So our last walk was epic, right? No beating that. We didn’t even try this time. We’ll beat it one day, but we needed a fun (read: not 30 mile) one to unwind a little, get some new additions, that sort of thing.
Basically, we wanted to hang out, have a wander and find some pubs. Mission accomplished.
To be fair, we could’ve stayed in this pub all day and saved ourselves some walking.
The Farnham route:
(Oh yeah, so I might do some segments with titles. Just to mix it up a bit. I may ditch this by the time the Hike starts. You’ll have to wait and see. I bet the anticipation will drive you nuts.)
So almost immediately after Hike V, Rob sends us a suggestion for the next Hike, which is a 20 mile route from Sandhurst to Farnham. I suspect he did this as a preemptive strike to avoid another mega-hike (Hike V being a significant 29 miles).
Unlike John, Rob has no desire to max these things out. Personally, I tend to side with John in terms of testing ourselves, but I also really want Rob to come on them, and as he’s been with us since (more or less) the start it’d be a shame to lose him.
Moreover, Rob’s the Hike’s photographer; around 80% of the pictures in this blog are his. People really love the pictures. The most frequent compliment I get about the Hike posts is how much they love the pictures. Which is great. What they’re saying is they’d just be happy with the Facebook photo album.
The (slightly) depressing thing about this notion is that the Hike posts are probably more popular than the books I’ve written. My family and extended family are certainly more prepared to read them. So, by extension, I think this means that people would prefer to look at some of my friend’s photos than read my writing.
Well, that’s wonderful.
I can see why. Some of these pictures are really profound.
The Lynchpin:
Planning goes well. There’s very little need to work on the route, Rob’s done a good job. It’ll take us to Farnham castle, which is where Mat got married the previous year. Most of the core crew went to this, so it’ll be a nice experience. Attendance is looking high as we sell it to even more people. It’s got interesting quirks like a disused railway (wonder why Rob liked that) which make it look quite special. It’s such low maintenance (especially compared to the last Hike, which was really not intended to be walked by sensible people) that we almost neglect to plan it beyond Rob’s initial outline. Perhaps that’s why it didn’t work out.
Because a week or two before the Hike, Mat lets us know there’s a chance he won’t be able to make it as he’s completing on buying his house around the week after the Hike. The situation worsens as he mentions he slipped a disk in his back. There’s something about having a hot water bottle on his lap while at work, which people probably don’t do for fun. They might. I doubt it.
Then the inevitable happens and Mat confirms he can’t make it. This creates a minor avalanche of drop outs, as Swotty (who admittedly told us before Mat that he couldn’t make it so he’s off the hook), Tom, Tom, Dave and (perhaps worst of all) Big Al all follow suit. Traitors, one and all.
Upon this tidal wave of dissent, Mat referred to himself as the Lynchpin to the Hike Planning Committee (read: WhatsApp group.) One of the two definitions of lynchpin is “a pin passed through the end of an axle to keep a wheel in position.”
So, this:
I can only assume this is what Mat was referring to. It looks like 2/3 of the Deathly Hallows to me. I may have to purchase one of these for the next time he can’t attend, although I’m sure once his child is born it’ll be much easier for us to get him to come on these jaunts of ours. (If this was a text message, I’d add one of those winking face emojis to show Mat this is just hilarious bants/sarcasm and not a dig.)
So we lose a few people. The other effect this has is that this rather puts John’s plans in jeopardy. John tends to have to carefully negotiate sign off from his wife in order to attend. (Hi Jessica. Don’t act like you don’t read these cos I know you do) To be fair, they’ve got two children under five, and another on the way, permission is kinda mandatory. With this one, John’s attendance was based on the fact that Jessica and the girls would be in the area and would have company in a Hike Widows and Orphans group. Unfortunately the bulk of these people were Mat’s friends’ wives, which rather depleted that supply.
The result was that now Jessica would be stuck in Farnham with the girls for hours. Not great. There’s flip all to do in Farnham.
So we adjust the plan. Windsor seems to become the sensible end point for the Hike now, as there’s plenty for John’s kids to do. It also means Jen (my wife) and our nephew Joey can meet them too, as they’d be local. Me, John and Rob briefly discuss a few alternatives, such as hiking from Farnham to Windsor – which would be great but an absolute killer – or redoing Crowthorne to Windsor. I take a particular dislike to this, which I’ll admit I’m a bit ashamed about, being so difficult, but Rob, bless him, suggests a circular walk starting and ending in Windsor.
