Trials & Tribulations
Before jumping in with both feet, I ran a trial of ‘inn-to-inn’. I hoped to learn three things: whether I could complete four consecutive days of over forty kilometres with a backpack; what ‘boots-on-ground’ told me that desk research couldn’t; and the most likely points of failure.
To maximise daylight hours, I ran the test after the spring equinox, running up to the Easter weekend. From Kew Bridge, south-west London and our family haunt near Poole, I plotted a route, using the methodology to draw a line, identify pinch points and book suitable places to stay within a day’s walk. The initial distance of 160 kilometres (100 miles), crept up a few kilometres per day, once diverted to include places to stay, to eat and rest, as well as those to avoid. This capsule trial proved a truly valuable experience towards more realistic planning of the full trip.
Given the density of paths and commercial centres in the south of England, I had little trouble splitting each day into four legs of roughly ten kilometres, spotting parks and eateries en route. I anticipated having to air feet, grab refreshments and have a proper lunch, where I could use the loo. Day 1 proved both enchanting and straightforward, popping past Strawberry Hill House, through Bushy Park, and past the gates of Hampton Court Palace to hang out on a bench just across the river. I’d packed cooked frankfurters for easy protein to sustain me along the Thames River path until a Thai lunch in Weybridge. Thereafter, the path followed the picturesque River Wey, complete with mill and houseboats, finally giving way to suburban roads leading into Woking. I bought provisions for the next morning, soon picking up the country lane, narrow trail and eventual field-crossing that led to a village B&B near Warplesdon. Annoyingly, I had raised an arc of blisters on my heel, which led to an intimate and sustained acquaintance with a slightly sterilised needle. Otherwise, I was none the worse for wear from my first day. I ate and slept well and was certainly fit to go after a decent breakfast. So far, so good.
Next day, I stopped first in Aldershot, grabbing a punnet of grapes. The regular burst of sugar and water proved an excellent boost, a good habit on the continent. My route led through Farnham before heading towards lunch. Ah yes. Eschewing the many eateries of the vibrant commuter town, the promise of sushi lures me off the main road. Here, I blundered into my first on-the-ground lesson. I braved the soggy verge of the nerve-wracking busy road, only to find the address of the supposed sushi restaurant was a private home. Undaunted, I rang the bell. The surprised owner quickly revealed that she ran a private catering company. She could supply lunch, however, with a few days’ notice and a minimum number greater than our multiple personalities could muster. It seems any old moron can flag a place on internet maps, and without being purposefully mendacious, may assign it a review and categorisation, just so a naïve nitwit such as me can fall for it. Gingerly (pickled ginger-ly?), I took her advice for a garden centre by Birdworld, further along the A325. It was 2-for-1 roast dinners, so the pensioners had launched an invasion. Failing to nab a spare oldster to partake of the unclaimed free extra meal, I filled one plate. The food was OK, the clean loos better.
Wherever possible on this odyssey, I hoped to knit in visits to local attractions, even if it extended my route by a few kilometres. Needing to avoid the A31 at Alton, I regretfully had to miss out on Jane Austen’s House. Instead, I wandered by the pretty villages of Binstead, East Worldham and Upper Farringdon. The mix of lanes and boggy paths paralleled the highs and lows of rural progress before I encountered lesson number two. Inns have historically been established on major thoroughfares. After 38 kilometres, I was becoming quite road-weary, and those blisters were nagging. Cue 7 and a half kilometres of the fast London-Gosport artery that is the A32. Welcome to purgatory. I crossed to face the oncoming traffic. I knew this would happen at some point, so I steeled myself for the onslaught of trucks and vans bowling their way home in the drizzling rain. I tried to stay visible, waving a hiking pole, hugging the edge of the squelchy verge, jumping in last-second to avoid splashes and wing mirrors. Over the following ninety minutes, progress hampered by frequent jumps to safety, I became, in a way, battle-hardened. What doesn’t kill you may leave you with a life-altering injury. This was truly where the rubber met the road. This could be the reality of the shortest routes between overnight stops, a thought I quickly categorised as inconvenient and filed under Denial. I learned to stride boldly and to delay escaping to the verge until after the oncoming vehicle had seen me and either slowed down or moved out. I also learned the differing sounds of cars, vans, trucks and coaches as they progressed behind me. The big learning was to fear the sound of a big, slow truck on a straight segment. This would be followed by a terrifying squeal of a car changing down gear to overtake on the lane directly behind me. I shuddered with adrenaline each time, pushing down the urge to throw up or throw in the towel. Solace came from knowing each step took me closer to bed for the night. I sang songs to myself, ticking off each few hundred metres. Much of the verge was wooded, impeding both visibility and progress. It may have been possible to detour around, but I was lamentably on the last of my legs for the day. I counted down markers, urging myself to the next moment where I could catch a breath. Eventually, I prevailed, and in the sanctuary of my room, I stripped off the day. I now had something tangible on the ‘try to avoid’ list. Yet, despite the fear, I felt less like a dead woman walking than I had in years.
