There was a point on this hike, The Walking Idiots twentieth organised shuffle through the south of England, where I watched plasma flares five times the size of the Earth pulse on the sun’s surface and I thought, “I wasn’t expecting to see that this weekend.”

(To clarify, I’d only had two pints by this point, but we’ll come back to the details later. I was also not on mushrooms, in case you were worried).

One of the main stresses with long distance hiking is getting lost. As much as you want to keep an eye on the route, if you do it too much you end up missing out on where you’re actually walking. Admittedly it’s not most of the crew’s headache, just those organising it, but from our experience if it can go wrong, it probably will.

So we couldn’t really go wrong with a coastal route: just keep the sea on your left. Fool. Proof. It was all part of our plan to reinvigorate the hikes, which have had a rocky time of it lately in terms of morale, enthusiasm and conflicting priorities. This was an alternative to our well-established and still unfinished attempt to trek the entirety of the North Downs Way, which although worthwhile, wasn’t something we wanted to be stuck doing. We’d already done a stretch of the Kentish coastline with Sittingbourne to Whitstable and it turned out to be one of our favourite hikes, so continuing that route seemed natural. If you kept going from Whitstable, in under twenty miles you’d reach Margate: it was ideal.

As the date of the hike snuck ever-closer and we went through the inevitable dance with attendees dropping out or enlisting last minute we kept a close eye on the weather, more so than normal. While our route was shorter and flatter than many previous ones, the UK was in the midst of a heatwave, with London and much of the south experiencing 30+ degree temperatures, not something you want to expose yourself to for eight or nine continuous hours, without shade, while drinking. Concerns were expressed by attendees and loved ones alike (hi Caroline!) but mercifully the coastal weather was forecast to be a bearable and possibly even overcast 21 degrees.

Unlike Rochester or many of the other locations we’ve started from, Margate’s hotel offering was both slim and expensive so I (via Jen, who I’d recommend for all your travel needs) sourced an airbnb for five of us to stay in. Five quickly became six and finally seven as other accommodation plans dried up, but we all fit in there well enough.

Those of us staying there foolishly decided to go for a few beers the night before, which was fine in principle, except we were unable to find food until we left, so we wound up being approximately six pints deep on an empty stomach before we sourced volcano-temperature food from Pizza-GoGo at midnight.

We were perhaps not our best selves the morning of the hike, our trek to the station through Margate’s streets reinforcing the initial impression it made the night before of sort of trendy/hipster, a bit shabby chic, and in some parts, seaside crack den.

The crew convened in Whitstable at The Peter Cushing, a stunning Wetherspoon pub (honest) decorated in an art deco fashion, having been a bingo hall and most likely a cinema in a past life.

The Peter Cushing is full of film posters, coloured glass and film paraphernalia, and offers a treat for the eyes as you power through your five pound fry up. Apparently Peter Cushing was a resident of Whitstable in his latter years, leaving me to wonder what the odds would be that he would move to town bearing his own name. Was he aware? Did he know?! How did he react?!?! The mind boggles.

After breakfast we took our standard issue pre-departure picture and set off. Presenting your Idiots for the day:

And when I say set off, of course I mean the hike standard of walking to the nearest Little [Insert name of supermarket here] to buy our packed lunches. We took delight in watching John wander round the Sainsburys with a basket, wondering if he was doing his weekly shop.

As mentioned above, and probably will be later, the mantra for the day was keep the sea on the left, so it was near impossible to get lost. Most of this was on a coastal promenade, which was of course incredibly convenient and enabled us to keep a good pace but on occasion grew a bit monotonous, the pavement pounding threatening blisters.

Our first milestone on the coastal path was Herne Bay seafront, complete with pier, which in the interests of time we sensibly abstained from.

On the other side of the road we were treated to a DJ in a rather industrial looking space blasting out tunes at impressive volume at 11am. Said DJ used incredibly colourful (and incomprehensible) language while also releasing masses of bubbles, leading us to wonder who his audience was meant to be. Or had we misunderstood? Could this mystery simply be resolved if we concluded he was still going from the night before, like some Flying Dutchman of Dance?

Beyond the Damned DJ, Herne Bay abruptly turned beautiful with a gorgeous terrace of colourful houses, which only served to confuse us further.

Continuing on, the route offered us some variety as the coastal route moved in land and we opted to take the beach on the way to Reculver, where we tiptoed over masses of seaweed and hopped over rocks, the ruins of Reculver monastery looming in the distance with more than a fleeting resemblance to Castle Greyskull.

A moment of drama emerged on the way up off the beach when Flora, Nick’s faithful hound suddenly lifted a back paw in pain, having torn the skin on her pad on a sharp rock. A subset of the group convened to help, and soon enough they had fashioned something to cover her paw until we could get somewhere to take a better look and clean it up. Fortunately for us the first pub, the improbably named King Ethelbert Inn, was just beside Reculver, so we were able to assess it while we took a break and got a drink.

The pub was nice. Lunches had, beers sunk, bit of hike lore discussed as standard. Perhaps most importantly for a Walking Idiots hike pub, they refilled water bottles and my rather annoying to fill bladder without fuss.

We could’ve stayed longer but another drink would’ve been our undoing, so Max made his one mature decision of the day and declared we should depart, so depart we did!

… for about five minutes, because we had Reculver to explore.

At a glance, Reculver is pleasant and interesting enough. An Anglo Saxon monastery built on the site of a Roman fort, its ruins basically consist of the front and back wall, with two towers on the sea facing wall.

Where it gets interesting however, is that one of the towers are open to the public, so of course we had to go up it!

As we descended, Alex noticed that the tower staircase ran anti-clockwise, which would be inconvenient for defence. We questioned this with the two very nice English Heritage volunteers who were posted at the base of the tower, and they explained that the tower was anti-clockwise because the stairway to heaven is anti-clockwise. Despite never hearing Robert Plant tell me this, we took it at face value and moved on, only realising we had no idea what this meant until it was too late to go back and ask. Suggestions in the comments section, please.

The route from Reculver east was another coastal path, but this one was refreshingly positioned between the beach and the marsh lands, giving us a flat, clear view of landscape to the south.

More importantly, it provided Rob with an opportunity for some nonsense, and let me capture my hike staple photo that I can no longer stop doing under weight of precedent.

The only downside of this glorious coastal path is that here more than anywhere we’re prone to having to move out of the way of cyclists. Oh well, you can’t have everything. It doesn’t stop John and I from divulging ten years of hike mythology to welcome newcomer James, who is polite enough to act like he’s enjoying it.

Pub number two is only four miles from our first, but we’re having a lovely time and are in no hurry, so we decide to stop for a quick pint at our next stop, The Minnis Bay.

While King Ethelbert was a traditional English pub that happened to be near the coast, The Minnis Bay is a proper open plan seaside bar with more picnic benches and outdoor space than indoor seats. The Minnis is like a transition from coastal path to promenade, and as soon as we leave it we notice a marked increase in families and people in general.

In case anyone wonders how I write these things, I tend to make notes as I go, and for the next stretch I’ve just written “Lots of promenade,” and this is indeed our landscape for the foreseeable future.

Our route continues like this for a while, the sun shining on us as we experience a range of seafront walkways, some more industrial than others. Our progress is paused for a while when Max drops a wine glass (one of two, purchased along with a bottle of red from the Minnis) and we rally together to pick up the remnants. Fortunately for us we find a pan and brush from someone nearby and leave no trace.

A short while later we pause at the West Bay Cafe and Beach Bar. John kindly gets a load of beers in – in plastic cups, intended for carrying, we’re not stopping – however we end up stopping for far longer than intended because just outside the cafe are two men from an astronomy society (I can’t remember which one but I’m pretty sure it was not NASA) who have an enormous telescope trained on the Sun.

Given what it was trained on, this telescope is configured differently to ones for nighttime, blocking out something like 99% of the light and 100% of the UV (note the tinfoil over the lens). These astronomers are of course very enthusiastic to share their fancy toy with outsiders, and several of us lined up politely like school kids to have a turn.

Some of us have success, some don’t. It took me a while for my eyes to adjust but eventually I noticed on this great white circle small black squiggly shapes pulsing, reminding me of the patterns lugworms make on the beach. Or maybe it was just eye floaters, who knows.

We bid our new stargazing friends farewell, take our walking beers and shuffle on, it can’t be far to Margate now. We get to leave the promenade and go down on the beach, everyone grateful to be off the pavement, especially Flora who has a fantastic time rolling on the sand and generally acting like a puppy in the best way possible.

Amongst visual highlights on the beach we see plenty of jellyfish in one patch. I say highlight, it didn’t exactly make anyone happy, but whatever, it happened, I documented it, you’re reading it, you know the dynamic by now.

The closer we get to Margate the busier the beach becomes, but after a peaceful day wandering we don’t mind a few more people about. Not to mention walking on the beach itself was great fun.

Where was Alan? Along with Tristram and Jack we couldn’t see them about, and we knew they’d stayed at the cafe to finish their drinks, but hoped they had caught up by now. A rule in the Walking Idiots manifesto is we finish as a group, but if we can’t find them, it’s not happening. We decide to wait for a bit and enjoy the beach, while Nick and Flora decide to head home, which is totally fair – we’re not far from Margate now and they owe us nothing.

Rejoining the promenade for the last time, we find a worthwhile way to pass the time waiting for Alan and the others when Max accidentally drops his and Matti’s bottle of tequila. It of course shatters, and a handful of us spend ages carefully picking up every bit of broken glass we can.

Many swear words are groaned in exasperation when, having nearly finished, a wine glass slips from Max’s belt, causing us to start over.

Feeling quite pleased with our efforts to correct our inadvertent antisocial behaviour, we dispose of the glass responsibly, noticing more broken glass nearby. Ah well, at least we left no trace.

As our final mile takes us along the Margate seafront I am trying to find a better word to describe it as than carnage.

It’s an early Saturday evening in a heatwave in July, there are people everywhere and the noise coming from some of the bars is pounding (the only acceptable volume for ABBA is mute). Forget what I said earlier about not minding more people, this is ridiculous.

We crack on, our hopes of finding somewhere relatively quiet for a drink diminishing as we go. There is some debate about where to finish, but I for one remain undeterred that we need to finish at the Harbour Arms, located on the harbour wall on the other side of the beach. Not only was it our original end point, and we hate changing it, but it’s far enough from all this Margate madness that it might actually be quiet enough to get a beer and rest legs that are getting a little weary after 19 miles.

As we leave the seafront and reach the start of the stone pier, Alan, Jack and Tristram appear on the beach with perfect timing, and as a unit the group finishes as a team.

We stop for our obligatory end of hike picture before claiming our victory pint(s).

As always, after a couple of drinks the group disbands, bonded by Fellowship, etc etc. The Margate contingent return to the pub from Friday to actually get food this time and we are successful.

So there you go. Twenty hikes. Over 400 miles. More than ten years of long walks with good friends, scintillating banter and haphazard documenting of them. They’ve been great and we’ll keep doing them for as long as we’re able.

I’ll sign off with the only photo Tristram took of the day, which articulates how we feel about Margate nicely I think. Always good to see the best in everything where you can.

Until next time!

In which the Idiots tackle the Surrey Hills (kind of), struggle to retain group cohesion (for a little bit) and make a wise decision (for us).

After a brief flirtation with ultra marathons we were back to BAU on the Pilgrims Way, by which of course we mostly mean the North Downs Way. Did you know most of the Pilgrims’ Way between Farnham and Canterbury is now road? I’d always been a bit confused by why we weren’t doing it until I read up on it. That’s progress for you. Still, at least we have the North Downs Way (NDW from now on) to use instead.

Alternating our hikes between stretches east and west, it was time to resume in the west having previously done a stretch in Kent, and we picked it up from Guildford, having memorably reached it in Hike XV (aka the one where we bought a box of 20 pints of beer from Denby’s brewery and strapped it to Max’s back and everything went off the rails).

The route at first glance didn’t look massively inspiring until I realised Jen and I drive through a fair part of it when we head down to see my parents, and once you get past Guildford there’s some really nice sights. That route (mostly the A283) runs through some stunning parts of the South Downs (think Chiddingfold, Petworth, Bury Hill and Arundel) and when we’re done with this NDW shenanigans I’m going to lobby the group to explore some of that. Or just do the Lake District, because I’m a little fixated with that at the moment.

