When the going gets tough…

Good news! The total distance of my walk from Land’s End to John o’Groats has been reduced by a mile to 1,278! I found a shortcut to the accommodation in Monmouth across a park.

Looking back down over Lulworth Cove towards Portland

In other news, I really struggled with the training walk from Lulworth to Swanage. This is the walk that, for the last few years, I’ve saved to be the last of my pre-trail training walks. It’s 19½ miles, with over 3,800 feet of ascent, so a good test by most standards. Before doing the Pennine Way, I made it the second of two consecutive walks, the first being Lulworth to Weymouth. This year I’ve included it earlier in the programme, as a test and to up my game. Well, it certainly was a test. I postponed it from Saturday to Sunday last week in view of the 70mph winds forecast along the coast, and booked a table at the Black Swan in Swanage for the evening, when Liz would drive to pick me up. I can now use my wonderful bus pass to get to Lulworth, although the service makes for a late start, not getting there until 10.43am. I calculated that I should finish around 6pm, and had reserved a table for 7.30, simply because the pub was fully booked for 7pm.

It all started well enough, although I always find the trudge over loose stones and shingle around Lulworth Cove a tedious way to start. Bindon Hill is the first major test, surmounted with relative ease. I spoke to two ladies there who were in the process of completing their staged South West Coast Path Challenge, on which achievement I congratulated them. Then there’s the slog up to Flower’s Barrow, and another climb after Worbarrow Bay, but the one that fills you with dread is Houns Tout Cliff, just before Chapman’s Pool; all the others are just pimples in comparison. Then you have the switchback just prior to St Aldhelm’s Head which, on its own, is a worthy challenge but, when you’re still reeling from Houns Tout, threatens to spoil your day.

As I stopped to remove a layer after Houns Tout, I was passed by two women walking at a pretty good pace. Wanting motivation to up my pace to reach Swanage at close to my predicted ETA, I set after them in determined fashion. They told me they too were walking from Lulworth to Swanage, training for a challenge they’d signed up for – a 52 km (32 mile) walk from Swanage to Weymouth with over 1500 metres (5,000 feet) of ascent. I’m familiar with it because there’s an event called the ‘Dorset Doddle’ covering the same route, one which certainly commands respect. Now the snag was that, having chatted with them for a few moments, I didn’t want to intrude any longer on their conversation, so felt compelled to accelerate away, at a point when all I really wanted to do was plod on like an exhausted zombie. I managed to get down and half way up the switchback before they loomed into view again behind me, regaining on me a little as I had to stop for breath four times – more than ever before on that climb. On I went, past Winspit and Seacombe, the feet now starting to blister. After Dancing Ledge I sat down to give them an airing and eat the last of my peanut rations, only to see the two ladies loom up again, so off I went. At Durlston I changed out of my boots and into my Inov8 Parkclaws, which provided some relief. I made it to meet Liz by 6.25pm and, by 6.30, had supped my first pint!

Mobile shed near Hooke. You never know when one might come in handy.

The next walk was a 24 miler from Weymouth to Corscombe. I’ve done this each year since mum died in 2013, because that’s where she’s buried. Once past Nottington and the local dog walkers, it takes me through some of the most peaceful, unpopulated parts of Dorset, and therefore of the country. On this particular day, though, it happened to be the inaugural Hell Stone run, with dozens of marathon runners passing in the opposite direction all the way between Smitten Corner and Little Bredy.

I’m usually absolutely shattered by the time I get to Corscombe because, although the first 10 or 11 miles are pretty straightforward, the going north of the A35 is altogether tougher and slows you down. Reassuringly, I still felt able to move with relative ease at the end this time, possible because of the strengthening due to the Lulworth-Swanage walk. I managed to average 3mph for the walk as a whole, although did use up over an hour in stops. Something that really helps with recovery are the ‘warm-down’ exercises recommended by Boris, the sports masseur:

Liz and I have done these together after our walks and shared much hilarity at our attempts to reach the toes in the hamstring stretch. They really do help, though, making stiffness on the day after a thing of the past. Yes, there’s still a certain amount of muscle fatigue, but not such that you’re edging up and dowstairs, crab-like, one step at a time.

