

To celebrate walk to work week and in a burst of contrary madness Howard decides to walk the 17.5 miles home. The weather looks decent and all meetings from 4pm have been cancelled ..... what could possibly go wrong?

The first stretch is probably the best, along the canal towpath to Uxbridge. I leave The Water's Edge, The Malt Shovel and The General Elliott behind, and I pass under the Oxford Road with just over an hour gone. I had planned to take in a swifty at The Swan & Bottle, but I push on towards Denham.

A bit further on there's a dodgy transaction going on between two schoolkids involving a bag of maggots and what looks like a Panini sticker album but might be the 21st century equivalent of "What The Butler Saw" ("What The Butler Recorded On His WebCam And Uploaded To The Internet").

By the time I get to Denham the air is filled with mayflies, but there's a surly darkness to the sky. Despite turning the map round several times I end up taking the wrong path, but after zigzagging dangerously across the firing line of the golf course I get back on track and end up outside The Fat Cow. After peering in through the window I figure it isn't "my kind of place", although I'm sufficiently thirsty that I'm willing to let my standards slip a bit. Just at that moment I'm nearly flattened by a 4 x 4 Merc driven by a woman whose fake tan would probably set off the smoke alarm. My inverted snobbery gene kicks in and I decide to take my chances further down the road.

The new pedestrian crossing over the A40 hasn't been finished yet, so Howard plays his own game of Frogger and just about manages to avoid being hooshed into the gutter by the bus he would have caught if he hadn't been walking home. Ah the irony.

Instead of heading alongside the A40 there's a footpath marked between the BP garage and the bottom of "the land that time forgot" lane. In fact there are two sections to this footpath, the first one requiring a machete-wielding battalion of Chindits and the second one being navigable only by coracle. The houses up "the land that time forgot" lane are a curious mixture of city traders' bolt-holes and farmhouses with quad bikes, rusty burned-out cars and getorrfmahhhlaaaannnnnnd attitude out front. Nothing even vaguely resembling livestock or crops, although there is a horse and some asbestos sheeting. The pace picks up from here and by the time I get to to the pile of rubble that was The French Horn a 9pm finish is back on the cards. Opposite The French Horn is The Apple Tree (Country Pub & Eating). Wild horses, etc. ....

Country Pub & Eating ... gosh is that the time?

It's now just a case of a straight walk along the A40. At one point I'm accosted by a bloke in a high viz jacket. Turns out they're filming a Sleeping Beauty remake in Bulstrode Park and anyone using the public footpath here is clearly trying to break in to steal a pair of Angelina Jolie's pants.

Beaconsfield offers more overpriced gastrononsense pubs, but at least you can buy hats, oil paints and proper musical instruments here. I'm tempted by the banjo, but time is pressing and the sun is fighting a losing battle with the horizon. At the bottom of the big hill coming into Loudwater I'm buoyed by news of a black pudding Scotch egg acquisition in time for the cricket on Thursday. So excited, I miss the turnoff for The Dereham's Inn, but end up at home to crack open a bottle of Clouded Yellow.

A touch under 4¾ hours for 17½ miles is OK, but I'm more than 25% tired.

Training Walk III (51km Cholesbury loop) .... I'm Just Going Outside I May Be Some Time

Today we're out to break through the 50% distance barrier. The idea is to harden up the feet and get a warm and fuzzy feeling from another milestone reached. There's nothing warm and fuzzy about the air temperature though as we park up opposite the windmill in Cholesbury just before 7. Like the dog with the black and white stripy jacket at Walthamstow, Pete and Matt push the pace along straight out of the traps and the stumpier half of the team trot along behind like the dog with the black and white coat from the Dulux advert. The torrential rain over the previous days has taken its toll and the "shoe team" are cursing while the "boot team" splash smugly though the mud. This is the walk where it becomes clear that a variety of footwear and socks is essential. Shares in Bridgedale rise on the news.

We skirt past the entrance to Dundridge Manor, one of many places on the walks that has a longer commute from the front door to the gate than most people need to get to work. Despite the faux medieval entrance we aren't run off the land by Guy of Gisbourne, but someone in a Range Rover gives us a funny look.

Just after Durham Farm, the road is flooded with cartoon ducks swimming on it, but we have an alternative path that takes us to the A413 Wendover Road. Lots of cyclists are out, but not many cars, so we can scuttle safely across. Cockshoots Wood is basically a muddy swimming pool with trees and after some circumspect paddling we come out at the wrong place and it takes a bit of compass work and Matt's GPS to get us back on track. There's a discussion about which side of a hedge we should be on and common sense wins out over the map and we avoid having to retrace our steps. The team is starting to lose faith in the mapreader and a bloody rebellion is fomented. The chance sighting of a hare distracts the revolutionaries and the coup is avoided.

We fight our way through yet another field of rape, getting lungfuls of Eau de Sprout and a generous coating of yellow dust and arrive by the shabby tradesman's entrance to Hampden House. He's been a great big silly old Hampden and lost all his money in the South Sea Bubble. His great great granddaughter lost her heart to a Starship Trooper, but that's another story.