A spot of planning followed courtesy of Angus (first seen on Hike XVIII,) who kindly helped us optimise the route mapping, having grown up in the area. This definitely came in handy from the off and continued to prove invaluable as the day unfolded.

As the hike approached we realised with a degree of mounting dread that although Guildford isn’t too awful to get to, for most of us, getting back from Alton was going to be a chore. Creative solutions were employed with the most attendees choosing to drive for the first time.

(I say Guildford isn’t awful to get to but for my part I had a cancelled train at Reading and anxious staff fretting that the next train might not come either, which wasn’t easy on the nerves. I consoled myself by getting a McDonald’s breakfast in Reading town centre and foolishly giving my spare hash brown to a homeless guy who was actually pretty grateful.)

Anyway, we convene at Wetherspoons as is tradition and after some prep we head off, taking our obligatory start pic:

Well, I say we head off. What actually happens is John declares he hasn’t got lunch, so he nips off to get that from Tescos, but that’s less cinematic isn’t it.

And then, with sandwiches purchased and the sun rising blearily behind the clouds, creating a silvery autumnal pallor, we start our hike.

For once (and again thanks to Angus) we have the option of uploading our routes to our watches, which I am definitely doing from now on as it just made life immensely easier. Until we go off trail, at least, but we’ll get to that later. I’m not saying we’ve been doing these for a long time but when we started it was all print offs of Google maps.

Our route out of Guildford unfortunately doesn’t follow the river (it would’ve added too many miles too early) but at least took us past several of those rather posh Surrey houses I know I’ll never be able to afford but always like to look at.

Heading south of the Farnham Road and past the Watts Gallery, we cover a stretch that runs between holes at Puttenham golf club before we emerge at the base of the Hog’s Back, where we follow signs into Puttenham.

It takes us past another collection of charming Surrey cottages briefly and then on, along a long smooth road that we follow for miles.

I always think of roads like these as country death roads (which wouldn’t be a bad name for a song) just because there’s no footpath and cars can rocket down them at incredible speeds, but honestly the risk was mitigated by how quiet the road was and how straight it is, giving us full visibility. It also gave us a remarkable view of the countryside on both sides, but without having to worry about wetness underfoot, which was likely given all the recent rain. The only drawback was all the cyclists – the natural enemy of hikers – who often passed us by with a grimace as they had to move slightly into the centre of the road. Or because their Lycra was too tight, they didn’t stop to tell us which one it was.

Any doubts about following the road are quickly dismissed as we do our first bit of trail walking by the river, quickly having to tip toe over and around bog and puddles and scoring a few of us our first wet feet of the day.

Somehow nine miles have flown by and it’s not long before we make it to our first rest stop, The Mill at Elstead.

The Mill is quite beautiful. Beautiful enough to also be a wedding venue, and there’s a moment where we wonder if we’ll be allowed in or even shooed away. The original mill burned down in 1647, the same year it was occupied by Cromwell’s Roundheads (coincidence?) with a new one built the following year. It also served as a hospital in the Second World War, although presumably it wasn’t a pub then.

The original wheel is still preserved in the pub behind a large glass screen, and a few of us spend our recovery pint time admiring it before we move on.

Deciding to get on before any of us get roped into ushering at the wedding we get back on to the NDW and heading properly off road. The landscape takes quite an interesting turn as we climb, with a noticeable drop below us as we look down on the River Wey (pronounced “Waaaaaayyyyy” when we did GCSE Geography).

Throughout the afternoon the rain continually starts and stops, with one particularly vicious shower forcing everyone to hastily put on their waterproofs, including Alan’s epic whaling coat, which could comfortably host a family of four. Here it is in action on my favourite accessibility-challenged walkway to date:

I loved this health and safety nightmare so much (the walkway, although I of course love Alan too) that I had to make the boys stop for more pictures of it:

Soon after we realise we’ve lost Mike and wait as he catches up – despite the path being relatively straight he went off trail and confused us with a bunch of golfers. After playing a few holes he rejoins us.

From here we begin to approach Frensham Common and its lovely ponds (which are more like lakes). The common is National Trust owned and the ponds (Little and Great, respectively) were originally created in the 13th century to provide Farnham Castle with fish.

We go off trail for the first time here as a particularly steep hill holds appeal for those of us in the lead, (it’s a barrow, what can you do) but as we come down the other side, we realise we’re missing almost half of our members. Bugger.

John, Angus and Henry decide to head on to the next stop, the Frensham Hotel, only a mile or so away, while the rest of us wait around for our missing crew. After ten or fifteen minutes and a few calls and messages to them we realise they aren’t coming the way we did, instruct them to meet us at the hotel, and we head off.

Our enjoyment of Frensham Ponds is a little marred by the fracture in the group and the realisation we’ve got ten miles to cover in three hours, but it’s not long before we rejoin the route and pass over various hills of heathland. Sailboats can be seen on the glittering ponds in the distance, and the sky finally clears up as we reach our second stop, the Frensham Ponds Hotel.

Much to our amusement/frustration (delete as appropriate) our missing five members have somehow overtaken us and made it to the hotel already, and everyone is sat in the lobby with a pint. John tells me if I’m getting a drink to make it snappy as the hotel’s vibe isn’t what we’re looking for, and the Bluebell pub (approximately a mile away) is far more appropriate. I mishear pretty much all of this and just register the point that if I’m to get a drink I have to rush it, and give what I refer to as The Stare (like what Paddington Bear gives), or as Rob describes it, I break character. Fortunately the situation is clarified and I’m mollified once a beer is in my hand. Alan is similarly fuming until he realises us lot who have just arrived were just behind, and hadn’t decided to march on to the end without stopping.

The issue of daylight and distance persists, however, and we discuss alternatives. Alluded to in the opening of this post, for the first time we make a smart decision and decide to shorten the distance, ending in Bentley rather than Alton, reducing the remaining distance from ten miles to a far more manageable six.

Inheriting the mantle of fury from Alan and I, it’s now Alex’s turn to be livid as he has counted on finishing in Alton and has planned around it. Unfortunately for him he doesn’t (yet) have a seat on the committee and his protests are ignored, or more accurately, we laugh at them.

The decision made to now head to Bentley we leave with renewed vigour (or bile in Alex’s case), although misfortune strikes once again as we pass the Bluebell, and John, Alan and Henry decide to stick to John’s initial plan to get their “proper” drink there. I leave them to inform the others who have gone on ahead, except the group consensus now is that we’re not stopping, having done so only a short while earlier. We split once again.

To say that mine, Rob and Mat’s anxiety levels spiked here is putting it mildly, and we catastrophise a rift in the group and the threat of fury from those we’ve left behind. Not having the amended route to Bentley (the original one on my watch now out of date) I stick with the main group and try calling and messaging John to let him know what’s going on enough times that I’m pretty sure it legally counted as stalking. To everyone’s great relief I receive a message that just says “yes” when I ask if he’s got the map, as well as this picture:

Not to mention a there’s a much more welcomed follow up message that says they’re just behind us. Everyone’s buttocks unclench and the sun comes out again.

However, any further thoughts about our missing brethren are quickly set aside as we head deeper into the Blacknest Woods. Significant logging and felling has taken place, and the vehicles going over the main track combined with all the rain have managed to turn the pathway into one long stretch of bog.

Our pace slows down astonishingly as we pick our way through. I place a foot on what I assume to be a solid mound and am taken aback when I realise it has the consistency of stacked liquid (Arran and I both made reference to the soup tower joke from Black Books, if anyone remembers that). This misery continues for some time but we make our way through for the most part unscathed.

Better than unscathed actually, because miraculously as we regroup at the next corner, we find our missing crew, the gang reunited once more. Just as importantly, we learn what was in John’s bottle. It was, of course, a beer to go. Naturally.

In some ways what follows was almost as hard as navigating the mud, as our path is covered by loads of discarded branches of various sizes.

The ground becomes incredibly treacherous as we have no idea what the branches conceal (I’m picturing a pit with spikes for some reason) but miraculously we make it through and see out the rest of the woods enjoying the golden hour as the sun begins to set, always my favourite part of a hike.

From there it’s all very relaxed as we watch the sun set while walking through fields and pathways, until after the last of the twilight has faded we arrive at The Star Inn in Bentley.

We stop to get our obligatory in front of the pub finishing selfie, which unfortunately could be misconstrued as Mike taking a picture of the girls in the house over the road, but the police never come so we assume they understood.

We see the evening out in the Star, a lovely local pub with a pretty good menu and a range of beers. Mostly importantly the staff were welcoming and there was even an enormous table in a nook which could accommodate our raucous bunch with little disruption to the locals. John even got a round in for everyone, which was a lovely gesture.

As the evening wound on the ever-looming decision to head home came upon us, and a small fleet of ubers were called to get those of us not going from Bentley train station to wherever they needed to go. All we needed to do now was get home, sort our feet out, rest up, and wait for John’s wife’s inevitable sarcastic comment when Rob posts hike photos on Facebook.

So I guess the big question now is… is our next hike, the prestigiously titled Hike XX, going to be all four miles of Bentley to Alton?

A few years ago I was on a zoom call at work and one of my colleagues mentioned that her friends were doing the London to Brighton ultra challenge. I didn’t even know this was a thing, and after a hasty burst of research, the idea was stuck in my head. Within a few weeks had signed up to give it a try.

I half heartedly mentioned it to a couple of my friends but it got very little traction, and honestly for some reason I thought it was something I would want to do by myself. I’m still not sure why; my friends and I hike together all the time, as I’m writing this we’ve done 18 x 20 mile hikes in the last decade plus numerous other smaller walks too (all documented in meticulous detail on this very blog). But I was determined, I could do this by myself.

As it turned out, at the eleventh hour my uncle got wind of this challenge, and being a similar sort of lunatic, expressed the desire to join me. As soon as we did the challenge it became clear to me that if he hadn’t come too, I wouldn’t have finished it. It was excellent, but so gruelling.

Now the problem with these challenges is once they’ve got their claws into you, they’re never letting go. And I don’t just mean psychologically. I mean tailored ads, mailings lists, all the sort of stuff one needs to be gently persuaded to maybe consider one again even though last time you swore that was it forever.

I shared a few of the options with the hiking core crew and Mat got very excited. Before I knew it, he was inviting people too. Before long we had a crew of seven determined to give the Jurassic Coast Challenge a try.

The enormity of the task ahead of us – combined with how badly I struggled the year before – inspired us to come up with some serious training treks, and we ended up doing five training hikes of approximately twenty miles each, covering locations such as Langston Harbour, the Knepp Estate, and the Hambleden hills. We bought hiking poles (something I hadn’t bothered with on London to Brighton until the end) and learned to use them. We bought bladders and appreciated the value of staying properly hydrated (as well as the value of finding convenient woodland places to nip to the bathroom). We found a decent looking Airbnb that could accommodate us all in Bridport about ten metres from the beach. We were ready.

The night before the challenge began we registered at the challenge, checked in at the Airbnb, went for dinner, and then packed our final bits. Impressed by how close the Airbnb is to the beach, I tell Rob that first thing Monday I’m going to stand in the sea while I drink my first tea of the day. Arran arrives short on supplies, having had a break in the night before and having hastily packed. There’s a moment of horror when we realise Rob has forgotten the top part of his bladder, rendering it useless, and we all scramble to find additional water bottles for him to carry. (It was, apparently, on top of the microwave. Which is good to know but not tremendously helpful).

I never sleep before hikes and ultras are the worst. Before London to Brighton I managed about 90 minutes, this time I grabbed a far more satisfying 3 hours and 20 minutes before the 5am alarm, and we headed off to get the transfers needed to get us to the start (which I won’t go into detail about because honestly they’re really useful to have but boring to read about).

What you want to read about is the challenge starting, right? So we’re guided into this pen, given a very wholesome dance themed warm up (Mat and I loved it, the others looked somewhere between indifferent and furious), count down to the 8:30 start time and then finally we’re off (after lots of shuffling as we get past the start line)!

