Peaking

Ironically, I saw on the OS map that we passed Simon Fell as we peaked. And we peaked three times in twelve hours. In near perfect weather, pretty much everything in moderation without any torrential rain, hail or snow. In The Yorkshire Dales National Park, some of which was moved to Cumbria, all of which remains in the north of England. No one left behind. No traumas brought home.

The challenge started at 7 am, from Horton-in-Ribblesdale where noise abatement considerations preclude earlier departures. We set out for Pen-y-ghent (694 m) in a conga-like line of several hundred challengers of all ages, shapes, sizes and purpose. We fourteen plus two guides from Maximum Adventure melded indistinguishably into the hordes. Said hordes were relatively well disciplined, discarding little waste other than losing hats and ziplock bags to the crosswinds and generally lining up patiently for the more vertical bits. Our guides reminded some overly enthusiastic folk that scrabbling above us risked dislodging rocks or sliding down onto us. My thoughts were darker; along the lines of 'If I survive you knocking me over, I will hunt you down'. A group of dentists from Leeds sportingly yielded space to me on the ascent of Pen-y-gent when I asked for a bit more time and showed them the scar I was protecting on my left hand. Guide C and I were discussing the 320 million year old cyclotherms underfoot, the alternating layers of limestone and grits that resisted recent glaciation and form the distinctive flat topped peaks, the mountains of our challenge. Ninety minutes into the hike and we were lined up at the wall on the peak for a team photo, in a gap between mists. Not too bad at all; so far, so good.

The second peak at Whernside (736 m) was a long way off; about 19 km and five hours away in fact. Much of the boggy portion between the first two peaks is paved and more paving is being added, all needed to limit people to a track and reduce the erosion due to the several hundred thousand who trek here annually. We crossed steams and walked beside dry stone walls and passed typical Dales stone houses. We stopped en-route for twenty minutes at the Ribblehead Viaduct for a bathroom break in the Station Inn, hot soup for some and generally, to take a breather. I often wonder what other people think about on treks like these. I wondered what it was like living in shanties during the four years of viaduct construction, especially when you know around a hundred were killed in workplace accidents and that smallpox was endemic. And do many folk notice (or care about) the impressive glacial drumlins that fill the valley? And on and on we went, alongside the aqueduct that takes a beck (the Force Gill) over the railway with a view to the entrance of the famous Blea Moor tunnel, up to the Force Gill waterfall and then up Whernside proper, a rounded mountain that is both the highest and least visually impressive of the three peaks. We lined up again for another team photo, this in strong crosswinds that somehow thickened the mist; 23 km and 6.5 hours done. Coming down from the plateau of Whernside was tough, along the sometime walled border with Cumbria and then precipitously down into the Shake Holes area but the weather was pretty much perfect and so it was nothing like as treacherous underfoot as wet limestone can be (and would have been if we'd walked 24 hours earlier).

We crossed the valley of the Winterscales Beck towards Ingleborough (723 m), the third peak, stopping for thirty minutes at Philpin Farm for tea, ice cream and a change of socks (at least these are what I enjoyed on that break). I was getting intermittent messages of encouragement, when mobile coverage allowed, via text and Whatsapp as Walkmeter was broadcasting our progress to friends and family across the world. Guide C rightly chastised me for 'being like a teenager' reading a message, I thought safely, being on a flat grassy bit; I was risking a tumble I couldn't afford (and nor could the team), mea culpa. As an aside, in a truly extreme example of mobile madness, I saw one young woman in trainers shouting over the wind to a tablet-sized video call as she stumbled over limestone cobbles in the mist, just a few metres from the top of a cliff. Ingleborough was the hardest peak for me. By far. I found the ascent really challenging. I was neck-tired from the concentration it took to visually spot the best place for each footfall - normally, this is pretty much autonomic but not when you are consciously protecting a recently repaired hand. Also, much of the blocky scramble was on my left side and I was having to steady myself with my good, right hand, while making very large steps up. Guide C and team mates, BA and AF really helped just by staying with me. And on arrival at the table-topped summit, Guide M walked me across to the peak for the last team photo, another misty mountain trophy. Ten hours and 33 km done, it was a trifle dismaying to accept what we already knew, that there were still two more hours to walk back to Horton-in-Ribblesdale. And so, for the first time, our team split into two, seven hares deciding to run to the pub (or so they said). Us tortoises still made it in twelve hours, just, enjoying the delightful evening sunshine as it brought fields to light and warmth to our faces. And we'd only needed our rain gear twice, for nothing more than short lived drizzle. Hurrah.

