We did it! The walk, that is: fifty-five kilometres of anguish and trig points which I thought could only be completed by the bastard love-children of Haile Gebrselassie and the BFG. Fifty-five kilometres of enormous rucksacks, cameraderie, successful map-reading and sheep with terminal bronchitis. The latter, moaning in anguish throughout the night, will haunt my nightmares for eternity.

 

On Friday afternoon, we walked to the Ship and Anchor at Ford, but were denied the opportunity to sample the range of ales (I was too young) or go on the swings (too old). Day two was probably the hardest, as we walked along Monarch's Way up various steady and devastating inclines. Our group was accompanied by Ben 'Kevlar' Peveler, so called for being impervious to harm from UV rays and suicidally dangerous rope-swings. We stayed the night at Gumber Bothy, a camping farm. Yes, 'camping farm': this bizarre subspecies of farm diversification appears to serve exclusively as a refuge for fellow conscripts of Prince Philip's army. We shared our field with a bubbly selection of people from somewhere in Wimbledon. The rain descended during the night, and we stayed in our tents until quite late in the morning (wondering if the water could possibly boil any slower if the portable gas stoves were soaking wet). On the other hand, a cup of tea is infinitely more satisfying if it takes half an hour's effort. Like many other things, but the best I'm getting is Twining's at the moment. Ah well.

 

Anyway, on day three we ended up on top of Rackham Hill, looking down at a glorious view. Then we climbed down and hit the River Arun once again - the last two kilometres (or possibly three) being the hardest of all. We all felt tired but proud at the end of this daunting but successful hike.

 

Ironically, my ankle seized up on the bank holiday Monday, when the walk was over.