The first few minutes are really quite cramped as we head off through a few fields and pathways, and naturally it starts to rain so we stop to get the waterproofs out, immediately getting overtaken by everyone around us, and losing the crowd, which is quite nice actually. Mike leaves the group in the first ten minutes of setting off to go for a wee, which is a habit he becomes remarkably consistent in maintaining over the course of the challenge.

Our route leads us under Corfe Castle, which was built by William the Conqueror (you might have heard of him) in the 11th century. It’s a visually stunning sight, and a lovely way to start our journey.

As we leave the coincidentally named village of Corfe Castle we immediately realise our mistake combining layers with waterproofs as the elevation kicks in and become a hot sweaty mess, but once we get our attire sorted we’re on our way, climbing high up over the hills that look down at the valley below, the steam train from the Swanage heritage railway occasionally passing through the valley (although not enough for Rob’s liking).

This stunning route eventually lowers us down into the Ulwell Holiday Park, where Jen and I once spent a week on holiday. I have very fond memories of reading the last Game of Thrones book there while drinking cider in 2012 and hoping George RR Martin would release the next book before the show caught up with him. Or at all, would be nice.

Just before Swanage we reach our first rest stop of seven, where we break for a snack and a reflection of the walk’s start before we’re off again. There’s not too much to say about this stop really given how early it was in the hike, and it’s fair to say none of us needed it at this point, but the pastries were nice and it’s always good to top up the water.

The route then led through Swanage, which is nice but honestly no one likes walking through towns on a hike; it’s just weird and you feel like you’re dressed like an idiot when you’re back in civilisation. The route then leads uphill once more towards Worth Maltravers and loops us back to the second rest stop at Corfe Castle (both village and structure) where a strangely purgatorial feeling sets in the closer we get to where we started.

The second rest stop provides lunch and I’m pretty happy with the food on offer (in addition to sandwiches, fruit and crisps they have proper satsumas as opposed to those weird easy peelers). Most of the team get to work on their first sock change and we’re treated to a visit from Becky, Mike’s wife, and their daughters Sophie and Maisie. We take a bit longer here but it’s a worthwhile break to get ourselves sorted.

Leaving the second rest stop we’re almost immediately treated to an amazing uphill climb near Church Knowle that takes us up onto the Purbeck Ridge Path.

The Ridge is, quite frankly, bloody stunning. It runs for miles with views as far as the eye can see in both directions. It’s sunny but not too hot, and everyone is in a good mood as the path gently rises and lowers over the hills. If the whole thing had been like this we would have had no problems.

A short while later Mat gets a call from his wife, Hannah, who cryptically tells him to turn around. He does and she’s a short distance behind us, having driven down to support him for the weekend. He is, of course, absolutely delighted.

We carry on and walk for a few more miles, the group splitting into smaller units and regrouping on and off as comes naturally. One of the nice things about the Ultra challenges is meeting new people and we all end up chatting to various groups as we go, including a very nice lady who apparently has a decent side hustle selling pictures of her feet online. I could do the same after this walk, but only to medical journals or horror effects enthusiasts.

We hear a crack and looking behind, see the sky above us is black. It’s likely to start raining any minute now, and we make our way down some of the steepest descent we’ve ever faced. It’s so sharp it’s almost comical, and the air is filled with the sounds of hikers giggling as they try a range of ways to handle getting downhill, from walking in a zig zag (and nearly bashing into one another), walking like Mr Soft from those Softmints adverts that used to freak me out as a kid, or in some cases even jogging down (I tried this, would recommend).

The further we descend, the higher the next hill seems, and the more the rain slowly starts to make its presence known.

At the base of both hills we pause to regroup, hastily throwing on our waterproofs as the rain comes. We do one of those hands-in huddle things before ascending – it was meant to be ironic but the hill is so intimidating that we do it sincerely – and as the storm begins, we start to climb.

I heard another participant refer to this monster as Heart Attack Hill and I can certainly see why. The ascent was like nothing we’d ever done before, made all the harder as the rain intensified. Everyone set off at their own pace, with Arran storming ahead, Swatty, Rob and I moving in a similar pace behind, and Mike, Clyde and Mat coming next.

If we’re hoping for respite when we reach the top we don’t get it; the storm is worse than ever, with thunder cracking loudly over our heads, reminding us that we’re incredibly exposed and carrying metal poles too. The rain couldn’t possibly get any worse, and yet it does, the track rising and the descending, and becoming more and more water logged.

The rain decides to adopt a new strategy here and tries striking from the side, all the better to get into our hoods. Then it turns to hail, because at this point why not. The sun glows sickly behind sepia clouds.

The whole thing is borderline apocalyptic and really quite incredible. Everyone is marching at their own pace now and when I catch up with Swatty for a bit I tell him this is greatest and worst thing I’ve ever experienced and he wholeheartedly agrees. It’s fair to say we’ve lost the plot by this point.

As if things couldn’t possibly get any better, as the hill descends the chalk path turns into a stream, and with the grass bank too slippery to walk on anymore, we are forced to walk a considerable stretch of it in ankle deep water. Splendid.

Finally, as Swatty, Rob and I reach the bottom, as if on cue the rain stops and finally the sun breaks through. We take what we refer to as a soggy selfie and later check the time of that picture against the ones at the base of the hill: the whole thing took fifty minutes.

Finally leaving the hills we enter the village of West Lulworth. If we’re hoping this will be drier we’re as foolish as we are soaked; the road has completely flooded, to the extent that water is entering some front doors. We’re left with no choice but to cross, with pretty entertaining results.

A small ascent out of West Lukworth into some farmland and a pretty sunset gets us to rest stop three, where Hannah meets us once more and our hearts collectively break as we realise how wet our bags are.

They are soaked. Almost everything in them is drenched, certainly all our changes of clothes, and I die a little inside as I wring significant amounts of water from the hoodie and towel, both of which I needed for the next, night time stretch.

The challenge has been well organised until now but in some ways the wheels did come off a bit here. The storm has clearly taken everyone by surprise; there are mass drop outs, and some of the staff announce that there is the option to take people to the next rest stop (the halfway point, where the people doing the challenge over two days are camping) but for us guys doing the continuous challenge, there’s little point. Worse, given the time (9pm or so) we’re starving and there’s very little food, especially for those with dietary requirements. Even the pot noodles have gone and at best there’s only a few biscuits and hot drinks to tide us over. For vegans, the only food choice is a cup of tea. Morale is at an all time low.

And yet we’re not done. We want to see this through, weather and warmth be damned. We use the silver blankets the organisers have provided us with to whip up some improvised insulation and before we know it the boys have created a range of silver capes, ponchos and jacket liners.

Hannah kindly offers to source us some clothes that aren’t reflective and heads off (the local area was not accommodating despite a sterling effort) and we in turn decide to resume, donning our head torches and glow sticks and vanishing into the night.

The night section of ultras are weird. They’re fun at first in a night-hike-with-the-scouts kinda way, and it’s entertaining looking out for the next glow stick and the one after that to guide your way, and occasionally spotting nocturnal wildlife, but the novelty wears off soon enough. You’re spending so much time looking at where to put your feet that delights such as the night sky broadly go unnoticed.

It probably didn’t help that early on we reached Durdle Door, the beloved limestone arch, but could only see its silhouette in the darkness. Our route after that involved more hills and elevation, made harder to tackle with such poor visibility.

Worse, the battery on my head torch died after about an hour and a half, leaving me with Mat’s (kindly donated) bike light that I had to hold, making it harder to hydrate or walk with poles, which are incredibly useful on the uneven ground (take Arran’s word for it, he got taken out by a tree root that caught his foot as he was walking, although to be fair I’m not sure the poles would’ve saved him). This all sounds trivial, but believe me after the last few hours this stuff adds up.

It’s around here that we finally reach halfway as we see the 50km sign. It’s a welcomed sight, but doesn’t lift my spirits as much as I would’ve hoped.

My own personal saviour at my 50km dark time is Swatty, who asks “Do you want some reasons to be cheerful?” and explains to me why he’s doing this walk for the Junior Diabetes Research Fund, about how his son was diagnosed with type one diabetes at three years old, and how brave he’s been getting through it. It’s a fascinating, inspiring chat that completely pulls my head out of my arse and compels me to keep going.

It probably helps that around this point we left the hills for a while and the path opened out into a level track that enabled me to put the torch away and rely on the others’ light (there’s probably a metaphor for the last few hours here).

At some point – and I might have my chronology wrong here, things are starting to blur in the memory – we pass a residential street and see two occupied parked cars. One was definitely not filled with drug dealers, the other definitely didn’t have a couple being inappropriate in. Both did, however, provide unintentional entertainment, so we’re grateful to them for that. Certainly more appreciative than to the competitor we saw who kept trying to tell us what was ahead. I’m sure they were trying to be helpful, but we can do this ourselves, thanks.

Another stretch of hills ensues and Rob reaches his own dark place. He’s absolutely tapped out and still has a few miles to go before rest stop 4. In some ways it’s harder for him than us; unlike the rest of us he signed up to do the halfway challenge, and there’s something about knowing the end is in sight that makes the last few miles all the longer. It’s also worth calling out that due to the position of rest stops, half of 100km is apparently 58km. We take his bag from him, get him to drink as much as he can and take it one step at a time, and slowly he comes around, regaining his energy as we approach Weymouth. A natural divide in the group emerges owing to energy levels but we crack on, undeterred.

The hills end and our last stretch before the halfway point is a primarily a beachfront promenade where Rob, Clyde and I manage to regain some of our lost pace. We enter the park where the rest stop is based to little fanfare (its way after 2am by this point) and Rob concludes his ultra challenge.

Rejoining the others, we’re dismayed to see what remains of the food options, although maybe they were more appealing earlier in the day; the thought of eating anything at 3am is pretty abhorrent, we would all prefer sleep. I know as a celiac Clyde had to actually wake one of the attendants to see what food was gluten free, as for some reason nothing was labelled.

One saving grace of this stop was that we had left halfway bags here, either booking through the extras or in Rob’s car, and although it was cold and we had no way of getting properly dry, having a change of clothes – dry ones at that – did us a world of good.

Well, some of us. Unfortunately Clyde’s halfway bag didn’t have enough for him to change into, and feeling the cold on his chest, the ultra has absolutely done him in. He’s seriously unwell by this point, trembling, and there’s no way he can continue and decides to retire. Although he comes down hard on himself for it, it is however worth calling out that he had walked 58km already, by far his personal best and far longer than any of the organised hikes we’d done before. After Rob wakes from his power nap they both depart, and we’re incredibly sorry to lose them both.

Mike is also tempted to leave, but Mat fortunately talks him out of it, reminding him he’ll hate himself for it later. He agrees to stay on, for now.

Shortly before we leave Mat tells me he spoke with one of the Marshalls and got a medal and t-shirt for Clyde; he’d completed the halfway challenge after all, and should celebrate that, saying he’d give them to him at the end. It’s an incredibly considerate thought which for some reason I found really moving.

But it was time to resume, and with the dawn just starting to break, the remaining five of us departed the rest stop for Weymouth.

Our pace is pretty impressive as we head off, driven by clean clothes and the promise of a new day. I remember when doing London to Brighton the previous year I didn’t feel any better when dawn came, worse if anything, but this time around it comes as a huge relief. The route leads us along the sea front, and we pass a guy sleeping on the beach and some girls who absolutely should’ve been in bed at this time, one of whom slurs “I wish I had the energy to do that.”

We loop around the harbour and up some stairs into a nicely landscaped public park, where Mat decides to reapply Vaseline to his more intimate areas, seeing as no one is around at 5am.

As we ascend higher we see the sun rise, pausing for a moment to appreciate the start of a new day as we set off.

Our route turns decidedly residential here, and it’s weird walking through streets at this time; when it’s light but no one is up yet. We encounter a couple of dog walkers but that’s about it.

Before long we come to the fifth rest stop at Wyke Regis. Set next to a campsite and only 8km after the halfway stop it feels a little premature and not really required, but we’re finally able to get our pot noodles… and then remember why we don’t normally eat pot noodles. Ah well, at least I use the time to keep my 462 day Duolingo streak going.

Mike’s crisis deepens, and we convince him that this stop is no place to drop out – if he can get to the next one at Abbotsbury at 82km he can claim the 3/4 medal, but also at 82km in it’s only 18km to the end.

“Only.” We may come to regret that.

