Day Thirty-Five. The last day’s march is something of a procession: five miles through Tilbury to the fort where
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Day Thirty-Four. I almost died of shock. There it was. The pop-up tent abandoned and empty. No sign of Hobblin’ John Hogweed…
Day Thirty-Three. My legs are zinging like I’ve just had some kind of extreme depilation. In my hand is a stick…
Day Thirty-Two. A lot of people have been asking how this 500 mile walk might affect me to which I say I have no idea
Day Thirty-One. I suppose there was an assumption, at the start of the walk, that by the end things would get easier.
Day Thirty. Hobblin’ John Hogweed is up early this morning rubbing ibuprofen gel into his shins and reading the leaflet…
Day Twenty-Nine. We left John on something of a cliffhanger last night. He had been ordered to ice his right shin within an inch of frostbite…
Day Twenty-Eight. We start the day on a high, a breakfast bagel with coffee outside the Golden Bagel next to Benfleet Station..
Day Twenty-Seven. Thunder is rolling across Shoeburyness as we convene for the next walk, starting on the seafront…
Day Twenty-Six. As we move ever closer to the end, there is a growing sense of the importance of health.