As it would be quite a while before any shops, I ate a hearty breakfast to sustain me until Bishop’s Waltham. Grapes and water refreshed me during a far more enjoyable route through bluebell woods and farmland views. The weather had cleared, and brunch proved spectacularly good. Bishop’s Waltham’s eponymous palace complex was a well-preserved delight. Crossing Southampton, however, was a drag. I had no idea it was so hilly, and by the time I muddled through all the complicated pedestrian crossings of the major highways, I was fairly disorientated and had racked up 45 kilometres when I was still five clicks short of Ashurst Station. As luck would have it, there had been nowhere available to stay in Ashurst, so I’d already arranged for my husband, T, to fetch me. I declared it a day at Totton Station instead and returned to Poole to sleep, a salutary lesson on the easy ways to waste kilometres and how vulnerable I’d be to minor errors when tired at the end of a long day. The luxuriously pleasant morning had lulled me into a false sense of effort. If I am honest, I did not learn this lesson very well. A kilometre lost when the going is easy still costs a kilometre of effort when the going is hard at the end of the day.
On the fourth and last day, I restarted the trail at Ashurst station for a straight-line march into Lyndhurst and a timely public loo. I had been schooling my body on pre-hydration. This entailed getting up at least an hour before leaving, so that I washed, dressed, consumed breakfast, coffee and water with sufficient time to process it through and empty the tank before check-out. Failing to do that made my kidneys ache. The fun got going on the New Forest trail. Another lesson: early in the season, trails can be overgrown and hard to follow. And I became lost more than once, with fallen trees blocking the path, having to either clamber over in the style of an ungainly tortoise or tramp a distance around in heavy bog. Several times, I had to test the depth of mud with a hiking pole as I battled through contorted Arthurian landscapes. Progress was slow, putting me far behind target. Well rested and fed at Burley, I edged along the narrow hedge-lined country lanes, relying on sound and an orange-flagged pole to keep a safe distance between me and eager drivers. At Tuckton, I met up with a friend for tea and enjoyed the experiment of companionship. Certainly, the company proved rejuvenating and took my mind off the last ten kilometres. Our son met me at Bournemouth Pier, cheering me on and coaching me up the last hill. I’d made it. Over 200,000 steps in 4 days. Game on.
Over the subsequent few days, I still did 20,000 steps daily — my efforts would be unsustainable if I’d collapsed. I reviewed the findings with a mind to the full challenge:
Distance: 40 kilometres plus is achievable in a day, however, it should only be when necessary rather than the daily average. Especially as I needed margins for error. I replanned the overnights, extending the duration from around 100 days to 120. Generous breaks would be essential, particularly in challenging conditions.
Packing: the 50-litre pack had been easy to manage and I had quickly become used to being conspicuous. However, I needed the next size up to carry the kit to sustain a month of uncertainties. Hiking poles were essential to sustain weight-bearing without joint fatigue, as well as providing extra visibility or supporting progress over sticky ground.
Route planning: Mapping apps are a guide, not a gospel. Double-check commercial entities on their websites, and identify Plan B venues. A path may not be a viable path and a road could be far more dangerous than anticipated. At the very least scan the routes via the satellite and terrain functions to get a better sense of the environment and challenges.
Dangerous roads: Inevitable. Noise won’t kill you, and tuning into noises can make progress more efficient. My wits were the best piece of kit I had. I also decided to avoid large cities with urban sprawl. The uplift in facilities did not seem to outweigh the depressing time it took to get to the centre, and it would be impossible to tell whether the route passed through the types of areas that I would generally avoid in a city I knew.
Isolated paths: The most direct route that is not a busy road may be a remote hiking path. This may be overgrown, muddy and anxiety-inducing, particularly for lone females. There’s an increased risk of getting lost or being stranded from resources or injured. I’d need to mitigate such risks.
Interesting diversions: The journey would be dull if I did not make an effort to visit places en route. I wanted to learn about Europe and the traces of people in whose footsteps I trod. The one caveat was that time lost or kilometres spent when high in energy carried over with a heavier cost later in the day. Break-day locations would be key.
Routine: Upon arrival, it was good practice to break down my pack completely, wash socks and other clothing, shower and stretch. After making myself less ‘hiker' for dinner (a shift dress and sandals), I’d prepare for the next day: checking boots for stones, laying out the next day’s kit, and checking how accessible to keep a rain jacket. I’d replay the next day’s route, including stops, particularly for water in and water out.
Route tracking: With the long days, my smart watch twice ran out of battery before I did. A mate recommended ‘theatre mode,’ which stops the face from lighting up with each flick of the wrist. On the full challenge, this did the trick. The stats helped me understand the range of minutes per kilometre, from just over 9 to sometimes 15, depending on terrain.
And so, I had at least found my feet. The next task was to find my chosen path.