Ribblehead Viaduct

There are many memories and eventually, our photos will supplant them. As RN said, 'The memories of these challenges go on for ever - just like the last few miles'. Or perhaps SZ, 'it was the last 23 miles I struggled with most'. Meantime, in summary, this was a great walk, a fine challenge and despite it promising to be the hardest of the four I've done over the last decade, it was the most satisfying. The difference? This was the only one that didn't involve sleep deprivation. And our guides, M and C, were fantastic. They paced us well and circled to rescue any who became dispirited, and not just folk on our team. However, having experienced guides is about the security in case of accident or emergency. And having a reassuring safety-net to promote self-confidence.

There are several serious aspects to these challenges. In our case, we raised a lot of money for Care International (you know who you are and we are exceedingly grateful for your support). And the success of our fund raising was really put into perspective by some of the conversations I had with other groups out on the trek. There were an incredible number of motivations for their pilgrimages. Charity fundraisers for poverty, cancer, the children's hospice. Memorial walks after loss of family members or loved ones. A temple of Sikhs, a practice of dentists, a union of students, university challenge, all team building. Family outings for significant birthdays. A sober stag group. Reunions of all sorts; some said army, some said a get-together of former work colleagues. One group said they were on a corporate spirit weekend but I think we call that Corporate Social Responsibility, which is why we were walking. And I'm sure others had lots more reasons besides. The scale of it all is quite impressive. Imagine that we 14 averaged 60,000 steps each, expended about 3500 calories each and took not just three days in travel and trek, but maybe averaged 100 hours training beforehand. Our partners, spouses, family, friends, colleagues, employers and supporters deserve at least a moment's consideration. We, none of us, did this in a vacuum. And we, each of us, spent a small fortune on boots, socks, back-packs, poles, waterproofs, snacks, water-bottles, vitamins I and P (ibuprofen, paracetamol), sudocrem, knee braces, compeed and maps, gadgets and batteries. And they say a quarter of a million people will set out to do The Yorkshire Three Peaks this year. It's quite fantastic especially since Level 4 fitness is needed to conquer The Yorkshire Three Peaks (same fitness level as Mont Blanc and Kilimanjaro). Some readers might like to know that the annual Yorkshire Three Peaks Race attracts runners who can complete the course in approximately three hours. I'm pleased that we took the twelve and because of that, I feel less fatigue due to taking one hour at rest stops. Rather than a medal or a certificate, I have a flat cap, and to quote from colleague JB, 'I'll always wear my flat cap with pride'. Twelve hours was the perfect time to spend on this challenge.

And here's the link to the final map. Some might say that I owe my sponsors 100 km in training walks. I say I broke my hand four weeks ago and I'm delighted to have been fixed and able to complete the challenge at all. Including the challenge itself, I did 44 walks in total, and it took 100 hours to cover 447 km. Thank you all, sponsors, team mates, guides, physiotherapists, surgeon, friends and family.

And finally, the remainder of the string of (disjointed) notes from my phone:

Who'd have thought you could assemble a team of fourteen with everyone having unique initials? BA TB PB JB AF HG MJ SK RN SR MS PS PT SZ

Our guide M has done both Mont Blanc and Matterhorn.  Our Kiwi AF was discrete in her celebration of the ABs defeating the Lions as we walked. Our American HG took great photos in his new clothes. Our IT savvy Scot MS shared a host of new gadgets. Our Cornish delegate BA ate pasties and wore shorts that earned him a mild hypothermia. Our co-driver JB forgot to bring a tie for the designer shirt worn on the mountains. The Canadian PS sliced and diced a toe only days before the trek.

Who knew phones were for streaming anthems via Deezer into blue-tooth boomboxes inside reverberant minivans? Prince Kinks Dolly My Way with Rocket Man.

Seasoned trekkers talk of anti-inflammatories and pain killers in tablet / caplet count to avoid admitting to self-medicating by grams rather than milligrams.

Time for a few top tips. Always turn off the taps in your hotel bathroom if plumbers are adjusting the mains water supply. Baby food pouches are a great way to keep hydrated and nourished - Ella's Kitchen red, yellow, purple and even green ones worked for me. As did putting sudocrem between my toes before the walk. Professional guides M and C from Maximum Adventure were just that, professional.

Hadrian's Wall was suggested for next year. Please count me out.

Vultures

I'm back walking three weeks after breaking my hand. The base of the metacarpal was successfully pinned and plated two weeks ago and the bandages came off yesterday. So I went out for a short walk today and got sweaty for the first time since the surgery. Not a long walk, just two local loops, with my wife and our dog.

Despite the splinted hand, it's been a hectic three weeks, and while there's been a lot to think about at work, there've been a lot of family issues too. Parental transitions; dementia, strokes, Byzantine bureaucracy and some amazing selfless carers as nursing home care became reality. A family wedding involving many from home and around the globe. A new engagement, perhaps a wedding next year, and a visit to a potential wedding venue. The end of a school year for another transition. The Dalkey Book Festival. And there was The Take Five gallery opening in Kinsale. Discussions with other family members considering job/career changes. All of these layered into a continuous blizzard of intense work commitments for my wife. In the middle of which I had a five day hangover from a general anaesthetic (anyone, how does propofol actually work?).