Rob, you utter genius.
I mean, look at him. Even when he’s uncertain as to why I’m getting a selfie with him, he’s quite the specimen.
Planning:
There’s quite a lot of meat to this route, and John plots it all in about a half hour with only minor suggestions from myself added. There is mild uncertainty when google maps suggests we take the ferry along a stretch of the river once we reach a certain bridge – it actually seems to suggest we jump off the bridge and onto the ferry – but (don’t say we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, Nick, you’re a better writer than that) we’d worry about that later.
(Is there a term for when a metaphor is literally the phrase you should use? Do cooks experience this when too many of them work on a broth? I wonder.)
Basically, we cobbled it all together pretty well given the circumstances. It would do in a pinch.
The days before the Hike creep up and we start our usual preparations, i.e. insisting that everyone is actually coming, making sure people have boots (you’d be surprised), and so on. New recruit Chris texts John with concerns that he’s not going to be able to manage the whole thing, and would we mind if he dropped out halfway through? John assures him he’ll be fine, although Chris remains doubtful.
My friend James joins the Hike team for the first time after years of me badgering him to do so, so I make sure he arrives at mine the day before, as he probably won’t get up in time otherwise. He’s had the year from hell so in my mind I think getting him to come on this will be generally good for his well being, because who doesn’t like an exceedingly long walk and some incredibly smutty conversation?
Bootgate:
All seems to be going well until John somehow manages to leave his boots in Rochester the night before. (What the hell, John?) This throws his entire world into turmoil – do we have spares, should we put off the start of the hike until the shops open and he can buy a new pair? – and is only resolved when his dad selflessly goes to retrieve said boots from his house for him. John has driven all the way from Rochester in Kent after a week from work and has had to wrangle his kids into coming, so there is some sympathy for his plight here. However, bear in mind that this involves driving from Crowthorne to Rochester and back. 73 miles each way, or so google maps tells me, or: pretty much a full circuit of the M25. I think my Dad would just lend me a pair of boots and a thick pair of socks, and he’s an entirely reasonable human being. (Hi Dad. I finally mentioned you in a post. I’ll try and write your allotment into a future one, probably using a Tolkien analogy.)
Later that evening, I receive a cryptic message from John telling me that he and Brian got banned from the Crow, one of three pubs in Crowthorne. Naturally this piques my interest. Here’s John’s rather unique appraisal of what happened:
Brian and I met in Windsor the night before the hike and thought it would be best if we sank a couple of beers. As it got late, we decided to take a cab to Crowthorne and perhaps drop in somewhere to get one for the road. First, we stopped at The Prince. Sadly, it had stopped serving, but we were told that The Crow might still be open.
After decades of living in and visiting Crowthorne, I don’t think I’ve been in The Crow more than 2 or 3 times, but I decide to give it a shot anyway. Any port in a storm. We arrive at the Crow. Outside, I meet Zimbabwe Ross, who I haven’t seen for years, and whose name I’m not entirely sure is even Ross. No matter, we spend a few minutes summing up the last 15 years. Once we’re done, I stick my head through the door to see if they’re still open. I am accosted by a shrill, excitable young woman who I am shortly to learn is the land lady’s daughter. I ask if the pub is open. “NO WE’RE CLOSED!!” comes the reply. I protest. There’s a man being served at the bar by a woman who I am shortly to learn is the landlady. “NO, WE’RE CLOSED!!!!!!!!” is the response. At that point, I’m ok to cut my losses and leave.
Zimbabwe Ross is not so easily deterred, however. “Could they just stop and get a Coke” he pleads on our behalf. The shrill, excitable young woman mishears him. “ARE YOU TRYING TO BUY COCAINE?!?!???!!!!” she inquires. I decide that a dash of humor will defuse the situation and tell her that I’m happy to take whatever she’s prepared to sell me. I am wrong. This does not defuse the situation at all.
“MUM, THEY’RE TRYING TO BUY DRUGS!!!!!!!!!!” she cries in an ear splitting crescendo. The aforementioned woman from behind the bar storms to the door. She glares at me and opens her mouth like she’s about to say something awful to the no-doubt drug crazed degenerate who’s harassing her daughter. Instead, her face twists into a picture of hate as she slams the door and locks it shut.