From Wyke Regis we go round the back of some military base, a friendly soldier on guard having a brief chat with us, and soon after we’re passed by clusters of runners doing the two day challenge and have caught up with us.

One nice thing about the second day of the challenge – and there’s not much other than it finishing – is how nice everyone is to those of us doing the continuous challenge. Over the remainder of the challenge we will be told repeatedly that they don’t know how we’re doing it. We don’t know how we’re doing it either, and would rather not think about it too much in case the wheels come off.

The military route leads to a beach, which is nice to see from sea level for a change as opposed to from the cliff tops.

From there it’s another mix of roads and cross country. At one point we cross what I think was a holiday park, where a Marshall politely and preemptively warns us to be quiet as residents have complained about the noise before. We pause for a few minutes to tape up Mike’s feet and then cross a few more hills before we reach Abbotsbury, our sixth stop.

It took a lot longer than I’m describing here, but the second day is a strange beast; we’re all pretty tired and now the scenery is so much more level it’s hard to create milestones in your mind beyond the rest stops and any photos taken, and funnily enough the desire to take photos diminishes significantly on day two. Hopefully I’ve got the point across. It was certainly long enough that I realised a few miles from the rest stop that I had drank my bladder dry.

Rest stop 6 is meant to be breakfast, but we arrive around 11am, our timings all over the place by this point. We don’t care. We just want to finish the bloody thing. Arran’s knees are nailed by now, and he’s forcing himself on with a limping gait, refusing to quit.

Hannah, Becky, Sophie and Maisie join us for the Abbotsbury rest stop, where we’re all taking stock and handling repairs. Personally the blisters are coming in thick and fast (after the storm they were inevitable for me with trail shoes) so I’m liberally applying tape to anywhere I can stick it to. Fortunately for me I have an assistant in Sophie, Mike’s eldest, who seems to take great delight in shuttling each and every piece of the tape’s discarded backing material to the bin for me. I’m really grateful for the distraction, but finally there’s no putting it off any longer, it’s time to head off for the last 18km, with only one more rest stop before the end.

The main concern now (other than feet, energy and all that good stuff) is the heat. The sun is shining brightly, there’s barely a cloud in the sky, and our route is incredibly exposed as we walk along the base of some hills and then down a road running parallel to the beach.

You know when you’ve walked 85km and you could just do with an easy few miles, but instead the race organisers decide to send you along a shingle beach where your feet can’t get any purchase, and you basically slow to a crawl, thighs, calves and the soles of your feet burning? For three kilometres? Don’t you hate that?

We certainly did.

No one had a good time in this stretch. It sort of became funny because of how ridiculous it was, then stopped being funny, then was funny again, at least in my mind. Swatty nicely articulated it as “Day one was the best hike ever. Day two is the worst,” and I can’t fault his logic here. This sapped every ounce of our resolve. We suddenly understood why the organisers had (inexplicably until now) put another rest stop 5km from the end. We now craved reaching it.

As soon as we left the beach the soles of our feet felt like they were on fire, and it took a while before this passed. Where the path led us next was full of boisterous young cows, many of whom were curious about the masses of people limping by them. I think we were all too tired to tell whether they wanted to play or were being aggressive and took no chances here.

The heat continued to persist, but given where in the day we were, we found ourselves surrounded by all sorts of challengers, from other continuous walkers, to those doing it over two days, to those doing day two only. We were able to share in our collective misery and trade war stories as we went. I’m so tired by this point I’m telling people about Heartbreak Hill (not Heart Attack Hill) and getting polite but confused nods back.

A short while before the final rest stop we see Swatty’s family arrive and we chat to them and Hannah for a while, but we’re all mindful that to stop for too long might mean not resuming at all. We bear down and march to the final rest stop at Burton Bradstock.

Despite the hazy memory that persists over large portions of day two, this last rest stop is very clear to me. It was all about getting the bladders filled, soaking our neck gaiters and putting them round our heads, eating whatever can give us energy to finish, and getting on. No point changing the socks, I wouldn’t get my shoes back on again if I did. One member of staff tells the lads about the number of continuous challengers who have finished already, but we’re tired and grumpy and don’t think his maths holds water. I remember one lady asking me as someone doing the continuous challenge how I feel, and me replying I felt euphoric, tearful and sick. It was definitely time to get going. Last push.

The last 5km of course feels like 15km, and consists of some hills which look far steeper than they were on the elevation chart. Two in particular are really brutal and one goes on forever, both up and then down. I’ve tried my best not to count the miles as we go and just focus on the walking, but since the 85th kilometre there’s been lots of observations like “less than 10 miles to go… less than 10k to go,” and so on.

A particularly harsh blow to the confidence is delivered when a competitor in front of us is on the phone to a friend of hers. I hear her friend ask “Are there any fit men around?” She looks around, sees us, I shake my head and she says to her friend, “Nah.”

Hey, you try looking like Chris Hemsworth after a total of 3 hours sleep over 3 days and 98km walked, mate.

We follow the path down and suddenly we’re back in civilisation and on the 99th kilometre. We just have to hold on.

We walk past a pub’s beer garden where a musician is singing and playing violin. The audience gives us a huge cheer as we pass which moves us all, but also gives us another push. We’re nearly there now.

Round the corner from the finish we see Rob and Clyde have come to meet us, and the whole crew reunited, they escort us towards the finish line, the air full of cheers and celebration. Swatty and Mike’s kids join their dads to cross the finish line, and Hannah, Kayleigh and Becky cheer us on as we reach the end.

We cross the finish line and receive our medals and basically after that everyone completely falls apart. Either we don’t know what to do with ourselves and are pacing around, or dropping to the floor, or the emotion gets too much. The sense of euphoria is ridiculous. There are tears, I won’t say from who.

The post finish experience consists of mostly searching for food, taking bags off, taking advantage of the excellent free massages and so on. Mat touchingly gives Clyde his t-shirt and medal and more hugging ensues. We find the adrenaline and euphoria is enough for us to eat, chat and head back, but some wobbles occur – Mat looked like he was going to faint while waiting for his burger and annoyingly they had again run out of gluten free burgers.

Swatty is taken home by his family (after lots of sweaty hugs from us) and the rest of us head back to the Airbnb. It’s not especially long before we all pass out.

The next morning I wake after a very satisfying sleep and, true to my word, have my tea in the sea.

A short while later we convene for a well earned fried breakfast and a final group shot, Swatty added in post because we couldn’t bear to leave him out.

And then our fellowship, though eternally bound by friendship and love, was ended.

Unless we do one again later. They’re saying no now, but I can convince ‘em…

Despite the success of the post-Christmas hike, the Walking Idiots were still recovering from the disastrous Hike 17. We needed a win.

Fortunately Hike 18 showed hints of promise. Hiking in Kent always goes very well, and the Lenham to Rochester route had been on John’s itinerary for a while now. This seemed the time to do it.

As always, the growing number of dropouts in the run up to the day did little to help ease our anxiety. In addition to some of our beloved regulars, we also lost core crew Mat (roped into counting local election votes), Rob (Covid, bless him) and Alan (other), their absence casting an unhealthy pallor over the walk to come, but the wealth of new attendees give a glimmer of hope.

A flurry of activity over WhatsApp ensued – primarily a mix of arranging a taxi for some of us to get to our start point and John repeatedly but necessarily telling people to bring a packed lunch as we had too many miles to cover to allow for long breaks – and the day crept closer.

The morning of the hike those of us waiting for the cab receive a particularly unpleasant shock at 7am: the taxi has been cancelled, John having received an email from the company at 4am with no context or remorse. Absolute dick move, A1 Taxis or Rochester Cab. (Owing to online booking systems we are unsure which one it was, but both are now on our revenge list. No one tampers with our hike logistics except us. Count your days).

A panicked call from the taxi batphone in my hotel brings salvation and two cabs soon rock up to ferry us to Lenham. Our driver remains impassive as we inadvertently brag about the distances we cover, until he modestly shares that he used to be a postman, and that sort of mileage was all in a days’ work for him. Impressed, we ask if he wants to join us today, and he politely (wisely?) declines.

The meeting point for the crew is the Dog and Badger in Lenham, the same starting point as our Lenham to Rochester walk, exactly half our hikes ago. The pub has a quiet, almost cordial ambience as its guests calmly go about eating their breakfasts. Within moments we noisy buggers shatter this atmosphere, but no one seems to mind, or if they do, they keep it to themselves.

A particular shout out to the lady who took our orders – for those of us having the vegan breakfast she expressed her opinion on the egg substitute (oggs, best avoided apparently) and sagely observed later, “I can tell you’re eating, you’re all quiet!”

With our bellies full and the bathroom soon ruined, it’s time to head out, our last contingent of attendees joining us outside.

We get our standard departure picture before we go, although with no Rob we politely request people take as many pictures as they can over the course of the day. The pictures were great but I may have received more than I was expecting, something I come to regret as I compile this… 

Anyway, off we go!

Once the field is crossed we spend the next four miles walking along a road marked as Pilgrims Way, but might also be the North Downs Way.

A short while later we reach Hollingbourne, a charming little village which could have offered us an early pub stop, The Dirty Habit (great name), but it had sadly burned down. We leave the route for a moment to go see a very fancy Manor House, and a local stops us as we’re walking down to suggest we try the cafe for refreshments. “Otherwise we burned the pub down for nothing,” he chuckles, and we laugh along, unsure how serious he is, deciding it’s best we get on our way, just in case.

Back in the woods, some of us witness Paul slip and fall yet somehow manage to not only stop himself from falling into the nettles but also not spill a drop of his beer. I’m still not sure how he managed it.

Coming up on 11:30, we stop for a moment, Max disappearing far deeper into the undergrowth than is required to go for a wee, and to our amazement returns holding a stash of beers he’d planted there earlier in the week. Like a magnanimous pirate captain he distributes the booty amongst the men, all of us grateful and amazed; the beer is even still cold.

Mad cat beer because we’re on the approach to Cat’s Mount, we learn.

Only a few moments later we stop for a few minutes at a rather delightful viewpoint to enjoy our spoils.

From here we face the wrath of the North Downs’ elevation (always a challenge when you’ve got a beer in you) and head up and up.

However as we once more re-enter the woods there is one particularly sensory treat ahead.

Reaching the top of the hill we leave the woods and follow the footpath along the fields and into the field until the path… vanishes.

Some furtive checking for the path on OS maps and all the other apps ensues, until we reach a consensus that the path is around here somewhere, and we’d best head in its general direction until it either presents itself, or we find the next bit of our route…

Fortunately we’re not wading through legumes for too long and we’re soon back on track, although we allow for a brief diversion to stop at Thurnham Castle, the ruins of a castle probably from the eleventh century, according to the helpful yet uncertain plaque.

Back on track we clamber up possibly the world’s most dangerous stile and continue uphill, walking for several miles over the contour of the North Downs, looking down over the vineyards below.

Finally we reach our first pub stop (bottles in the woods excluded,) The Cock Horse at Detling.

The Cock Horse was a decent pub. Pretty good range of beers and they filled up my water bottles and bladder without protest (the latter is a real pain to do so and I spilled a load of it like a right tit). We got the impression the pub is a bit of a rest stop for hikers from the amount of people in backpacks who optimistically approached the pub only to look crestfallen to see a dozen sweaty men hogging all the benches.

Still, it provided a great spot for a sock change, a quick lunch and a pint or two. Paul sadly took the opportunity to leave us here, needing to get stuff done, and we reluctantly bid him farewell.

Drinking up, we cross Jade’s Bridge over the main road and head back into the countryside to enter Boxley Downs.

It’s not massively later that Max once again performs some magic and from under the nettles whips out two bottles of wine, which help pass the next stretch of our amble, which is admittedly much smoother going than our hilly first section.

While hills might not be a problem, the nettles are starting to become an irritation, until we realise that there’s a parallel path in the woods to our left, which we hop down into pretty much as soon as the rain starts.

Fortunately for us the hike gods are smiling on us today and the rain doesn’t last, and we enter woods full of Yew trees that drops steeply downhill, triggering John’s knee injury, something we haven’t seen kick in since Hike 2, nearly ten years ago.

Aside from us, the woods are utterly silent, and John points out that Yew is toxic, so everything living has the sense to stay away, except for us.