Talking of such things, I learned that Diclofenac is a killer; it's the active ingredient in the Voltarol I recommended in an earlier post and it almost wiped out the birds that dispose of bodies in India. I've written before about my respect for American Turkey Vultures who were (and sometimes still are) used by natural gas companies to pinpoint pipeline leaks. Natural gas is by itself odorless, so gas companies add the chemical ethyl mercaptan to it so that people can smell gas leaks. As it happens, ethyl mercaptan is one of the chemicals emitted by putrefying animal carcasses, and so, strangely, leaks in natural gas pipelines attract congregations of Turkey Vultures. But don't be confused by my conflation of vulture stories; the diclofenac and mercaptan stories are only linked by the association with vultures. (Which reminds me of Bird Sense, an excellent book on senses in birds by Tim Birkhead in 2012.)

Overheard while yielding way on a path: woman to two late teenage sons: "And there it is, the stone bird ..."

Overheard on passing a park bench: two women, one to the other: "I tried another one on in BT and it fits, so maybe I should ..."

Overheard passing a coffee shop; father to teenage son: "They left the place in a terrible mess. You've got to understand your friends did this to you, to us."

For a different view of your world, you might want to read this thought provoking piece in the Los Angeles Review of books: "What Are We Still Doing in Guantanamo?".

And if you need to know the difference between cryogenics and cryonics, read Wait but Why here.

And so, back to fundraising. Recall that I was watching pipits and larks the day I broke my hand. I was retching and resting and retching on the way up the mountain and now I have found a famous haiku that even in English captures the scene (of the birds).

all the long day
singing, singing, yet not enough:
a skylark
Bashō

I'm not going to make the 500 km in training walks before the event, which is just six days away. We walk next Saturday. I tried. I will still do the event unless it rains; I'll cry off if raining in case I'd slip and undo the repairs to my hand. Otherwise, I'm going for it.

Meanwhile, I am very proud of our sponsorship and fundraising endeavours. The funds raised to date are fantastic, thank you and you can read more here. 

Fell

With optimism and inclination to determination and my summit inukshuk.

Welcome to a right handed blog post. It's one handed because I broke the other one. I stood on a tussock in a boggy patch among granite boulders and it gave way. I went over, skinning hip, hand, head and knees. And fracturing a metacarpal base.

As the nursery rhyme goes:

Hands, knees
and boomps-a-daisy
what is a boomp
between friends
Annette Mills

Going back in time, the day had started so well, I'd driven to the car park in Glenmalure, a beautiful morning, windows open, music from the XX reinforcing the majestic views, especially along the Military Road from Laragh. I got a text at the start of my walk:

Hope you have a lovely walk

To which I replied

Thank you. I'm just starting 0750. Beautiful here but no mobile coverage.

I didn't know I had the whole mountain to myself. Apart from the sheep, larks, meadow pipits, hooded crows and some Sika deer. The only signs of humanity were the occasional jet trails far above in the azure skies. Indeed, vertical visibility seemed so much more than haze limited horizontal views. Of course humans have long shaped this area; I was on roads and tracks, among fenced Sitka spruce plantations, seeing tagged sheep with red and blue dyes of ownership, modern hiking boot cartouches in the mud, the adjacent Glen of Imaal military firing range warning signage; but there were no other folk around as I headed up Fraughan Rock Glen. And vertically, up past the waterfall beneath Ballinaskea. I'd been here often before, the last time was in 2008 when I came on a family excursion. And the time before that, it was for a 30 km hike. But this time, I only had time for a four hour round trip hike, so I was headed directly to the summit of Lugnaquilla. And I'm not as fit as once upon a time, but getting fit, that's the point. 

I recalled the last time I got lightheaded and puked was 60 km into the 100 km Oxfam Trail Walker on the UK South Downs,  seven years ago. Then, I was very fit but had too many 'energy' drinks and supplements; sugar was the enemy. This time I reminded myself that I only have a month to get fit enough for the Yorkshire Three Peaks. So, I simply had to reach the summit. I rested several times, rehydrating, recovering among the meadow pipits, them saying 'sweet-sweet' when perched and keeping an eye on me, in between their normal business activities, which mostly involved flying up directly to a great height and dropping like hang-gliders, trilling exuberantly on descent. Lovely to watch.

The ascent from the valley of the Glenmalure River to Lugnaquilla feels like the inverse of a volcano climb. Volcanoes get steeper with altitude. The bits on the Lug that feel steepest are lower down, the final climb is along a broad shouldered plateau, popular with sheep. There's a good description here. The point is that I knew how it would end if I could get up to the shoulder. So I persevered, perhaps a bit too fast, perhaps more mindful of the limited time rather than accepting fitness limits.