I have been barred from The Crow. I’ve never been barred from a pub before. The closest I’ve come is when Nick got us thrown out of a steakhouse in Mayfair (ask Nick!). I’m not sure how I feel about this. The Crow is hardly a reputable establishment, so I’m not sure whether this is a mark of shame or a badge of honor. In any event, Brian and I slink into the night, consoled only by the bottle of brandy and the bottle of whiskey we had in our bags. I silently make a promise to myself never to allow my 2 or 3 visits to The Crow turn into a 3 or 4 visits again.
Thanks John. Concerning the Mayfair steakhouse incident, I’ll never tell.
Breakfast:
The next morning we arrive at Windsor around 8. There’s been some dramas getting a cab for the lads (as in, they couldn’t get one), so Rob drives, which is pretty good of him.
We arrange to meet at the King and Castle in Windsor, which is this huge Wetherspoons opposite the castle.
For the first time ever at this time in the morning, I’m able to eat a fry up (I’m slightly hanging, which seems to make me more receptive to greasy food) and we sit in an empty pub destroying our assorted breakfasts. Well, except for James, who’s feeling peaky from some undisclosed bug and probably shouldn’t be here but he is because of my passive/aggressive manipulations. Chris, who is a classy sort of gent, opts for eggs royale, and is suitably roasted for it. (I did the same on Rob’s stag, so I share his pain.)
Not being able to consume gluten, but in need of sustenance having been at a gig the night before, and only getting about 4 hours sleep, Clyde adopts a hobbit principle and double breakfasts, with two plates delivered to the table. There’s a lot of baked beans on display here.
Boom. Not even 9am and we’re Tolkiening.
Brief aside re: the King and Castle. Rob and I come here a lot when we meet in Windsor as the food is cheap. It’s enormous. Labyrinthine, even.
I don’t know what your stance is on Wetherspoons, being all commercial and everything. The range of beers is definitely improving. I’m all for small businesses, which Wetherspoons is not, and is probably killing, so I know they are probably viewed as the enemy by some, but at least they tend to keep old buildings intact when they buy them. And as pubs! It’s pretty depressing walking into some glorious old structure only to find it’s a Tesco.
Anyway, surely the best fact about them is the fact (and you might know this already) that they have a bespoke carpet made for each pub they own, allegedly intended to reflect the personality of the pub. It’s true. Grace from work told me.
This one seems to just be orange squiggles, so I’m not sure what this is meant to say.
I digress. Food consumed, we prepare to leave. There’s a weird five minutes where we all sit in a semi food coma/hangover and watch John tape his feet up. This is then followed by several of our number reaping devastation on the plumbing (we’re boys, ew, etc.), followed by plenty of jokes about John’s Imodium habit (good band name, that), an observation akin to the Human Centipede about how a row of people can prevent unwanted bowel movements (I think if I say brown thumbs that’s enough to convey the tone), and a surreal moment where Clyde and Chris (redeeming his eggs royale) remind us that we’ve taken long enough fannying around getting ready that the bar is now open (they’ve bought drinks already, god help us) so finally we leave.
Hike 6: 23rd September, 2017.
Attendees: from l-r: James Winfield, me, Chris Hutchfield, Clyde Baehr, John Duckitt, Pete Lewis, Brian O’Sullivan, Rob Golding, and (not pictured but there’ll be plenty more of him) Alan O’Connell, who kindly offered to take this shot of the crew and allow Rob to feature in the picture. Much like Rob, Alan is also too handsome for conventional photography, so perhaps I should limit the photos of him after all.
(Brief note – long time readers – both of you – may recognise Pete as Pete from our first Hike, aka Pete who really struggled and we gave a hard time to not knowing he had bowel cancer. He’s better now, thank god.)
So, posing for the obligatory Hike Crew shot (at the top, not this one, obviously,) we… are.. off!
… straight to M&S
where everyone buys their lunch. Clyde looks for more premixed drinks, as he’d apparently drank his on the way down, which is astonishing really. Clearly seeing LCD Soundsystem the night before has changed him.
Equipped in boots and backpacks we’re a bit out of place in somewhere as nice as M&S, and Alan remarks that he’d like to retire there. In Marks & Spencer’s.
Didn’t really need a photo, but Rob took one, and you lot seem to love them, so there you go. I hope you’re bloody happy.
Okay, now we’re off!
Our route starts along Eton bridge, and we walk along the river to Home Park.
We’ll walk where we want, bitches.
There’s a point where we think we know where we’re going – we need to cross the bridge and road and go down the other side of the river – but fortunately for us, two older lady hikers walk by and demonstrate the route on their iPad.