My Achilles tendon still isn’t right. After the Lulworth-Swanage walk I had pain during the night that kept me awake, and soreness for a couple of days after too. This was demoralising, making me wonder how on earth I’ll cope with the walks like that I’m due to do on consecutive days in June, on the north Devon coast. After the Corscombe walk I still had pain during the night, but less than before, and, after a few stretching exercises the next morning, I could definitely envisage doing another day’s walk. So, onwards and upwards – bring on my final training walks – 171 miles done, 80 or so to go.

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A-Grockling I Will Go

Just ten days to go before I set off from Land’s End to head back to Dorset, 289 miles away. All but one of my planned practice walks have been completed, so that I’m now happy with my level of physical fitness. Since the 26 mile Cerne Abbas walk, I’ve done a 25-miler to Corscombe carrying just a day pack and a 20-miler to Portland Bill and back carrying 30lbs (13.5kg). The weekend of May 12th I only walked downtown and back, but then boogied for four and a half hours at Liz’s 50th birthday party – admittedly without a rucksack. I’ve ensured that I have the provisions I need, such as Boots sun tan lotion/insect repellent, spare torch batteries, sponge toe-protector tubes, Zero isotonic re-hydration and ProPlus tablets. Not forgetting the coffee sachets. Oh, and peanuts, of course. Apart from doing the final practice walk from Lulworth to Swanage, I just need to ensure that all the clothes I’ll need are washed and that two bags of swap-outs/top-ups are readied for Liz to bring out each weekend.

I’ve spent some time checking TripAdvisor reviews to identify good restaurants, cafés and pubs and must admit to being a tad disconcerted. In the case of towns and cities like Penzance, Plymouth and Brixham I naturally filter the search to identify cafés for lunchtime and pubs or restaurants for the evening; I then sort the list by average customer rating, check the map for the location and, finally, read a few reviews, both positive and negative. In the case of the latter, you sometimes have to read between the lines and ask yourself what the reviewer did to upset the staff and whether their expectations or demands were realistic and, maybe, whether they were so up themselves that they’d have annoyed a saint. Out of the towns, along remote stretches of the coast you can’t be picky – you’re lucky if there’s a place serving coffee at all, so it’s hardly worth taking the time to check reviews; after all, I’d rather pay £2 for a plastic cup of instant than resort to a ProPlus tab for my caffeine hit. When I do look at reviews, many of them mention ‘friendly service’ but, just occasionally, there’s one such as that for The Pilchard Inn on Burgh Island which rather makes the hair stand on end. With 32% of reviews in the ‘Terrible’ category, with frequent references to the extremely negative attitude to tourists, you begin to wonder how prevalent this sentiment is across Devon and Cornwall. I’ve encountered something similar in Wales, where I’ve walked into a pub and heard the locals immediately switch from speaking English to Welsh and, on one occasion in Machynlleth, found it impossible to get served at the bar. Living in Weymouth, I’m thoroughly familiar with the locals’ ambivalent feelings towards the Lobster-pink, sun-scalded, corpulent tourists who meander in slow, aimless throngs as you attempt to forge your way from A to B, as well as the drivers who proceed merrily round the one-way system the wrong way, or who crawl along the road before finally stopping to ask for directions; the local economy is heavily geared towards providing for their whims and extracting as much of their holiday spending money from them as possible, but we do pay a high price for it. How much worse must it be in places where the employment opportunities are even more limited, but where the property prices are hugely inflated by prosperous folks from the South East snapping up holiday homes for themselves, and where rental properties are mostly given over to grockles and emmets as holiday lets. So I get it. But, if you’re providing a service and making a living out of tourism, surely it behoves you, if only out of self-interest, to grin and bear it? Surely the management at the Pilchard Inn must realise that their behaviour is costing them dearly, in terms of lost custom, on account of all the negative reviews – I certainly won’t be going there. Nor will I have a meal at the Top House on The Lizard, having received no response to my emailed query about the advisability of booking a table; I’d sooner carry food 15 miles from Porthleven and cater for myself at the Youth Hostel. I will, however, stroll the half mile to the establishment for half a pint and let them know precisely why I haven’t given them any more of my custom.

And guess what? This dog-in-the-manger, little-islander outlook was expressed in the form of a strong Brexit majority in Cornwall (in spite of its €millions in EU funding), in Devon and in Dorset too. Have the inhabitants been so mentally damaged by the crash-induced stasis that they resort to self-harm? Will they regress from rejecting EU funds to erecting razor-wire fencing and ‘KEEP OUT’ signs, excluding their main source of income? Or is their chippie attitude (controversially) a racial characteristic of Celtic stock, becoming more pronounced the deeper into the West (and North) you stray, since it obviously pre-dates the whole Brexit fiasco? Perhaps I should wear a badge saying ‘Only half-English’, although I suspect their feelings towards my Polish half are, these days, at least as negative, if not more so. I just hope they haven’t set up concentration camps for ‘Ausländer’ before my expedition.