Once up to the shoulder, I hiked quickly across to the summit where I took in the views, made an inukshuk on the benchmark atop the cairn, took a few photos and had a snack in the refreshingly cool and surprisingly strong wind. Surprising because the hike was otherwise windless.

Then I headed back down, retracing my steps. And took a tumble. And in taking the tumble, I realised, even as I willed myself to be unbroken, just how exposed I was. I found myself speaking out loud for the benefit of the onlooking sheep. I was otherwise alone. On the Lug. Madness. I felt my iPhone digging into my pelvis, stood, checked and saw 'no coverage'. Bottles of Lucazade and orange juice had popped out of the backpack's external pockets. The mouth piece of my Camel-Bak had somehow joined them on the ground. Contused on bony corners, and bleeding from other places, my left hand didn't feel normal as I reached down to pick up the jetsam. But I was standing and everything else felt normally connected. Lucky. Annoyed but lucky. I told myself to feel very lucky. But I was worried that I'd broken my hand. And worried that I was five or six km from the car park. And there was no one in sight.

I walked on down and was only troubled on the descent around the waterfall, scared to fall again. First time I wondered about walking poles in years - said to spare the knees and make you think and therefore be careful on the tricky bits - but despite having two sets at home, I've never got comfortable with them. Are they an age related necessity?

And yet, I got to the car park in half the time it took to summit. Where I saw my first other people, a family group who had just arrived. They asked about local loop walks and told me they were seeking a one hour hike, practice before a 120 km walk in June on the last part of the Camino de Santiago. By now, my hand felt broken as I struggled to remove my hiking boots. And I can paraphrase what one of the Camino group said of my hand, them summarising a poem read the night before, you're not living if you're not getting knocks and scrapes. And a corollary I overheard ascending Ben Nevis in 2008, on the day of the annual Ben Nevis Run when I was doing another Three Peaks Challenge - the seniors (70+) were descending, two in conversation, one carrying bloody stigmata on knees and palms, he shouted "I'm getting so old that if I fall again, I'll give up fell running". 

The car is automatic and together with Tom Petty anthems, I drove home. I convinced myself it was a sprain until the next dawn light forced me to consider swelling as an indicator of fracture.  X-ray and CT scans confirmed and imaged the damage. Left fifth metacarpal fractured at base. Pinning may be required. And while telling tales of woe, last year's factor 50 sunscreen failed to protect my face and ears.

Four hours, 14 km, 770 m up at 21C. I wonder will I be able/allowed to do the Yorkshire Three Peaks in 26 days time? Our sponsorship status is here.

And by the way, here's something lucid and brilliant I read while in the emergency department.

Contacts

I was going to name this post FOG but the fog receded as I was walking my local loops for 13 km. The fog had been so thick that its condensation dropped off the trees creating rain below the canopies that we more often use as shelter.

I'd been watching three swimmers, so far offshore that I caught a couple of glimpses of a dolphin breaking the surface nearby, where terns and a gannet were diving for fish. Then I saw six naturists on the beach. One was towelling himself dry as I walked towards them. He sat down on on a rock, bare and facing me, and proceeded to insert his contact lenses. Surreal.

The trees had looked ethereal and the beach cobbles collectible and transformable into mock turtles. And these are the iPhone photos I snapped and posted here today. 

I was one of 8800 people who attended a talk by Prof Brian Cox last night. It seems that we are just proton pumps on a mote in a multiverse where an earlier pump, Georges Lemaïtre, asked Albert Einstein in 1933 if there had been a day without a yesterday.

15R

We went for a very short walk with Gus, our dog, the limit imposed in part by foot blisters and the need for knee braces. I’ve added a few pictures of places that Gus will never go - Tresham’s Triangular Lodge in Rushton, Northamptonshire, a random set of instructions from a building site in Haymarket, London and a circular window from the City West Hotel in Dublin - all snaps made on the iPhone over the last few weeks.

Imagine being a seventyish couple on a state pension with a severely handicapped child living at home. Imagine what happens next.

We had a fund raising quiz last Thursday and I set 'American Geography' questions. I sent 15 to the quiz master who chose ten for the quiz. Here's one that wasn't used: You probably know Alaska has the longest border with Canada (1,538 miles) but can you name the state with the shortest? Surprise, it's Pennsylvania with a 42 mile border and no official crossing points because it’s in Lake Erie.

That's it for today, just a month left before the challenge itself. So far: 80 hours, 39 walks, 373 km. 

Dandelion

"It's a flower not a dandelion" insisted the indignant three-year-old yesterday before we left her for a trip to rugby disappointment. There's a lion theme to this blog, dandy or not, coincidently as Leo Vradkar vies to replace Enda Kenny running the country. We've seen the Leinster Rugby mascot, Leo the Leinster Lion for the last time this season. It's Scarlets that head to the Pro12 final in our home city. 