Regrouping at the bottom of the hill, Richard consoles John about his knee with a chilling anecdote about a sternum injury unsuitable for print and we pause briefly to admire the White Horse Stone and resume.

Here’s a picture of us crossing a railway bridge, as these pictures are far too rural at the moment.

Actually here’s some more urban grit:

Aaaaand one more for good measure:

After that we climb a hill known as E2, which apparently is classified like this because it’s such a bastard to climb, and at the top we stop to admire a slightly more impressive stone or two.

This is Kit’s Coty House, or The House of the Dead, a six thousand year old burial chamber. This thing was two thousand years old when the last of the mammoths died. It’s one thousand years older than the Egyptian empire. It’s old. You get the idea.

From here we close in on pub no. 2, The Robin Hood at Burham.

The Robin Hood offers a good break as our legs are starting to tire and we’re grateful for a rest and a beer, but with the end only a quarter of the hike away no one feels the need to pull off a sock change or relax too much. Max sadly departs us, also having places to be, and we’re sorry to see him go after his above and beyond services to hiking and drinking on this day.

Leaving the second pub is always a challenge and with the golden hour approaching none of us are particularly moving fast.

Anyway, tired legs be damned we power through, becoming increasingly aware that we’re somewhat over the expected mileage we had planned for the day, but that’s okay. Got to get those steps in.

Taking a moment to appreciate the valley before us, we descend onto the Medway, walking under the impressive bridge last seen on Hike 7.

Walking along the river pathway as the sun sets is a nice change of landscape, and as the path ends we pass through a park full of never do well kids who ask (yell at) us what’s in our bags. Alex deftly earns their respect by replying “Just booze, man.”

Coming up on mile 24 (of a planned 20) we pass Rochester Castle and reach our finish point outside the Cathedral.

Inexplicably, Max’s wife, Emma turns up at that moment and takes our victory photo, which was greatly appreciated.

Our hike happens to coincide with Rochester’s Sweeps Festival, and we can hear the noise from the town as we approach. The pubs are packed out and the group goes in search of well earned beer and a bit of rest.

Well, I say rest. The WhatsApp messages exchanged the next day imply anything but. I think my favourite phrase might be, “I am slowly emerging from my husk-like form.”

So there you go. The perils of hiking and drinking. Totally, totally worth it.

Let’s end this on a nice picture: here’s Richard, stoically looking down a valley, able to cover any distance. With me next to him, spoiling the picture by taking a photo that didn’t make the final edit of this post:

Things got a little rocky last time, didn’t they? But the Idiots’ annual between-Christmas-and-New-Year-slash-for-Rob’s-birthday hike is a set in stone event, and nothing was going to derail that.

Plotting for this one was pretty easy – we knew we wanted something around 10-12 miles in length and we kicked around a few options before Rob decided he liked the idea of a trek from Twyford to Henley. We did a quick roll call of attendees and most of the usual Christmas line up joined us, Rob’s dad sadly missing out as he had a cold and John having to take a pass owing to a job interview. I love hiking with the boys but I’m not sure how much I was expecting with this one given the short distance and (I assumed) familiar setting; I pretty much figured it would be a pleasant but uneventful amble and we’d be back shortly after lunch.

We convened at Twyford (no relation) train station and off we went, walking a short distance before entering the woods.

The first thing to bear in mind about hiking in winter is how damn muddy it is. Even simple pathways through the woods are suddenly like ice rinks.

The second thing is that not only is winter muddy, but (obviously) wet. And sometimes the wetness can get a little out of hand, as we learned within the first hour.

So after a short discussion, we were off again, our success guaranteed. Right? Almost.

The third thing to note is that hiking along the riverside footpaths in winter is that sometimes there are no riverside footpaths.

So we decided rather than turn round again, we’d do some discreet trespassing through the adjacent field and loop round to where the pass resumed.

It was fine though, all we had to do was cross the next bridge –

– and we’d be back on our way –

Fine. We’ll just keep going. Sure the worst is behind us.

Well, it kinda was. The route was almost passable, only mostly flooded, with lots of felled branches piled up along the side. So Big Al decided to use his construction skills and assembled a bridge to get us across, the rest of us acting as an assembly line to pass the raw materials his way.

Annoyingly I forgot to get a picture of Big Al’s masterpiece, but Rob and I recreated a scale model of it for your benefit:

Fortunately no more floods present themselves for a while and we were able to continue, although we now found ourselves wandering along an extended stretch into Woodley for a mile or so. Just before it we saw my new favourite back garden…

Anyway, once we clear Woodley we entered Sonning and were back on track!

Sonning is seriously impressive. Jerome K. Jerome of Three Men in a Boat fame called it “the most fairy-like little nook on the whole river,” which is a beautiful description, with its charming old houses and cottages, many of them listed. Presumably JKJ never saw it with the traffic piled up behind the lights waiting to cross the bridge anytime roughly approaching rush hour, but commuting gripes aside, he may have been onto something.

Our route takes a short diversion into the local graveyard (my request, I’m quirky like that) and we briefly try and work out what the symbols on the below headstones are:

The symbol, if you can make it out, cleverly spells IHS, or Iesus Hominum Salvator, which refers to early Christian monuments. Jesus starting with an “I” gives us our second Indiana Jones reference of the day after the rope bridge, a sign that things are going very well indeed.

And then, to only make it better, we find a pub! And it serves us! Before noon!

The entrance to the Bull isn’t massively obvious (multiple doors, duh) and we milled around for a short while until the bartender kindly poked his head out the door and asked if we’d like to come in.

The Bull and its staff were charming, I got my water bottles refilled (all that mud worked up a thirst) and we stayed for a short while to soak in the ambience (and a pint) before heading off. We liked The Bull a lot, would strongly recommend it.

Overcoming the desire to stick around for longer, we said our goodbyes and passed through Sonning, crossing the bridge over the Thames and walking along the Thames Path, the mud returning with a vengeance. Rob finds a set of car keys which have a phone number on, so he gives them a call out of the goodness of his heart. And the promised £10 reward. The owner is very grateful and agrees to collect the keys from us when we get to Henley.

The stretch between Sonning and Shiplake college was probably rather beautiful, but I don’t think any of us saw much of it as we were too busy trying to power through the mud. We did see a couple on a barge asking if we’d see (what we assumed was) their dog, but that was about it. Finally we got to the end of the mud, and was rewarded with this sight:

Returning to something resembling a path, we found ourselves at Shiplake, and this rather impressive door.

Annoyingly around this point we find ourselves detoured one final time, and have to amend our route once more, the reason for the footpath being closed only becoming apparent a short while later.

Still, post cryptic and indeterminately-sized sinkhole we’re back on track once more and happy to carry on, with only five miles left to go. Surely it’s just a sprint to the finish now?

Come on, you know it’s never that straightforward. Within minutes we find ourselves crossing a field which isn’t so much mud as just water, the water sneakily having risen up to the level of the grass, meaning the only way to even try to stay dry is to keep moving and aim for the denser patches of grass. Maybe if we kept moving we’d make it without incident.

However, much like the owner of the keys Rob found (generally believed to be Keira Knightly at this point) we found ourselves presented with someone in need.

This time it was a family, who despite being prepared enough to be wearing Wellington boots (and therefore having drier feet than us) also were trying to carry a buggy across four hundred metres of waterlogged fields. We were all more than ready to do our share, but Big Al got in there first and refused to quit, and helped the sheepish dad lug buggy and passenger (who was pretty chilled out about the whole thing) to the other side.

Leaving the (rather grateful) family to it once we’d cleared the water, we ducked under the low hanging railway bridge and entered the final stretch of the way, which mostly consisted of admiring the very posh houses and buildings built along the riverside on the stretch to Henley.

Finally though, Henley came into sight and with it, the Angel, a pub we had last visited all the way back in Hike 4. Short of indoor seating for the five of us, we opt to sit outside and commemorate our success at a decent day’s hike.

Mat and Big Al depart soon after, and Rob, Alan and I head inside to wait for definitely Keira Knightly to collect her keys (okay it wasn’t, but she was very nice). Alan and I pass the time by drinking more hard earned beer, because what else are we supposed to do in this situation?

And that was Twyford to Henley; full of mud and mishaps, detours and diversions. Exactly the sort of nonsense we love.

This was a hike of two halves.

The world was our oyster. And by world, really I mean southern England. We want to be more adventurous but logistics need to be considered, especially for those of us with young families.

The reason for this one being local however can be traced to me as, in the process of trying to move house, I was convinced the move date would fall on the day of the hike, a date not easily decided upon with busy calendars all around (there’d been some drama around this already). 

So, in my wisdom, I requested a route I wouldn’t be sad to miss, full well knowing I’d be sad to miss any hike. I figured a hike local to Crowthorne (an area that still holds appeal to the others) wouldn’t be the end of the world to sit out of, and let events roll on. 

Perhaps inevitably, I underestimated the inefficiencies of the house moving process in England and as the months dragged on, the hike crept ever closer with no move date in sight. Looks like I’d be going after all. This was a good thing.

I felt relieved and contributed to the planning with the others (the bulk of it mainly falling to Mat), examining a workable route. Henley to Crowthorne this time, taking in a stretch of the Thames and a familiar pub or two with a questionable third or so towards Bracknell. Looked pretty promising, although after the 40 mile beast we’d done now where near as exciting. But back to our roots, which was no bad thing.

Planning anxiety kicked in as we wondered if certain parts, especially round the north side of the river, would be accessible to the public, but after some meticulous street view checks and a feeling that things normally work out don’t they, we decided it’d probably be fine. 

On the eve of the hike, as per usual, we’re hit by a wave of dropouts, the reasons at least being understandable; for the most part sick wives and kids. We’re especially knocked back by John saying he wouldn’t attend, but he’s pulled this BS on us before and made it, so we’re quietly confident he can make it.

As per last time, breakfast is at The Catherine Wheel in Henley, because Weatherspoons breakfasts absolutely fit the bill when you need something quick, dense and fried (there’s a euphemism here, but damned if I can think of one). Alan has boldly opted for trail shoes rather than boots, a first for us, and is confident this new approach will be successful. Mat however has forgotten his cap, also a hike first, and not a good sign. Moments before we’re due to leave John appears with Pete, cheering everyone up immensely. 

Final checks (and by checks I mean poos) are done, a quick laugh is had at poor Mati’s expense for getting ID’d at Sainsbury’s by an overly diligent member of staff, and we head off.

Our hike starts beautifully, we breathe in the cool early morning air and feel the warmth of the October sun as we walk along the Thames, rowers gracefully gliding past us on the water, the colours of autumn all around us. Capitalising on this quintessentially English scene, Mati and I take a deep dive into classic literature, while everyone else probably discusses utter smut if I know them as well as I think I do.

Owing to the heavy rain the day before, the ground is exceptionally wet and permeates several boots far too early on for my liking, although there are some fun (and accessibility challenged) bridges to cross which are both rustic and elegant. As we clear the riverside, the Chilterns loom in the distance, looking stunning.

A short while later we find ourselves at the weir at Hambledon Marina that leads us to Aston and onto Remenham. Crossing the weir is a delight, the footpath over the Thames long and meandering with the light shimmering on the river. The roar of the water as it flows under the weir is tremendous.

Once across the river we find ourselves in Aston, where you will never be able to afford to live. We pass the Flower Pot inn, both the best and worst pub we’ve ever visited on our hikes. It’s too early in the day to stop in and prove whether either experience was a fluke. Shame. I’d love to have seen all that taxidermy one more time.

Continuing now along the south side of the river along Remenham we’re treated to more elegant countryside, as well as a rather majestic herd of white deer. Finally though we leave this behind and start heading south.

We walk beside the paddocks at the base of Ashley Hill for some time, until we climb over its edge and descend into a series of fields. One field in particular holds particular appeal for Rob as it contains a series of train tracks used for demonstrations in the last century. Rob, Mat and I found the field earlier in the year but sadly six months later the flora had decided to smother most of it, making it hard to see.

It’s not long after that that we leave the fields, cross the footbridge over the A4 and find ourselves at our first, unplanned, pub stop of the day, The Royal Oak.