We’d have done the same thing but our iPad budget went on Imodium, foot tape, and the contents of our hip flasks. (Brian hilariously brought a thermos flask for his whisky, not a hip flask. Don’t ask me why.)
In Alan’s case, hip flask means plastic bottle of whisky. We’ve had this conversation before. Here he is trying to force it on James. Or something.
(Oh, by the way, Jessica’s comment on this picture on Facebook is as follows: Simone’s new word is “whiskey” after she found this empty bottle in John’s bag. She then said “what a shame” that it was empty. She’s her father’s daughter, for sure.)
We progress along the river for a good hour or two, along parts of Windsor which, for the most part aren’t that familiar. There’s a spot in Datchet where we once left John passed out, years ago, after he’d drank too much on a boat trip. That’s a nice memory. Probably less so for him.
As if he remembers it.
The land is all quite similar but it’s very pleasant. We notice quite quickly there’s a significant variance in pace between the group, as Pete, Chris and John rocket ahead, while Clyde, Brian and James adopt a more relaxed pace.
As Head of Morale, I move between both groups effortlessly. Or: I start with the guys at the front, then gradually slow down. It actually works out pretty well as it gives Clyde and I a chance to discuss the new Twin Peaks (“We’re not going to talk about Judi”), and a good music natter, which is always important, especially when it’s with Clyde. I don’t know anyone who has a better opinion on music than him. (Except possibly my brother.)
Around midday, we stop at our first pub. I say pub, it’s a Harvester. We don’t care, pub’s a pub really.
Alan gets it.
The staff are poised and eager to serve, (a little too much for my liking, TBH.) although this generally refers to people coming to eat, and not us lot just wanting a pint.
There’s some good banter as we sit around outside. Some is not suitable for print. There’s discussion about the concept of drinking one’s self sober (I’ve only ever done this once in my life), although apparently this is news to some people.
Then, seemingly from nowhere, James pipes up: “If you drink yourself sober, you’re good to drive, right?” Cue laughs from the group.
I think this is the first joke James has made since his wife left him a year ago, and thus proof of the healing power of The Hike.
Pints completed, we crack on. The next part of the Hike was an amendment I suggested to the route to go along Runnymede (where I proposed to my wife, although I didn’t suggest this because of that, FYI.)
For the first time that day, our route leaves the river, and we head across a field/meadow into the National Trust woods there.
As we make our way to the woods, we see these:
Bit of a dubious angle – they’re chairs, cast in iron, in the middle of the field.
So we do what any self respecting Hike group with a camera would do.
Alan wryly remarks to me, “This is like that film you sometimes refer to,” but of course I play it cool and don’t reveal what’s going on inside:
Then possibly one of the most British/Middle class things I can think of happens and an older gentleman ambles over to inform us that these chairs “might be an installation,” which I guess is code for “get the hell off of them, you shits.” Then he adds, “If you actually read the leaflet, you will see you are not supposed to sit on them.”
Given that nothing is written on the chairs, and there was no sign or barriers, and they’re made of iron and pretty much impossible to destroy of deface, I think our thuglife aspersions can be forgiven, personally. Also, what bloody leaflets?
(Comedy gold from Pete, there.)
Anyway, our council resolved, we enter the woods and walk up a stone path to the JFK memorial. We briefly acknowledge his greatness
– I think someone referred to him as a baller –
And we crack on. Our route then leads us down to the Magna Carta monument,
– – cheeky downhill action shot –
with Rob leading the way, mostly to get shots like the one above. He decides to climb over a fence to get into the Magna Carta area, rather than walking round, because why do anything easy –
(Look at him lurking, all seedy, like a man who derives gratification from the historic signing locations of famous treaties being signed, clearly)
– so we follow suit, then stand around and discuss that for a bit. And by discuss, I mean Alan tries to climb it. I don’t have a photo of this because I don’t want him to get arrested by the National Trust police.
- I said no, Alan -
Our route then takes a steep turn uphill, which is quite bracing after the pretty chilled out river route.
We bump into two women walking a veritable legion of rescue dogs, each one of them (dogs, that is) taking quite a dislike to us and shattering the relative calm until we’re out of sight.
We finish our ascent and, a few minutes walk from the top, reach the Air Force Memorial.
All our lads bants and general banality and disgusting attitudes dissipate immediately as we enter a vast, achingly silent building made of white stone which has the names of the 20,456 men and women of the RAF whose bodies were never recovered in the Second World War carved onto its walls. I don’t know for sure whether all these names were listed on the walls, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were.