I came away from the game last night, dispirited, thinking of George Best who said "I spent a lot of money on booze, birds and fast cars. The rest I just squandered." It's the last bit that came to mind. Maybe coach Leo Cullen and his management team have squandered the talent that earned five selections for the imminent Lions tour of New Zealand. Saracens, who are on track for a double double had six Lions selected. Leinster, in the same two seasons, have managed to lose two semis and one final. That's poor, very poor. A management problem with serious implications; the inspiration of three European Championships in the four seasons 2009-2102, the European Challenge Cup in 2013 and the Pro12 in 2013 and 2014, successes that filled the rugby academy with amazing young talent, is perhaps being squandered.

dandelions,

dandelions

on the sandy shore -

spring

opens its eyes

Ogiwara Aeisensui

These are things that were in my head as I walked 8 km just to to get to the start of the Dublin Mountains Way in Rathmichael Wood. There were other thoughts too, as I put on and off my rain-gear as the showers drifted over me. I had been to a Cecil Beaton photo exhibition during the week where I realised that fake news and photoshop are just new terms for old concepts. Char to Dowager is worth a look, from the Beetles+Huxley gallery where some 70 photos, all printed before 1945, are being sold.

The beach and some of the mountain walks were augmented by the musky smell of valerian. There were no deer to see because the forest is being logged.

Imagine being so sick that you need home visits by nurses. Imagine having a friend who one day takes you out to lunch where one of your carers happens to see you. Imagine being told that since you have a friend who can drive you to lunch, you no longer need home visits. Is this nationalised health care? 

I wanted to walk the whole way, as I did last year. But I hit the wall on Ballyedmonduff, carried on to Three Rock where my packed lunch did nothing to restore me. So I called for rescue and walked back to Johnnie Fox's pub where I was collected and transported to sanctuary. Only 26 km today according to Walkmeter. But it's OK, there's a month to recover from the blisters and even better, we have reached one of our sponsorship goals.

And I see that I also used Dandelion as a title in 2011.

Fore

"Sorry about that" I said.

"You're most welcome" they said, together.

A flight of two were teeing off and I had nowhere to hide as I walked through the golf course and across their fairway. There were other flights too. Flights of Canada Geese and Rooks and Mallard. It's beautiful this morning at 0900 on the Uxbridge (formerly Harefield Place) Golf Club, and look, there's a squirrel loping across the greens. (And no, that's a nest-cleared discarded pigeon's egg.)

I've already been under the M40. Not Hockney, nor Noble & Webster (dirty white trash with gulls). Fly tipping. No heart, no soul, just opportunistic ignorant dumping. Then and now photos, a broken gate facilitates the awful mess I snapped.

And I've been along a portion of the Grand Union Canal. People on their narrowboats enjoying the early morning sun day. One fat man in nothing but shorts, listening to the radio, drinking breakfast beer from a glass tankard. Others with more ambition, doing boat maintenance using tools and paint brushes amidst the hum of generators and the occasional bell tinkle from passing cyclists, under a splendid cacophony of bird song from the trees and hedges that frame the canal.

There are hawthorn confetti flurries in the light breeze, creating interesting dappled patterns on the ground.

The Frays River was running faster than it has been these last six months, fuller from recent rains - rich feeding opportunities for herons, coots, mallard, moorhen and grey wagtails.

And so went today's 7 km walk.

Wysis

I walked through Henley-on-Thames a few years ago and spotted Isis House, an old name with a new connotation. With a bit of internet searching, I gleaned that Tamesis is an old word for Thames and the shortened versions Wysis or Isis are in common use among rowers. Which gave me the idea to visit the head of Isis.

A few months ago, I was lucky enough to read Thames Way by Diarmuid Fitzgerald, a book of haiku and tenka inspired by his walk from the Thames Barrier to the head of the river. I have less time than needed to begin at the sea, so I thought to start near the Cotswold Country Park, and maybe make it a 25 km round trip and leave the other few hundred km for another life. And then this weekend became 'free' so it was time.

I spoke notes into my iPhone as I walked from the Saxon town of Ashton Keynes, mapless, reliant on the Thames Way signage. A lone cuckoo calls. Coot, mallard, pheasant each reply: no competition. Later I noted The damselflies here. Sheep bleat where Isis springs, swans groan, content. I was trying to keep Fitzgerald's excellent haiku in mind, hopeful of being joyously unlost, finding inspiration for my own thoughts. But in truth, I was bored by the riverside flatness after just a few kilometres. And I made a few basic orienteering errors, bringing new life to one of his haikus.

in the marches

without my map –
joyously lost

Diarmuid Fitzgerald

So I snapped photos to capture ideas and memories for consideration later. 

One of my navigation errors was a classic. I'd digressed to Kemble to see a Norman church door but my arrival coincided with a mass exit from Sunday services. Standing in my hobo style walking gear, surrounded by tied and frocked worthies, I asked for directions to the river. Not so much the penitent's selfless request of "Where should I go now?", more like finding the inside track with "What's the quickest way back to the river?". They smiled tolerantly. "You won't find water you know." "You do realise it's an hour to the source from here?" "There's nothing to see other than a stone."