The Royal Oak is a fine enough watering hole, especially if you’re a local, but it doesn’t have much appeal beyond the fact it serves beer. The wooden interior is quite nice, and they served Atlantic Pale Ale (which to be fair is a great beer I don’t see in enough pubs).

The barman didn’t so much look annoyed at us as he did just confused to see people in his pub and didn’t really know what to do with us. The stop is unplanned as we were intending to go to Bell at Waltham St Lawrence, which is only a couple of miles from the Oak. This is still the case, John just wanted to squeeze it in to a) get an extra beer and b) antagonise Mat, who likes to keep things to schedule.

The pints go down quickly and we head for the Bell, getting caught in the day’s only patch of rain while walking between the long wooded footpath that runs through the Castle Royle golf course.

We cross through farmland, over the train line and get surprised by some turkeys along the way.

Preparing us for the classic Hollywood movie vision of early 20th century England that Waltham St Lawrence so nicely represents, some vintage planes fly overhead, Alex somehow managing to get some cracking photos of them.

It’s here we stop at our actual first stop, The Bell. We stopped here on Hike 12 so I won’t bang on about it but it really is a cracking pub, with deep history, an original range of beers, and friendly bar staff. As before, they cheerfully filled all our water bottles, including the bladder in my backpack, which is flipping huge. It’s nice enough that Rob quickly changes his mind about having a second beer in an hour.

At the start of this post I mentioned this was a hike of two halves, and while the first half ended here, it’s a slow transition into the second. Leaving The Bell we enter some pleasant fields and progress through the Waltham area towards Shurlock Row. It’s countryside I’m pretty familiar with, and pleasant enough although not massively exciting. We tackle a stretch of road, cross the M4 (fortunately by bridge) and find ourselves at Billingbear Park golf course after having gone through a croquet lawn (something we find ourselves doing more than I would expect). 

In the midst of Billingbear I learn that John, Alan and Alex have gone on ahead to get supplies and we will catch them up. Some sore feet are becoming noticeable in the group and a difference in pace is noted. Apparently there are to be no more pub stops until we get to Crowthorne now, which will be the early evening, so the supplies are to tide us over ’til then. I’m not a fan of this decision as I like a mid afternoon pub stop for no other reason than to do a sock change, but we soldier on, tackling several stretches of road. With little to see, a fractured group and slipping morale, the whole thing is, frankly, a bit of a grind.

At the end of our road stretch, Tom leaves us, needing to attend a birthday party that evening. It’s a further knock to morale but we can’t blame him. He’s done close to twenty miles by this point, and at least he hasn’t sustained the same injuries as last time (he effectively degloved his heel on our 40 mile monster. Don’t google it).

It’s not long after this we regroup with the others, who hand out some welcome refreshment. James leaves us as well, his feet worse for wear. Not a bad stab at a first hike on his part, sure he’ll be back.

From here, we run out of countryside and country lanes and enter the suburbs for our last half dozen miles. Our route twists and turns around Binfield and the outskirts of Bracknell. We enter an estate I’m convinced is Jenette’s Park outside Bracknell but apparently isn’t, you can insert whatever gripe about modern estates you like here.

Within half an hour we manage to see the delights of the Coppid Beach roundabout, before climbing a hill that revealed Bracknell in all its glory.

After that it only gets better, walking beside the A329M, and then a fetid boggy pathway that ran underneath it complete with emaciated horses that looked like they would pray for death.

Rob described it as “the nastiest place on Earth… a stench ridden mud hell hole that not even a pig would want to take a dump in.” Let me know if you want the location and I’ll send it on.

Escaping this we enter Peacock meadow and follow some quite pleasant back routes to Great Hollands.

We pass through a park Jen and I often take our nephew to, and soon we’re on the approach to our penultimate pub, The Golden Retriever.

But there’s a catch.

By this point the light has run out, and we’re basically hiking in the dark. Not a huge deal, we’ve done it before, but The Retriever is only a mile or so from The Prince, our end point. It’s at this point the group fractures once more, and more severely.

We’re now 24 miles in. We’re a little later than we intended to be. We’ve wives and friends meeting us at The Prince. Mat’s conscious he’s parked the car a fair distance from The Prince and wants to move it closer so he can get home once we’ve finished in good time, owing to sickness at home. Rob’s legs have given out, so the two of them and Mike decide to cut out The Retriever (hereafter referred to as The Dog) and head straight to The Prince.

It’s fair to say this breaking of hike etiquette is not well received by the others, and an angry pint is “enjoyed” at The Dog. For my part I’m getting anxious as the route from here is intended to go into the woods and along The Devil’s Highway, which could take some time. It’s actually great fun in the dark, but time is getting on especially if we want to eat at a reasonable hour, and I’m mindful that Arran’s last train to get him back to Southampton isn’t that late. I lobby the others with all the charm and reason I can muster and they swiftly and kindly agree to amend the last stretch of the route so we take the direct route back (or they just took pity on me. I don’t really care either way at this point).

The route amendment having gone through, we drink up and power on through, making surprisingly good time along the Bracknell Road, where we used to often stumble in search of a Muzzy’s kebab, the finest kebab in the south farthing.

We pause at the Prince for an end picture, although only a portion of our number are there for the photo, a rather generous yet verbose patron taking it for us. We then enter and find our missing brethren (as well as Jen and Holly, who’d come to meet us.)

The Prince is Crowthorne’s best established watering hole (for what that’s worth) and has been done up in recent years and looks really nice now. The beers are fine and the pub grub is good and quickly served (for some of us at least.) Top quotes come from Holly, who asks Mati, “Are you actually French?” and Arran, “Are you actually a vegan?” (The answers to both are yes, btw.)

Possibly my favourite quote of the evening comes from Arran, who remarks that going to Crowthorne with us lot is like finding yourself in the Shire. We seem to invite that comparison a bit. No idea why. For my money half the people in the Prince more resemble the patrons of the Prancing Pony.

After a couple of drinks some of the crew decide to head for an Indian next door and slowly the group disbands.

So that was Hike 17. The first half was pretty enjoyable, the second, pretty shit. We’ve some lessons to learn for next time but that’s okay, we’ll probably work it out. Or not. It’s not like anyone died.

Now that would make for one hell of a blog post…

 

This was a special one.

Henley to Oxford had been long mooted as a potential hike but because of its extended length (40 miles rather than our regular 20-25) we knew it needed a worthy occasion to happen. Fortunately for us, John, Alan, Mat, Alex and I all turn forty this year and the phrase “40 over 40” seemed to stick.

I want to say that the route seemed relatively self explanatory but then I didn’t get involved in the planning at all, that was all Mat, and we were pleased to see that the hike split neatly into two instalments of 20 miles (more or less) with the first half ending in Wallingford, giving us an ideal overnight stop off.

We put the word out and attendees started to gather. The net was cast wide as ever but the drop off rate seemed lower than usual because unlike with our normal hikes the accommodation situation forces people to book up and pay in advance. So attendance was looking higher than usual, closer to twenty than our usual ten-twelve.

The evening before the hike, people started making their way down; a contingent staying in Henley, others camping in Wallingford. I gather the Henley crew managed to control themselves and there seemed to be no noticeable hangovers when we arrived the next day.

On Friday morning our attendees converged at the Catherine Wheel in Henley. A bunch of us parking up at Wallingford and (collecting the campers) we all pile into a minibus to take us to the start. We struggle to overtake a painfully slow car on the quiet Oxfordshire roads, and when we point this out, our driver sagely replies “Maybe if you lot weren’t so heavy…”

Breakfast at the Catherine Wheel is the Weatherspoons standard, (which isn’t necessarily a bad thing) although not messing around Alex orders a large breakfast with a side of Eggs Benedict which earned some respect.

Final preparations are made (mostly destroying the toilets) and we are almost ready to go. We stare in awe at Max’s endless, almost Tardis-like bag, and Tom’s brave choice of hiking jeans. Then, finally having waited for John to take care of some business, we get our obligatory start photo, set the runtrackers and are off!

Leaving Henley along the river we march along the walkway until we learn it’s closed, and have to double back on ourselves, following a diversion.

An early challenge appears when we see the recent rain has turned several of the fields into marshes, and we have to get creative to avoid getting wet.

Spring is in full flow though and Swatty is more than eager to drop some nature knowledge, which we all eagerly absorbed.

After a couple of hours we’ve blasted through six miles with ease; passing by fancy houses, sneaking through idyllic woodland and crossing numerous fields in places with names like Tokers Green and Craysleaze.

Somewhere called Gallowstree Common was also on our route but we didn’t see much of interest there or it’s cool name (history here).

Eventually our path leads us to an enormous field of rapeseed oil that we have to walk right through the middle of.

Finally reaching the end of the sea of yellow we crack on for more fields and woodlands, spotting two small things:

Then, at the end of twelve pretty productive miles of marching, we reach our first stop, The Highwayman.

Dating back to the 16th century (or so it says on their website), the Highwayman has a traditional-meets-gastropub vibe. The staff seemed pretty undaunted to have nearly twenty gross and noisy hikers arrive as they wisely usher us into a large room towards the back, presumably so we don’t disturb the other patrons. Uncharted territory for a Walking Idiots hike is entered as most of the group order lunch, and the majority of the team have three pints. (Call it perks of a relaxed distance with an overnight stay).

Eventually Walking Idiots management acknowledges that if we remain there any longer we’d never leave, and a five minute warning is given.

Stood in the pub car park that once was a blacksmith’s forge, the group are poised and ready to set off when Mathias whips out a bottle of tequila. Along with a lemon someone had brought and some salt liberated from the pub, the group forge (stretched that) some shots for morale, and finally we set off once more.

As hiking karma tends to do to us, almost immediately after leaving the pub we find ourselves ascending a pretty steep hill which wakes everyone up a bit, and shortly after we cross a field full of young cows, which Max and I immediately befriend.

A short while later we reach the church of St Peter and St Paul in Checkendon, a mild detour but well worth it – it’s a Grade 1 listed building with parts dating back to the 12th century (made by the Normans) with Gothic additions.

Before entering I see Rob checking out an unusual gravestone and when he moves closer to take a look he does a sort of tiptoe step/dance over some graves to get there, saying “sorrysorrysorry” the whole time. I would’ve loved a photo of him doing that.

The church is great inside, with a decent 13th century wall painting…

… and a brilliant modern (well, 1960’s) etched glass window which is hard to see unless you’re at the right angle, and then it pops.

Departing the church, more tequila is consumed and we vanish into the countryside.

The woods are achingly quiet, devoid of the road or aircraft sounds we’ve come to expect even when walking in local woodland…

… for a while at least.

Our path across the road heads straight up a low rise hill topped with trees called Watch Folly. It contains pretty much the only history I found in researching this hike that’s of interest (this link about the ghost of a shepherd boy) but the hill itself is pretty unremarkable and before I have the chance to recount it, we see something that’s much more The Walking Idiot’s bag.

The (what we assume was an) abandoned grain store didn’t have a sign saying no entry, so really it’s on them if a group of tequila-swilling miscreants choose to enter it. It would’ve only been to bring you high end blog content if so.

Having finally enjoyed this enough we decide to rejoin the others, who by this point are understandably worried sick. They forgive us though and only seem slightly jealous. The route leads us on through North Stoke, which has quite a pleasant bridge/mill combo and like everywhere else on this hikes looks like somewhere I’ll never, ever be able to afford to live in.

After that we head up through The Springs golf club, cross an unsafe, damaged bridge that has the same density as cheddar, cross the bridge at Winterbrook and arrive at Wallingford with only a few aches and pains.

The Boat House has a lovely setting, an adequate range of beers (we’re not fussy) and a passable interior, so we take our drinks out and celebrate the first day of marching.

After a beer or two the group gently disbands as a couple of our one day only people make their way home (thanks Tom, Pete), others stay out for more drinks and a burger, and the rest of us check into our hotel.

Normally this would be the point where I’d wrap this up, but we’re only halfway through our two day outing, so just to throw out a few more highlights, I’ll add Mat and Swatty’s not-domestic when Mat told Swatty off for complaining (“Stop. Crying.”) and Rob’s opinion on where we should go for drinks later (“I don’t wanna go anywhere where they call me Granddad.”)

Also, lazy option as it seemed at the time, the bar and food at the George Hotel was pretty decent, the staff were lovely and overall it’s a charming little hotel with a nice coaching house-vibe.

