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.