It felt a bit odd taking photos in there, but I couldn’t help but take one or two just because the place was so stunning.
Stepping out of the memorial was a little odd, like waking, and we proceed through the McMansions of Coopers Hill to our second pub stop, the Fox and Hounds.
The Fox and Hounds is a bit nice. A bit posh for the likes of us, who are distinctively sweaty considering the rather subtle heat that’s snuck up on us. (There’s definitely discussion about back sweat and backpacks on our approach.) But it serves beer and of course they don’t refuse to serve us so we sit outside and enjoy a pint.
The banter takes a turn for the exceptionally disgusting – what else do you think will happen when you get me, Rob, Clyde and John together? – but I can’t post any of it here due to matters of taste, decency, and the fact I’ve either forgotten or repressed most of it.
There’s also an entertaining moment where Clyde shares with me that he’s worried his toenails are too long and might drop off with all the mileage and briefly tries to borrow John’s scissors to give them a trim knowing full well John would not want his scissors used in such a fashion. He is unsuccessful in his attempt which is probably a good thing considering it’s not the best thing to watch while having a drink.
Beers consumed, we enter the next stretch of our journey.
There’s something about Windsor Great Park. It’s got such a distinctive feel to it, it’s quite unique.
Brian decides to celebrate the uniqueness of the Great Park by opening a rather gentlemanly (and perhaps impractical for a Hike) box of cigars, which some of our team decide to partake in. This causes them to linger behind to get their smoke on and generally embrace the existence of an old English gent.
Meanwhile, Alan and Chris decide to march on, blissfully unaware that they have a) left the rest of us behind, and b) are going the wrong way. Chris’s fears about not finishing seem to have vanished, which is grand. He’d been leading us the whole way.
This leaves me, Rob, Clyde and James stood in the middle, unsure what to do. Clyde and I decide the best course of action is to polish off the hip flask of damson gin kindly supplied and made by James-from-my-guitar-class free of charge.
A few phone calls and a five minute walk later, the crew are reunited and my hip flask is dry. We resume the correct route (it’s actually a loop we added to create some length for the Hike – we’ll be heading back this way later) and encounter something called Cow Pond
Not pictured: actual cows, presumably hiding underwater.
Our route resumes along the much more conventional Virginia Water, which is a bit odd for me to hike around, to be honest, considering I have wandered round it with family in my youth and even recently with my in-laws, my nephew, and the dogs, none of whom are built for hikes of significance.
But whatever. It’s got this huge, f**k-off massive totem pole so it’s cool by me.
We take a moment to mourn our missing colleagues who were unable to make this Hike. It’s going pretty well and we would have liked them to be there. “Shame about the back asthma,” Alan remarks. I don’t know who this is in reference to, obviously.
The route then leads us to the ruins of Leptis Magna, which in short is a collection of stones from a historical Libyan city which were relocated in the 19th century to their new home in Surrey because that’s what we did back then, apparently.
It is actually pretty cool, and rather furthers the old English gent vibe Brian engineered, seeing as people back in, um, old times had a fixation with creating fake ruins for their manor grounds. Just check out Stowe Landscape Gardens (my favourite Trust property) if you don’t believe me – the owners booted the servants from their village on the grounds to create some phoney ruins to entertain their guests.
Rich people, am I right?
The walk then goes past a waterfall, or – and how middle class is this – the Virginia Water cascade. Like seriously. What’s wrong with calling it a waterfall? It reminds me of when supermarkets started insisting on adding unnecessary adjectives to food. You know, “Specialty emmental cheese and honey roast cured Wiltshire ham in a toasted brioche bun.”
You mean a cheese ‘n’ ham toasty, mate, yeah?
It is quite a nice cascade though, even with us in front of it.
That concluded the Virginia Water leg of our journey. It was now time to stop at a pub and collect ourselves for the last stretch.
The Belvedere Arms provides the final pub stop before we tackle the last leg of the journey. The sun’s setting and the late afternoon is proving glorious. Everyone’s in a pretty good place (normally we’re dying a little at the penultimate pub stop) but I decide a morale boost is in order, because as Head of Morale I take my responsibilities very seriously and it’s important to antagonise your friends from time to time.
As we’re preparing to leave, I put my bag on the table next to John, and tell him I need some help carrying something, because, well…
… it’s just such a weight to carry.
Yeah, I may have bought a replica of the One Ring online. Because…
(I bet Rob really regrets helping me come up with memes now.)