The footpath out of the estate flirts with Grim's Ditch, bits of which we seem to come across on virtually every walk.
Ask the Expert #6 : What was Grim's Ditch for and who was Grim
- There are lots of Grim's Ditches in southern England, probably constructed in the Iron Age. They aren't deep enough to have much of a military purpose. Grim is another name for the Saxon god Woden.
A lot of the time we chat about films and stuff to pass the time. Pete and Derek both recommend Dog Soldiers with Sean Pertwee.
Ask the Expert #7 : Is Sean Pertwee related to Jon (3rd Doctor) or Bill (I'll get you Mainwaring)?
- Sean Pertwee is the son of Ingeborg and Jon Pertwee. Jon and Bill are distant cousins, but he's only 6 steps from Kevin Bacon.

Nice monument. Shame about the casualties.

More fields of rapeseed, more mud and some unfriendly horsey types take the gloss off what is otherwise a pleasant walk through some lovely countryside. The Chiltern Way turns into the Icknield Way which becomes the Ridgeway. It would have ended up being Howard's Way, but due to poor planning on his part, the Red Lion at Whiteleaf isn't open, so we plod shabbily across a golf course in a desperate search for refreshment. The Plough at Lower Cadsden looks a reasonable replacement and the Olde Trip hits the spot, but it's clear that grubby walkers are not their favoured clientele. It's no surprise that the Camerons get a warmer welcome to The Plough a few weeks later. So warm that they decide to leave daughter Nancy behind. Rumour has it that she followed the Trail Of Bread to Chequers. She didn't make it to Coombe Hill though. The monument here commemorates the fallen from the Second Boer War. From here we can see exactly where HS2 will spoil the view of the Buckinghamshire gentry. I can feel my heart bleeding.

The cadence is starting to get a bit ragged now and even "the one about the buffalo and Prince Phillip's  underpants" isn't funny. By the time we get to the inaccurately named Painsend Farm, the pain is really starting to kick in and Derek is clearly not in a good way. We create our own little Antarctic vignette; Derek is the heroic long-suffering Oates, Howard is the evil inflexible Scott and The Full Moon at Cholesbury is the outside of the tent. Derek trudges the 3 miles to The Full Moon on his own. Stretching the analogy too far, Matt is Shackleton but on a different expedition, Pete is a tenacious husky (even though he's taken something for his throat) and the No. 4 bus from Chesham is the team of ponies that failed to get Scott home from the pole, but gets Derek back to Wycombe. It's clear now that we should all have bailed out, but instead of listening to his inner Shackleton ("Better a live donkey than a dead lion"), Howard listened to his inner Scott ("Weighin' in at nineteen stone. You're a whole lotta woman. A whole lotta woman. Whole lotta Rosie"). We realise too late that we should have agreed how to handle situations like this in advance. It's difficult to pick up the morale after that, although the sheer unadulterated unpleasantness of the Lucozade gel sachets lighten the mood for a bit.

We reach the Pole. Pete does some dancing. Matt humours him. Amundsen has already been and gone.

By the time we reach the Cow Roast Inn we're gasping for a drink and the bar staff here are much more welcoming to sweaty walkers. We sensibly if reluctantly go for long soft drinks rather than the Woodforde's Wherry and we're back on the road all too soon. We cross the canal and loop around the bottom end of Northchurch Common and hit the outskirts of Berkhamsted. Pete's blisters are now giving him major problems, and we're all shuffling along like Chelsea pensioners, or someone tackled by Chelsea pensioner "Chopper" Harris. We have a "pop" stop at the Tesco Metro before tackling the Col de Berkhamsted.

In sight of the finish, Howard puts the last half mile extra loop to the vote and almost becomes Caesar to Matt's Cassius and Pete's (great smell of) Brutus, so head straight to the pub instead. Rarely has an average pint tasted so good and we reflect on a day of mixed fortunes. It's taken twelve hours to complete thirty-two miles, but we were virtually stationary by the end and we lost Derek and some team spirit in the process.

Teacher's report : A good effort, but must do better, C+

Training Walk II (38km Tring loop) .... Trouble Over Bridgewater

Mark plays his "I'd love to join you gentlemen, but I'm in Papua New Guinea" card. Various members of the team look nervously at the next card in the deck which says something about "Papworth General".

When we meet up at Marsworth, the Bluebells tearoom hasn't even opened up for the day, and there's a nip in the air. Dick the Shepherd was a lot warmer when he blew his nail, but at least it's bright. The forecast for later is less positive and Howard has brought a cheese and onion pasty that could double as a life raft if things turn bad.

The first part of the route takes us along the Grand Union and we make good progress. There won't be many flat canal towpaths on the South Downs Way, but Howard's navigational skills aren't that great, so it's good to get a few miles under the belt before he leads us astray.