The second leg of our journey takes us from Wallingford to Oxford. It’s a strange sensation (and completely new to us) to wake up the morning after a hike knowing we basically have to do it again, but despite some initial stiffness everyone seems game.

Those of us in the George grit our teeth at the prospect of the promised continental breakfast included rather than the desired fry up, until the staff serve us a cooked breakfast regardless. As Alan put it, “Everything is coming up Alan.” Can’t argue with that.

Like Pete and Tom, Mike decided to just do the one day but stayed overnight and leaves us shortly after breakfast.

We’re reinforced by Big Al and newcomer Jacob.

After some logistical padding (lots of faffing with Waitrose lunches) we take our start photo…

… and set off! Unless there’s a sight of historical local interest, nothing can possibly stop us now!

Okay, we didn’t mean to get distracted by something literally less than one hundred metres from our hotel, but come on, this is great. Wallingford’s castle grounds are large, peaceful and filled with just enough ruins to pique everyone’s interest.

A detour owing to another shut weir means we walk along the road for a while before going cross country again, first through some fields, then into woodland, and then climbing a hilly field before ascending Castle Hill.

Situated at the top of a hill and with a raised perimeter the whole way around, I find it doubtful the name Castle Hill is a coincidence.

Descending the hill, our route leaves the countryside and becomes what I found myself referring to internally as a country death road.

We move in single file as cars pass us by, their sense of disdain almost tangible. The feeling of dread intensifies when the speed limit changes to the national limit but I console myself with the fact that Mat and Swatty are ahead of me and their bodies should reduce the speed of any cars by the time they reach me.

For the last stretch of the road some genius had at least considered a raised platform for us to walk along, which I was a big fan of.

Finally the road ends, dropping us off at our first pub stop of the day, The Barley Mow in Clifton Hampden.

We don’t stay especially long but the bar staff are very friendly and the pub is well presented. We spare the patrons (who are in Saturday pub lunch mode) our gross unruliness and sit outside, assessing how we’re finding day two (and generally overthinking it).

With it’s impressive stone bridge, Clifton Hampden reminds me of Sonning in more ways that one, mostly because it creates an ample backlog of traffic that undermines the beautifully quaint English village vibe, but we have no time to dwell on such things as we have more fields to cross.

The public footpath seems to be marked with a convenient trail of orange, which we assume is pesticide.

We cross another field full of cows, but unlike yesterday’s which were all juvenile cows, this is a mix of very young calves and their mothers. One especially massive mama cow makes her opinion of us known by moving into the middle of the path and bellowing repeatedly, forcing our crew at the back to have to take the long way round or face her wrath.

It’s not long later that we find a place even more twee than Clifton Hampden: Marsh Baldon, which has a green more like a wildflower meadow and another pub stop, this one called The Seven Stars.

The Seven Stars was very pleasant, although the most memorable thing about it will be that we were sharing the garden with a five year old’s birthday party, hence why taking pictures probably would’ve been frowned upon.

Also not appropriate for photos (although we did take one but I’m leaving it out so you can keep your lunch down) we saw the phenomenal blister that had decided to consume the back of Tom’s heel. It looked like he’d taken a potato peeler to it, exceptionally gross stuff. He soldiered on though, to his absolute credit.

(Additionally it was here that I finally clock that Mathias is buying a bottle of red at each stop, which is new.)

Leaving Marsh Baldon we walk through a field so waterlogged it feels like an actual marsh (which is flipping great five minutes after a sock change) and then head cross country to Sandford-on-Thames.

Highlights of this stretch include a passionate debate about historical inaccuracies in movies (apparently field size is a dealbreaker) and this pylon:

We treat ourselves to a surprise pub stop, The Kings Arms, which isn’t really needed but when in Sandford-on-Thames.

It had a good range of beers but a bar area so ridiculously hot we all legged it outside to relax and stretch out a bit.

And then we’re off onto the footpath along the Thames that takes us the whole way into Oxford for our last few miles, the way relatively busy with cyclists and walkers, and the river full of rowers as afternoon turns to evening.

At a milestone too eroded to read, Mat’s route tracker pings to tell us we’ve hit the forty mile mark, a cause for celebration by any account.

Initially we had planned to finish at the Lamb and Flagg (it has a tenuous Tolkien connection) but given that it was on the other side of town, we were uncertain if it did food, and there were probably going to be loads of other amazing pubs that we pass by, we decide that we should stop at the first pub in Oxford that looks decent.

Many beers are bought, food is ordered, and everyone celebrates their giant collective win.

And then, inevitably, it was over, our attendees either heading home, to their hotels or to locate an incredibly well earned curry.

It’s fair to say though, that over two days, with double the distance, the bar has been raised. Let’s see what we can do next. (It’ll probably involve tequila).

Well, that’s probably the worst title for one of these I’ve managed to do so far. It can only get better from here.

We prefer a shorter hike over Christmas. We tend to just invite people who are local (not in a League of Gentlemen way), mostly because so many people are away or busy. Rob gets final say over the route, because it often coincides with his birthday, which is on the 30th December and is quite frankly a rubbish day to have a birthday. You probably know all this already, this being our fourth one.

Rob intended for us to do the last stretch of Hike XV this time, specifically from Gomshall to Guildford, because we’d been forced to power through it last time in the dark, with many of us a bit too drunk, some unwell, and no one really able to appreciate it. It was all a bit of a glorious disaster, and would be nice to do properly (and actually see it.) The route didn’t require much in the way of planning seeing as we’d done it before, and turns out the trains were not too much of a nightmare for all of us.

Well, except it was 2022, which was not a good year for train journeys. At all. The outlook seemed bleak, so we decided to cut our losses and stay local. We’ve (in my opinion) absolutely rinsed the Crowthorne area for walks, to the extent I think I’m on a first name basis with most of the trees that line the Blackwater River near the Big Tesco at the Meadows, but we had one option left, which was to re-do the interesting bits from Hike X, the controversial outing which John didn’t make back then but could now. Given that the main appeal of this hike was to have a chance to again visit the Wheatsheaf in Heatherside, but this time in non-Covid settings, we didn’t need much convincing. The route was lightly amended to shorten it owing to winter light, we settled on a date, and we were good to go.

Arriving at the Costa on Crowthorne High Street (I don’t remember that being there when I was growing up in the 90’s) I find that we’ve already lost John, who’s popped back home when he realised how unruly his enormous parka was going to be. Rob’s dad, Jim, and his brother Sam join soon after – they previously joined us for the first stretch of one of our other Christmas hikes, and are planning on doing a similar thing here. John returns, we gather our things and leave.

By the end of Crowthorne High Street we’ve already cracked open Mat’s homemade whisky mac. (It’s 8:15am by this point. The sun has barely risen. It’s a strong indicator of the sort of day we’re likely to have.)

Not long after we start along the Devil’s Highway, past the infamous Broadmoor estate, and into Swinley Forest, a place we’ve spent a phenomenal amount of time walking through.

Swatty also kindly answers all my questions about public footpaths; how new ones are set up, how some can be (rarely) decommissioned, things like that. If you’ve any questions like this, drop a comment on the blog and we’ll send them on, he’s good like that.

Not long after this (I think, time loses meaning in Swinley) we emerge in Bagshot. We walk around a new and intimidatingly large Waitrose and enter Earlswood Park, where, upon reviewing our progress, we realise something that had been troubling me for quite a while: if we keep on at this healthy pace, we will arrive at the Wheatsheaf long before it’s due to open.

This is a grim awakening for us all as we search for alternatives to pad the route out. Unfortunately the only suggestion that seems even remotely reasonable comes from Alan (“Why don’t we just go behind that bush and drink for a bit?”) and rejecting his sage advice, we decide to risk it, and just take our time a little more.

We cross the M3 (always a pleasure) and enter Lightwater Country Park, taking our time to stop at the magnificent viewpoint on Curley Hill, where we can just about make out London on the horizon. Sadly unlike last time no hologram/ghost of a helpful tour guide appears and then vanishes to give us an overview of the, um, view, but we are familiar enough with it now to muddle by.

Perhaps this is why he didn’t appear.

A tactical decision is made to eat our lunch now to pad time out, (it’s about 10:30am at this point) and a few hip flasks are dipped into. Can you tell how eager we are to have the full Wheatsheaf experience?

As before, our route from Curley Hill to the Wheatsheaf took us via Wellingtonia Avenue in Heatherside, which is notable for being lined with scores of stunning Redwoods (218 of them, according to RedwoodWorld.co.uk). The link has some good local history, but for those of you afraid to drag your eyes from this blog, the TLDR rundown is they were planted by instruction of Augustus Mongredien (great name) as part of the estate including Heatherside House in the mid-nineteenth century. Most of this estate is now housing, but the avenue still runs, uninterrupted and awe inspiring, towering over the nearby houses.

This time around, however, we noticed something a little more unsettling…

Walking until the redwoods’ end, we meander around the local housing estate (I mistakenly compare it to Edgcumbe Park, for which Alan chastises me accordingly) until finally, only five minutes before its noon opening time, we reach the Wheatsheaf. (They let us in early, even if they wouldn’t serve us ’til 12.) As expected, Jim and Sam bid us farewell once we enter. It was a delight having them along.

We didn’t really get a chance to enjoy the Wheatsheaf properly in 2020. Owing to the way the world was in lockdown, it was table service only, a one way system, and we were sat outside, so we had all of about two minutes to soak it all in before we were ferried through and out to the benches amidst a flurry of hastily imposed rules and Covid-anxiety.

It’s not really much to look at on the outside, a bit unusual perhaps, but it’s hardly the rustic village country pub you’d expect to get excited over in winter. But inside…

I’ve said this a load but it’s sort of like a Clockwork Orange/70’s brutalist thing if applied to the interior of the Tardis. The whole thing is riddled with small nooks and spaces, as well as mezzanines and sub levels. It also reminded me of a tiny Barbican, which is almost entirely inaccurate.

I tried to find some interesting stuff out about this one, but all I got was it was built in the 1970’s by a prominent church architect and that due to the eccentricity of the design, the site was given listed status in 2018. You’ll have to make up your own narrative.

Unfortunately the dialogue shared among us in the pub was somewhat cruder than the setting, and the only thing worth sharing is that the boys noticed how badly I’d split the crotch on my hiking trousers. Naturally I styled it out like a pro, even if my bright blue running shorts were now clearly visible.

Regardless, our pints downed, we made the tough yet probably sensible decision to not stay there all day, and departed, our route taking us into the woods around Pine Ridge Golf Club. Last time we lost about 20 minutes helping someone search for a lost dog, which fortunately did not happen this time.

The downside of having padded out the start of the hike to get to the Wheatsheaf after 12 was that we were now conscious of light and finishing in darkness, which is never fun. We had adjusted the route to go a slightly different way than before which included a pleasant stream

(Which we had to pose on)

And then a particularly sharp hill that we had to climb and then descend, stopping at the top where we almost had some of our snacks pinched by a very friendly dog (not the lost one from last time, as far as I remember.)

Shortly after this we emerge in Frimley. I wouldn’t have thought there’s much of interest to share about Frimley (no offence, Frimleans) but there was a pretty amazing series of houses on Apex Drive that are worth a mention.

Apex Drive was designed by Laurie Abbott in 1966. Abbott was an instrumental figure on some of the most significant architectural achievements of the 20th century, including the Pompidou Centre and Lloyd’s of London, so this was quite a find (thanks, modernistestates.com)

As we progress through Frimley, we spy The White Hart, which has just the right amount of rustic looking charm/is a pub, to entice us. Well, it entices John, who heads in, then comes back to fetch us when we don’t follow. Some alpha level tension ensues as Mat is adamant (adaMat?) that we don’t have time owing to when his app says we’ll now finish and how dark it’ll be, not to mention the fact we’ve not long stopped, and a bit of a standoff follows until Rob suggests a compromise of a swift half lasting no more than 20 minutes. (It wasn’t that tense really, I’m just dramatising to make this interesting, go with me here.)

The White Hart is a far more conventional sort of pub than the Wheatsheaf. It’s got low ceilings, wooden beams, and (paraphrasing John) the bar staff had just the right amount of resentment towards us to serve us even slower than the locals (which didn’t help our 20 minute compromise.) We drink our beers and off we go again.