Resolute and sensing a little condescension, I overlooked a personal workplace mantra, "Trust, but verify." I failed to verify and it cost me at least five extra km because Mr Betied Worthiest said left was right. And he meant my right but called it left because it was behind him as he faced me. And the curve he suggested I took did lead to a bridge but it was a railway bridge that led to a PRIVATE trail. A map I saw later confirmed the road curved in the other direction too, before meeting a bridge across the river. And indeed, that was how I made the return journey once I visited the head of Isis.

I'm a bit ashamed at the number of mistakes I made. I've come to expect signage on national trails and I adhere to the principle that you don't change bearing until the next sign. Walking until the next sign isn't reliable even on The Thames Way National Trail. But I was tired after walking 20 miles yesterday. And prone to errors. Only now do I accept the sign reading "you're crossing the river Thames" was an admonishment rather than a direction - and the Thames paid me back for crossing it. I noticed potential for other forms of payback too - the Lower Mill Estate is actually lower than the lake across the road. And I crossed from Wiltshire to Gloucestershire, where new roadside signs confused me. What exactly does Quiet Lane signify? There were sheep bleating and the first sign I noticed was underneath crackling and popping electric wires draped from ugly pylons, these all under a busy flightpath for light aircraft heading to the nearby Cotswold Airport.

And in Kemble, silent Lycra clad, bike borne assassins kept me vigilant after some lessons yesterday in Box Hill. Had I witnessed both Giro de Box and Giro de Glox? I could see big, partly scrapped planes at edge of the airfield from down in Kemble. 

What's the meaning of Keynes (pronounced 'canes'? Milton Keynes ('keens') is one example but it's a long way from here where there are Ashton Keynes, Somerford Keynes and Poole Keynes. I read that Somerford Keynes was where beavers were re-introduced to Britain about ten years ago.

I made it back to Ashton Keynes, walking at a purposely sustained pace of more than 6 km/h for the last 8 km. From there, rehydrated, I drove to see some extraordinary pieces of glass in the studio at Avening Glass Art. And I know the folk there so they let me shower and then they fed me. Excellent sponsorship, thank you. 

In summary, I covered some 27 km in five and a half hours. So I was pleased to have walked 50% of my goal for May in the first week. Now, here are some scary aggregated stats to ponder. I've spent 73 hours walking on 36 walks and covered 336 km which is 67% of my goal. And I blog the walks, and each blog takes about an hour, so I've dedicated at least 100 hours to training so far. That's already 8 times the duration of the Yorkshire Three peaks itself. At this rate, I've another 50 hours to find. So, please help us help Care.

Surrey

"There's a green woodpecker" I said. It seemed like an omen to see something I rarely get to see. The weather was already perfect. The drive down was easy. One of the best perfomances ever, Miles Davis reprised Kind of Blue for me as I'd driven down to meet my walking colleague in Ryka's car park in Box Hil, Surrey. I'd forgotten that John Logie Baird lived on Box Hill; designated an area of outstanding beauty, if he'd looked out the windows from his perch high above the River Mole, maybe he wouldn't have needed to invent television. Then again, Major Peter Labelliere had himself buried head down on Box Hill in 1800 - maybe the views weren't always so beautiful. Indeed, some extreme long term parking reminded us that natural beauty is fragile.

I've mentioned wild garlic elsewhere in this blog. Lot's of it on Box Hill but people here call them ramsons. I should have had some to flavour the sausage bap I had for lunch, half way and some four hours into our walk. And the bluebells have just passed their best yet still add wonderful depth to the woodlands.

We passed the King William IV pub a couple of times. Very abstemious, we did not enter. Had we done so, we might have learned they get bread from the Chalk Hills Bakery, the proprietors of the bakery known to me, and who fed me a big dinner after the walk. I must be fair: we did go to The Running Horses in Mickleham for a deserved swift one after 8 hours walking. We covered 31 km and ascended a total of 1100 m. You should do it sometime: do like us, follow the Box Hill Hike twice, once in each direction and add a few bits for grimaces. Mind your knees. Knees. Human knees don't enjoy the cherty cobbles.

We were looking at concrete cylinders topped with cones, remnants of WW2 anti-tank defences from when this area was a military zone and the Dorking Gap was considered a liability in need of serious defence. I'm not sure there was a connection other than manic tiredness and perhaps the apparent futility of these defences, but I was reminded of something Tim Flannery wrote in 'Here on Earth': "... the Bishop of London said in 1917, an average of nine British soldiers died every hour during 1915, while twelve British babies died every hour through that same year." Things have improved by those measures.