Although we have a training plan (of sorts), we're still short of support crew, so we're currently expecting to have to carry everything we need. Pete's suggestion is to bring livestock on the hoof and turn them into snacks as necessary. Wellington's army on the Peninsula campaign needed 300 cattle a day to supply the soldiers with their pound of beef, so there is a precedent.
Ask the Expert #3 : Where did Wellington’s 300 cattle per day come from?
- By November 1813, the Commissariat was supplying over 100,000 pounds of biscuit, 200,000 lbs of forage and slaughtering 300 head of cattle a day. Quantities such as these could not be satisfied locally, so most of the foodstuffs were brought to the Peninsula by sea, not only from Britain, but further abroad as well.
Howard makes a mental note to look up the number for the Commissariat in the Yellow Pages.

The route now heads south and the team starts the long climb up to Wendover Woods. Flagging spirits are kept in check by the promise of breakast at the snappily titled "Cafe In The Woods". The Commissariat has been busy; bacon rolls and flapjack have been brought from the four corners of the Empire, maybe from as far away as Aylesbury. Refuelling complete, and the team heads off ..... in the wrong direction. Matt's GPS back-up nudges us back on course and we're onto the Ridgeway at last. It's easy to visualise how Neolithic hunters would have used this track to try out their new neolithic Gore-tex breathable jackets and neolithic carbon fibre walking poles.



Trail Of Bread and their new portable navigational aid

All roads lead to Hastoe, but the Bread team give the Hastoe border security guards the slip and escape to the tranquil wooded parkland of the Ashridge estate. Even by posh Chilterns country estate standards, Ashridge is posh. Not only does it have a posh house, it has its own park and its own monument.
Ask the Expert #4 : Nice monument, but what is it for?
- The Bridgewater Monument was erected in 1832 to the Duke of Bridgewater. Originally known as Francis Egerton he was the 3rd Duke. The family owned the Ashridge estate and the monument was built 20 years after his death to mark his achievements as the father of inland navigation, including the famous canals around Manchester.
It would have been nice to explore the estate further, if only to understand why their 45 bazillion hectare estate doesn't have weeds and our postage stamp gardens require hourly maintenance to keep stuff at bay. Howard snags another trig point in his sad geeky 1000 of everything quest before the team negotiates a high footbridge over the A41 that would cause Indiana Jones to get a bit wobbly. We find a slightly damp spot of grass to eat our warm sweaty sandwiches, while being hassled by a warm sweaty horse.

Howard tries to avoid the attentions of a large hairy creature .... and a horse

 Despite Howard's efforts to get the team lost again, they manage to navigate by Bread reckoning to the Valiant Trooper at Aldbury and partake of the local recuperative waters.


Apart from the ungrateful impatient Buckinghamshire Sunday lunch brigade ("I want my Confit of Roast Chaffinch and I want it now"), it's a very pleasant experience with local beers including Long Crendon's XT Brewery #4 (Mellow Amber).

They said :
An amber beer with a special Belgian malt and a fruity mix of American and European hops. Very addictive, and our flagship beer.

We said :
That's nice, is it available intravenously too?

The fleecy white pillowy clouds have been replaced by monstrous grey Victorian eiderdown clouds and there's a bit of drizzle in the air as we start to climb up towards Ivinghoe Beacon. By the time we get to the top it's blowing a gale, but the blue sky has temporarily returned. There's just time for a quick game of "What's That Powerstation?", before we leave the Ridgeway behind.



On a clear day you can see some overweight ramblers

The descent from the beacon is tricky and Pete is forced to use his capacious waterproof as a drag chute like something landing on the Ark Royal. We are encouraged by Derek's treacle scones and it isn't long before we get to Ivinghoe village. Legs are definitely getting heavy now and the decision to walk past the Rose & Crown and the Red Lion is not universally popular. By a cruel twist of fate and bad route planning, we add an unpleasant loop along the main road in the opposite direction to our start point. It's all character building stuff, and we do go past lots of signs for Dacorum district council, which is as close to decorum as we can get.
Ask the Expert #5 : Where does Dacorum come from?  Is it Roman for Tring?
- The hundred of Dacorum was first recorded in 1196 although its existence dates from the 9th and 10th century when it lay on the margins of the southern boundary of Danelaw and the River Lea. Its name in Latin means "of the Danes". In the 11th century, the Domesday Book records that the hundreds of Tring and Danais overlapped areas of the hundred of Dacorum. Modern day Dacorum is the name for the local government district which covers Hemel Hempstead, Berkhamsted, Tring and the western part of Kings Langley

As the grey skies turn black and the drizzle turns to rain, we are at least now heading in the right direction. The team shelters under a bridge while Matt deploys his waterproof trousers. The last couple of miles is a real slog, but the swallows careening over the almost empty reservoir almost take our mind off the fact that we stopped enjoying this about two hours ago.

We do eventually get back to the cars and head over the road for a refreshing pint at The White Lion .... which has closed down. Aaaargggghhhh. The Angler's Retreat comes to our rescue.We manage to get through every nut that Nobby has ever made. The fact that we feel terrible after only a third of the full route is banished by Everard's Elixir and emergency calls to home for baths to be run.