Anyway, John treats this with good humour
(This picture made Jen go “Aw”)
But won’t wear it for long, lest it corrupt him.
Thuglife
And so with morale (sort of) boosted, we return to the Great Park for the final stretch.
As we re-enter the Great Park, we pass by familiar settings, such as the Polo Grounds we saw in the first Hike. Under the setting sun, the area is incredibly quiet, and almost otherworldly after the relative hustle and bustle of Virginia Water.
We spot this on the far recesses of one of the fields, which is just really creepy
Look at this caravan trying to sneak up on us. It’s crap at hiding behind trees. Make an effort!
We realise several of our party have fallen behind, and pause for a moment near the Equestrian statue (not the Copper Horse, FYI, we’ll get there soon)
While waiting around, we realise the woods behind it are pretty impressive too, but then another realisation dawns on us: we’re losing light.
Normally this isn’t a big deal, but in the Great Park, there’s the risk of them closing the gates, which would rather significantly shaft our prospects of completing the Hike the way we intended. Phone calls are hastily made to hurry the rest of the boys the f*ck along.
Efforts redoubled, we start our approach to the famed Copper Horse.
I love this stretch here. It’s the most immaculate grass carpet, with woods on either side, and the Copper Horse up ahead.
We reach the Copper Horse soon after, the point where the end becomes finally in sight, as per Hikes 1 and 2. From here we can see the Long Walk, Windsor Castle, and next to it lies the Two Brewers, our finish point.
A hike first, we see two soldiers sat at the bottom of the Horse on some of the huge flagstones there. We watch as other soldiers run up to them, their breathing haggard from having presumably ran all the way up the long walk. The waiting soldiers acknowledge their comrades with a curt “Good. Now run back and shower.”
As you do.
We start our descent, the four of us at the back looking like a crap Beatles
(dibs on not being Ringo)
and along the legendary Long Walk. There’s barriers up for a stretch of it as the next day is the Windsor Great Park Half Marathon, which I ran last year and was a beast.
Speaking of beasts…
There are more deer in the Great Park as we walk down than I’ve ever seen before. Scores of them. It’s rutting season (I think) and the stags watch us with a keen fixation, clearly wary of our undeniable, pure masculinity.
James is starting to struggle at this point, but he refuses to quit, honourably bringing up the rear. It’s my fault he’s on this ridiculous walk, so I decide to keep him company for the last stretch. That being said, if the stags go for us I’ll probably leave him for dead, offering him as a sacrifice to the great beasts of the Great Park.
I mean, look at this guy. You just don’t mess.
As we progress down the Long Walk, we encounter something pretty awesome.
The stags bellow, crying out on both sides of our path. It’s a guttural, intimidating bellow, something I’ve never heard before, probably the most impressive thing on the Hike today…
… until the deer on our left decide to run across the path in front of us to the other side. Dozens of them move, creating a pounding, whistling sound as they shoot from one side to the other.
We’re amazed and delighted. It’s that profound, last stretch of the Hike moment, akin to the silver-skied sunset in Remenham in Hike IV, or the (admittedly far earlier on) abandoned church of Arborfield in Hike V. Things like this are the reason we do these silly walks. Well, that and the pub stops.
Aw, feelings.
Energy levels by this point are slightly mixed, but we decide it’s best to finish as a team. Unfortunately, Pete and Chris haven’t got the memo, and with no phone signal, John decides to use his newly developed running skills to catch them up and tell them to wait. He’s successful, but after having walked 20 miles, now completely knackered.
Still, we regroup, and finish as one, more or less. Chris, who was anxious about managing the walk not 24 hours ago (and could have done this much quicker without the rest of us, probably) finishes first with Pete. As we stop for our well-deserved victory beer at the Two Brewers, Pete remarks that compared to his last Hike, “It’s much easier to do when you don’t have cancer.”
Can’t fault that logic.
We take a moment to reflect on our Hike. It wasn’t what we intended it to be, but it was definitely enjoyable. Maybe not the one we deserved, but the one we needed right now, if I’m going to get all Dark Knight on you. Our new additions not only survived, but flourished.
Our celebrations are well-deserved but short – John and I have our respective others and little people to think of, and by this point we are significantly later than our incredibly optimistic predictions foretold. We risk being put on the naughty step. At least they’re in Nandos.
We opt for halves over pints, and John makes his first Lord of the Rings pun in probably ever.
No more memes from me today, promise.