To the folk who help organise the Duke of Edinburgh award: please, please advise the participants that bluetooth speakers blasting anthemic rock music and especially "ffing niggaz" rap (my companion can certify) is utterly inappropriate in areas of outstanding natural beauty. Yes, curmudgeon. But you know I'm right.

We wondered what the Belted Galloway cattle were called. And I remembered to look them up because they looked like works of art, standing in the lush fields under blue skies. As is attributed to Picasso: "Art is the lie that enables us to realise the truth." Beef as art. Art as beef.

Louis Stewart died last year, another jazz hero to me. And 'Out on His Own' played me home, a thought to play it coming after I'd seen someone else playing a new Fender before dinner. And that after I discovered that prescription diclofenac is much better for knees than OTC Voltarol. A great day. And you've read this and maybe you'll want to help Care at the top of the page. Thank you for reading and in advance, for your support.

Neodymium

After a small tray of sushi and a cup of chicken vegetable soup, we took a 5.5 km walk along the Grand Union canal, dodging overgrown hedging blowing in the gusts of wind. Our discussion covered house prices, tenancy and repossession stories. We also covered the ITV program last night that asked How Safe is Your Pension. Pension fraud is rampant - something the UK government has been slow to address. Meantime, some 11 million people are targeted each year by pension scammers. It's not a simple story. Pension deregulation in 2015 was but another step in the continuing asset stripping by government of cautious savers. It's as if the government are becoming the farmers who intensively farm cows, chickens and pigs, rather than let them roam free range. The wealth in pensions is being redistributed to benefit the masses at individual expense.

Snapseed has added a double exposure option which is how I combined the mallard family with a road sign.

We met a man magnet fishing under a bridge on the canal. He was casting and dunking a strong magnet from the tow path into the canal. At first, I thought it was a hook and asked what he was looking for. He showed us his haul for the day so far: a boat hook he was convinced was over 100 years old, a sword blade, some old bicycle parts, odd scraps of iron from cars and boats. He'd also lifted a bag of at least ten unused shotgun cartridges. We left him as he was lifting some more iron and I could see he was using a neodymium magnet - small and very powerful. Did you realise that there's about a kilo of neodymium (Nd2Fe14B) in the electric motor of every Toyota Prius? Don't panic: rare earths should be have been called diffuse earths because there's more Nd than Cu accessible to us on this planet.

Today I learned of a new word to express something I knew but could only describe with a pen and paper. Boustrophedon describes the surveying system used for land grids in most of the US. Positions on the grid can be hard to visualise for the nonprofessional. Ox turning for ploughing is the etymology and it described an early way of writing such as found on Mycenaean tablets from Knossos (Crete), a script form called Linear B. Printers tend to be boustrophedous, the head printing in one direction, then backwards in the other. 

The chart below is the order of our Yorkshire Three Peaks walk. The steepest bit is first. Aarghh, our rucksacks will be heaviest for the steepest bit. I'll have to practice now as if it was the real walk. I'll have to pack everything I'll carry at the start of the day. Spare socks. Survival blanket. Tissue. The camel-bak. Perhaps a spit roast chicken (joke) or whatever I intend to eat on the day. Like a refugee, everything on my back except not like a refugee at all (let's face it, I had sushi for lunch). Care sends packages to real refugees and others in crisis. That's the point. Please help us help them by sponsoring this challenge using the link at the top of this page.

Coast

A warmer and brighter day, we walked flat along the coast and down the East Pier among Bank Holiday throngs. There were prams, ice cream cones and dogs everywhere. The air was hazy and for reasons I don’t yet understand, there were several ships at anchor in the bay. Is there a storm coming?

Unlike the grafitto says on the wall, in a photo I posted yesterday, the first faint noise of gently moving water broke the silence, low & faint & whispering, today it was the piercing shrieks of children, the key-yahs of common terns fishing and the barking of dogs that broke the silence. We walked past Joyce's Tower and across to the other side of Scotsman's Bay, where we passed his quotation. Would it have been different if he'd been writing in 2016 rather than 1916?

This time in 2011, I was walking the Galtee Mountains during the Ballyhoura Walking Festival, an event that continues. And back then, Leinster Rugby won their semi-final while we were out walking, before taking the European Cup for the second time with a remarkable comeback, a comeback which was nearly but not repeated last week in Lyon.

In the headphones, Gabriel’s Oboe from Ennio Morricone, Williams playing Sarabande, Chopin’s Nocturne No 2 & Impromptu No 4 and Saint-Saëns The Swan, all frustratingly hard to hear over the light wind.

Thought for the day from Bertrand Russell perhaps: “War does not determine who is right - only who is left”

Talking of left, 228 km left after today’s 5 km.

Stendahl

I did two walks today and thereby achieved my walking goals for April (see chart). It was windy and raining and I was wearing all of my rain gear for the full 12 km. I’m quite pleased with my fitness progress, more so with the lack of grief from my knee. And I see we still sit at 68% of our fundraising goal. Come on, be good and sponsor us.