As tends to happen on these things, our group naturally splits into segments, with Mat and Swatty leading the way, Tristram, Rob and myself somewhere in the middle, and John and Alan languishing in the rear (they stopped at an off licence to get more beers.) It’s like this from Frimley, over the bypass, and along a stretch of the now-very-familiar Blackwater River.

We briefly reconvene as a group at a point along the river where Mat realises his app hadn’t updated properly, and our 6-something finish time is now more likely closer to quarter to five, so we’re fine now. Oh how we laughed.

We set off for the final stretch. I now join John and Alan at the back, helping them to drink their beers, which are quite heavy and need to be reduced in weight. The three of us definitely don’t get into a mock play fight like we did years ago on Hike V, nor do we all definitely not cross any bridges unsuitable for crossing.

The last few miles are more of the same; reducing unhelpful beer weight, spouting nonsense, and continuing to walk as the light diminishes.

We finish several metres shy of 16 miles at The White Swan in Sandhurst, which is fit for purpose and at least leans towards that wood panelled pub aesthetic, if nothing else.

We sink a few more beers there and start planning our next great, epic hike (here’s hoping, as long as we can pull it off it’ll be a doozy) before going off in search of a curry.

I definitely do not get so drunk I get hiccups. And even if I did, it’s not part of the hike, so it’s not getting blogged…

This one is going to take some explaining.

So this is the fifteenth full length hike for our little band of wanderers. It’s also hike ten, done again! Merstham to Guildford was the continuation of our Pilgrim’s Way walk, which we started with Lenham to Canterbury.

Lenham to Canterbury was the one where I went to all the trouble of getting a pilgrim’s passport, remember? No one stamped it, despite all the places we stopped at. It was pretty sad. Tragic even. Anyway, remember the passport shenanigans, because like a well constructed drama, this is foreshadowing at work.

Mat did what he does best and plotted our route, although then was reminded by John that he’d literally planned the exact same route three years ago for our aborted hike ten. The hike never came to pass because of a certain global pandemic which reduced our scale significantly for a while. This was our chance to finally do it, and it did not disappoint.

Planning for this one goes through a few permutations when we discover this route has vineyards, breweries and distilleries to see. Our ambitious escalate as we try to find a compromise between distance and places to drink.

Logistics take a blow when a series of train strikes are announced. These are quickly undone by the passing of the Queen, and our numbers bounce back… for a while.

Bounce may be a bit strong as our usual pre-hike dropout occurs, almost halving our numbers. The day before the hike we lose Arran, Ruaidhri, Tom, Jim and Graeme. Then Mat gets ill which takes out him, Little Tom and Big Al. (When Mat goes his extended invitees fall, too. The metaphor that comes to mind is like when someone in a war movie shoots the guy holding the flamethrower and he blows up taking out all the guys near him.)

It’s a very early start for many of us given that Merstham is thoroughly inconvenient for everyone other than people who live in Merstham. For my part it involved a generous early morning lift from Rob to his parents house, a walk that recreated my journey to school as a teenager, and then a long taxi ride with half of our crew courtesy of returning hike guest, the Mango Man, once again failing to provide any mangoes. The group meet at the Quality Cafe, a properly authentic greasy spoon that absolutely does the business, even for poxy vegetarians like me.

Our stomachs lined with enough grease and fat to give a buffalo a cardiac event, we do the only thing one should do with this full a belly, and go on a twenty four mile walk.

Our walk starts innocently enough, going through a few fields, throwing a frisbee for a friendly dog, and following the North Downs way through a very posh school that for some reason is open on Saturdays. The grounds are stunning and the weather is fine. Our pace is excellent, despite the abrupt elevation that takes us both up and down until we eventually reach the some stunning views over Surrey.

A gentle revision to the route over the bridge is followed by a gentle revision to that revision through a tree tunnel, which I include only because I like the visual, and Alex’s orange t-shirt.

A short while later our route officially hits the Pilgrims Way, which is of course very exciting for everyone.

Our marching pauses briefly to admire a striking tower that Max tries to climb with little success, and we resume.

We pause briefly to admire the grave of Quick, who by all accounts was… a dog. Quick’s owners were sure about that if nothing else.

Then we’re off, again climbing and descending while testing our legs but never dropping our pace.

Well, for some of us anyway. The inevitable split between the marching hikers and the relaxed wanderers occurs around nine miles in, which is normally fine except we at the back get confused, worrying that we’ve gone awry at a crossroads that leads up a hill, so we turn back when another group of walkers tells us they saw the rest of our group going through an adjacent meadow.

Confusion deepens when the meadow path comes to an end with a fence. In desperation, we turn to Alan for leadership, and he concludes that the path we’ve lost is mere metres below us through the hedge.

The path is indeed revealed to us, which turns into a steep slope downhill. Fortunately someone in the past decided to “help” by cutting steps into the way down. The quote marks are because the steps were clearly only made for elephants to enjoy. They’re brutal.

The two halves of our team are reconciled at the stepping stones that cross the River Mole, and after waiting patiently for everyone on the North Downs way to cross before we can, we proceed as one, Rob making us pause to take advantage of us lined up.

From there, we cross the dual carriageway A-road, using a group of Duke of Edinburgh students as a convenient human shield from the oncoming traffic, and leave the pathway ten miles into our walk to stop at Denbies.

I’m going to admit, I was a bit sceptical of the idea of Denbies. Don’t get me wrong, I love a vineyard, but when it comes to hikes I’m all about a pub stop, and the fact the inside closely resembles a garden centre crossed with a farm shop doesn’t fill me with hope. Anyway, sitting outside we stop for lunch and a drink and things look up. I offer the group some coffee and guava energy blocks I was sent by accident when I was race training and most of the group look at them in horror.

Then a few bottles of wine is drunk and people’s moods improve further.

We liked this a lot. Probably too much…

… because Max thought it would be a great idea to buy twenty pints to carry for the remaining fifteen miles.

This all sounds great in principle, although a logistical issue quickly presents itself because twenty pints of beer is not the most portable of things.

Some utter tomfoolery occurs as our crew desperately try to find a way to carry this thoroughly impractical but immensely appealing gift for us all. Everything about the next fifteen minutes descends into giggling carnage as the team tries to siphon off as much excess as they possibly can in order to fit the sack of hoppy nectar into Max’s hastily emptied bag.

This is probably the worst decision we’ve ever made on a hike. Or the best. Definitely the best. Clyde did say this has probably made it the last hike, and at that point it was hard to fault the logic.

Finally, having managed to gain control over the unruly skin of beverage, we leave the vineyard and rejoin the North Downs way, several liberated pint glasses passing back and forth between the group as we work hard to lighten Max’s load.

The route back on the North Downs Way gives us a fantastic view down on Denbies, and I’d like to say this is the very reason why our pace in these next few miles takes an utter hammering, but you probably won’t buy that.

We pause to check the route when the road forks and some of the team take a moment to collect themselves.

Continuing west we reach Ranmore Common and its stunning old church. Churches are, as you know, a hike staple, so we decide to approach, cunningly hiding our beers outside and pretending to be sober.

“Are you here for tea and cake?” asks a very nice member of the church, and we explain that we’re hiking to Guildford from Merstham along the Pilgrim’s Way. “Oh!” she says, “You must get your Pilgrim’s Passport signed!”

Well. Flashing back hard to our failed attempts in our Canterbury hike, we shoot round to the other side of the church and enter, any hope of properly regaining our pace well and truly lost by this point. My Pilgrim’s Passport lost by this point, they offer to just stamp a piece of paper with their brand new stamp, which I gratefully accept.

We lose even more time admiring the church, but that seemed well justified as it was pretty stunning.

The problem is, the more enthusiastic we seem about the church (beer fuelled, although it was lovely and we do love a church), the more enthusiastic the people in the church get, clearly delighted to have a group of engaged and handsome young men to discuss it with. They were lovely though. Surprisingly dry sense of humour, too.

Having been urged to sign the guest book, we bid farewell, pausing to admire one final gravestone and reclaiming our concealed beers.

Now, you’re probably thinking this has got a bit wholesome, or that the blog is getting a bit tonally inconsistent. I can’t say I blame you, but don’t worry, things get a bit silly again now.

As mentioned above, somehow over the years I’ve managed to include lots of pics in the blog of John relieving himself, for illustrative purposes. He cottoned on to this recently, so, concerned I might not get any this time, I decided to get an insurance policy:

A short while later we reach an old Second World War pill box, something we see a surprising amount of on these hikes.

The views from it are superb and we end up spending far too long on it.

Our attempts to regain some movement prove to be in vain until Pete releases some truly putrid gas which forces everyone to hastily clear out.

It’s quickly becoming apparent at this point that we have many miles to make up and not a lot of time to do it in. Looking at the elevation in Mat’s route, we decided to descend as quickly as we can in an attempt to get as flat a route as possible for a while, pausing briefly to check the route and get another group shot.

Now, despite being aware of the day getting on, we’ve walked far enough to get in one final pub stop before the last push. You can either believe this is because we want more beer, having polished off the twenty pint skin on top of the pill box, or because we need to get in a sock change and review the route, I leave it up to you.

The Compasses is a charming pub in Gomshall situated over a shallow stream. The beer does the business and the staff kindly refill our water bottles for us.

Some of us decide to use the time more constructively than others.

As we’re leaving, Pete sees an old boy (Richard’s description) getting into his car. They lock eyes. The look of shock on the older gent’s face as he struggles to process Pete wearing his John mask is an absolute picture, so Pete does the sensible thing here…

The next ten minutes are spent laughing so hard at this that we’re all tripping on endorphins but eventually we collect ourselves and follow the stream towards Shere. The light is waning as the sun’s set continues, and we’ve six miles to go. Things could get a bit hairy.

We cross a ford, which Alex decides to walk through despite having a perfectly reasonable footpath to use.

The sun finally sets around 7:30, and the head torches make their inevitable appearance.

We walk in single file under Newlands Corner, the head torch I patiently spent hours charging quickly proving itself pathetic compared to the lightsabers Tristram, Alex and Max all brought.

I spend a good while marching up the last main hill behind Tristram, cheekily stealing whatever light I can.

We pass by St Martha’s Church, cutting through the graveyard in true goth fashion, pausing in the darkness near the car park of St Martha’s Hill to check our route. In principle every path should lead us west to Guildford, but at this point we dare not take the risk. Energy levels are so low that several of the team even consume some of my (presumably horrible) coffee energy blocks, anything to make things go quicker.

Speed, however is not on our side as we ascend St Martha’s Hill. This final hill is steep and hard to climb in the dark, but worse still for some reason it’s also covered in dense sand, slowing us down and making our exhausted legs work even harder than before. (Will thought we’d got lost and were approaching the sea.)

At the peak of the hill we collect ourselves one final time, turning the torches off for a minute to admire the clear sky. The lights of Guildford beckon us on.

Then we’re off for the last push back to civilisation, funnelled into a single file track between two fields that goes (mercifully) gently downhill for the last mile or so, the only sound that of a dog in the distance hearing the sound of twelve pairs of feet slowly dying and mourning them.

It was around this point somewhere that Rob tells me he was pretty sure he saw the Grim Reaper watching him from one of the fields.

Finally, we leave the woodlands behind for good, emerging onto Fort Road, a remarkably posh road in Guildford’s south east corner where Alan summed up how everyone was feeling in expressive dance:

A few more roads lead us to the edge of Guildford town centre and we make the executive decision to finish at the first pub we see, The March Hare, which was wonderful and a pub I’d like to visit earlier in the day and with properly working limbs.

A kindly pub patron offers to take a photo of the group so we’re all in shot for once. This would be great for Rob as he always takes these pictures, except he’s only got about an hour left until the Angel of Death claims him.

Standard issue victory pints ensue, although given the late hour many of our group depart before this in order to get home, their parting gift the promise of stiff legs the next day.

A small contingent go on to consume a well deserved meal out, and we part knowing we’ve overcome but thoroughly satisfying day out.

And this concludes Merstham to Guildford, our third longest hike to date. I’ll leave you with two pictures which I think summarise the day nicely:

Walking Idiots, disassembled for now.