I came across just such distasteful views when, as a student, I worked for a few weeks on the night shift at the Walkers Crisps factory in Leicester. Over 90% of the workers there were Asian, with only a handful of white British men. I once found myself alone with one of these latter, whereupon he set about trying to recruit me into his ‘gang’; I can’t remember which distasteful flavour of right-wing nationalism was current back then in the mid-70s – probably the National Front. I spurned his approach, of course, but I could understand his resentful position; presumably with little in the way of education and no qualifications, he felt marginalised and insecure. He’d become an outsider in his own community and clearly felt threatened enough to join an organisation that would help articulate his resentment. My understanding didn’t, however, imply sympathy; I couldn’t switch my own sentiments from affection for my friends of other races and nationalities to a blanket hatred for anything different, alien or ‘other’. And, after all, Diwali is such a magnificently colourful enrichment of Leicester each autumn that I welcome it as a cultural bonus rather than seeing it as an invasion. If you’re comfortable with yourself, your life and your friends, why wouldn’t you welcome with open arms those who come as a supplement to our society and our economy? Both necessarily change constantly, so you can choose whether to move forward with them or rear up in futile resistance. Fear and resentment, churned every day for years by the Daily Mail and the Murdoch press, form the prevailing climate of heel-digging and nay-saying that swayed the dumb Brexiters, a baffling union of the jaw-droppingly stupid and the genetically chinless. It’s the same village-idiot outlook that leads the residents of the grockle-hosting counties to bite the hand that feedeth.

In the time it’s taken me to get that off my chest, I’ve now also completed my final practice walk and, boy, was it a tough one! Firstly, Liz wasn’t able to provide transport on Saturday because she was taking Calum to Southampton to see the stage version of ‘War Horse’. The weather forecast was oscillating between thunderstorms on either Saturday or Sunday, but ended up predicting them for both days, so I reverted to plan A, walking on Saturday and using public transport. It would mean catching the 9:40 X54 from Weymouth to Lulworth hence only starting my walk at 10:20, later than usual. It would also mean that, once again, I’d be on a tight-ish schedule, aiming to get to Swanage in time for a beer or two followed by fish and chips, before catching the 19:05 Purbeck Breezer to Wareham, where I’d take the train to Weymouth. Fine, and, in the event, it all worked out ok, but now I’m looking forward to days when I can walk at my own pace without keeping an eye on the clock.

The main problem was that the weather forecast was so completely off-beam. I had my usual amount of water and re-hydrating isotonic, 2.1 litres in total but, instead of thundery showers, I had to contend with incessant sunshine and a brisk easterly breeze; whenever you stepped out of the breeze you roasted and, five minutes after taking a glug of fluid, you were thirsty again. By the time I’d struggled up all the serious climbs I was carefully eking out my water, certain that I’d be desperately dehydrated by the end. As luck would have it, the Coast Watch station at St Aldhelm’s Head was open, dispensing coffee and cakes in return for a donation to their charitable fund and an ear lent to their proselytising. I was mighty relieved to be able to re-fill my half-litre bottle, in spite of which I still ran out of fluid (and all other rations apart from my final back-stop, Kendal mint cake) by the time I reached Swanage.

I did so, hauling myself thirstily up to the bar, at 5.40, a little ahead of schedule. I’d steamed past all other walkers along the route, none of whom were carrying as much as 30lbs. I covered over 19 miles, excluding another 3 miles or so to, from and between bus stops, train stations and pubs, with over 5,700 feet of ascent. Ok, I was well shattered by the end, but I reckon that counts as being fit enough for the SWCP next week, particularly as my first three days will only be 15 miles each and with a daily maximum of 2335 feet of ascent. Bring it on, and sod the grockle-haters! Meanwhile I’ll spend the rest of the bank holiday weekend in my home town of Weymouth playing the grockle.

Incidentally, if you’re looking for a good pub in Swanage, steer clear of the White Lion, where you’re likely to be charged £5 a pint and receive miserable service, another sad example of primitive, tribal xenophopbia.