Overheard snippet between two women: I shared my riding school page with my niece three times and she's never liked it.

And a quote from Mark Henwick in his novel Hidden Trump: My paranoia wasn't always right, but just to be on the safe side, I never went to sleep with a clown in the room.

Three mistakes?

And some other things I was thinking about today. I was on Dun Laoghaire pier again, and I was remembering how lucky I was to have had the writer Gerry Hanley as a family friend. We had many conversations, literary and otherwise, especially during the occasional times I drove him home after dinner chez nous. One such night, he asked me to argue the case for my favourite book. I might have answered Lord of the Rings. I could also have comfortably argued for Principles of Physical Geology, a book that changed the direction of my life. And at that time, The Great Gatsby had also been a big influence on me. Yet I know that I replied Scarlet and Black by Stendahl. I had only recently read it and I identified more with the 'coming of age' theme of the young Sorel than I recognised in any of the somewhat seedy Gatsby set including Carraway. Today, I might give a completely different answer. But back then, Scarlet and Black had deeply impressed me. Gerry told me that it had been banned in some countries for being subversive, which made it all the more interesting to me, living as I did, in a repressed, religion tormented third world country of banned opinions amidst the fear of terrorism. I was reminded of this conversation when I read about a condition called Stendahl Syndrome (and another link is that Gerry died in Dun Laoghaire 25 years ago). Anyway, back to the syndrome, said to be common in Florence, as I understand from wikipedia (and I don’t want to be responsible for sending you down that rabbit hole). 

Haddock

Old anthurium, pavement paw marks, Sorrento and rough seas.

Another loop around the hill. I went down to sea level thrice and back up to the top of the hills. I was on a dinner mission, headed to Robert's in Dalkey to get some haddock, and took the opportunity to make it a 10 km walk, on Trump's 100th day.

Early on, I met a family of five at the top of the Cat's Ladder, where they asked me for directions to the nearest DART station with emphasis on routes with the least traffic. The adult accents were foreign, I presumed tourists, so I showed them the way with Walkmeter on my iPhone before I headed down to Coliemore Harbour. The youngest of the three kids fell over and the kids and I exchanged a bit of banter in perfect English as the eldest told me their ages to lend weight to the need to get the howling five year old to a train. On my way back up from the sea, I met them at Khyber Pass; they had changed their plans and were consulting a paper map. I carried on back up to Telegraph Hill and then went back down again, cutting through Sorrento Park where I met them a third time. I crossed the road, heading back down to sea level in Dylan's Park. And of course, I met them for a fourth time as I left the park. From there I went to Dalkey to buy the fish. And wouldn't you know it, I met them again 20 minutes later for the fifth and final time on Coliemore Road. Which is when I heard the 9 year old use the word 'stalking'. I wondered about that (a lot) on the last two kilometres walking home.

Once home, relaxation in mind, I decided a bath was better than a trip to the jacuzzi in Fitzpatrick's hotel. Best not to dwell on why there's dog shampoo in our bathroom? It was hidden under the anthuriums that have lived there since the Sydney Olympics. Plus a zinc pot of them that arrived two years ago when colleagues in America kindly sent me 'get well' flowers. In a strange coincidence, a local florist chose potted anthuriums, not understanding that a near death biopsy infection, followed by a diagnosis of prostate cancer was why Interflora got involved in the first place. There are three pots still thriving in the light at the top of the house.

Blame

Flowers I saw and arranged as a flag on my iPhone.

Is reality subjective? What is fact?

I was reading about science in 2007 this morning. Elephants were thought to be self-aware because they inspected their reflections in mirrors. Genetically modified goats were expected to produce milk including antidotes to lethal nerve agents like sarin and VX. Opiorphin in men's saliva was thought to be six times more powerful than morphine. Winning the Nobel Prize was postulated to add two years to your life expectancy (and I guess the prize money would cover the healthcare). Staying with Norway, researchers reported that elder children have higher IQs. I'm not sure how these panned out though I know we don't have any goat milk in the fridge.

I spent some time discussing age-related change with people now planning for such change. One feature of today’s discussion was that planning has become reactive. There had been time for planning but the act of planning was perceived as premature, defeatist, greedy, divisive, manipulative, demeaning or a mix of those and other excuses I can’t recall. So the planning was left to “others”. And the recommendations of those "others" were ignored because gerontology professionals advised that self-determination prevails. This version of historical and present reality is both true and sad. And because of it, the future of the individuals concerned is less predictable than it should have been. There will be revisions in the retelling of this story, much like corrections to blog posts, and there will be others to blame. Always others. Thanks be for the blames of “others”.

A walk around the local hill, some 6 km averaging about 100 steps a minute, including approx 200 m ascent equivalent to 60 flights of stairs. My knee is fine. And there's lots to think about.