129 days to go - well, really 130

Raise the Severn Bridge and brick up Hadrian's Wall, it's time to be English again.

Egged on by the first home Test and the proliferation of tiny St George’s flags on taxis, England has been backcombing its mane and is getting the honey and lemon down to lubricate the roar.

So it should have come as no shock that our Bank Holiday walk from Eastbourne to East Dean via Beachy Head would end in a jamboree of Englishness that all but ended in a call to the bulldog farm for a rush order of puppies.

It started in a morbid interest in seeing Beachy Head - after all, there’s every chance our mountain shenanigans will mess with our heads, and mess with them at altitude. So, much as we’ve been testing our boots, fleeces and amazing 76-pocketed performance outerwear, it pays to test our mental capacity. It’s what the SAS would do.

So, as you can see from the above, we gave it a good look and chose life. Then we chose to have a slap up roasted feed at journeys end, just to seal the deal.

Journeys end turned out to be the Tiger Inn in East Dean, a village seemingly parachuted in by Visit England specifically for sunny bank holidays, but no doubt flat-packed on rainy Thursdays or times when the pound is too strong to attract the Europeans.

A village green with un-defaced war memorial surrounded by cottages, one of those delis selling organic fruit presses to the London folk, even a gathering of veterans and a bag piper. All illuminated by a traditional pub.

However, unlike most traditional pubs, it didn’t come complete with greying roast beef, but a menu of smoked haddock pates, homemade ice cream and of course, lashings of ginger beer.

Of course, no picturesque village is complete without a who-lived-here blue plaque. And who should live(d) in East Dean, but Sherlock Holmes.

It couldn’t have been more Disney if they’d piped Land of Hope and Glory through the privet hedges.



What we have learned:
If Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character, but has a house in the real world, then it must be a portal to the fictional world. OR, it’s where Robert Downey Jr lives. Either way, I shall be getting onto the estate agent


Boot update:
Wendy’s are bothering her ankles and not in the way that young men of racy sentiment in Olden Times bothered ankles.

129 days to go

Hiking boots are in vogue. In Vogue, in vogue, in fact. This means that we are officially trendsetters. Next time you see Kate Moss she will be in a Hooters t-shirt, Richard Hammond’s trousers and two-pairs-of-socks-one-thick-for-warmth-one-thin-to-stop-blisters.

What have we learned:
Fashion will come to an end. And it looks like it might be soon.

Boot update:
Stylish for summer with a Marc Jacobs tote

138 days to go

When Wendy and I were traversing the Arun valley and its delightful array of B roads last week, she remarked, as we pondered the Green Cross Code for railway lines, that being with me was not unlike being in Final Destination.

For anyone who isn’t a fan of sketchy films featuring US high schoolers and the perils of not getting on the correct flight, the basic premise is that you shouldn’t fight too much if your number is up. And if you do feel the need to fight, make sure you don’t then start going on rollercoasters/playing with knives and fire.

So it’s not a terribly reassuring thing to be told. But despite the stubborn cows, deep-flowing rivers and duelling motorcyclists, I don’t think that you could count anything as near-death. Even though some of the train track crossings were on blind corners, it wasn’t as though our reaching the other side was then followed immediately by the whooshing of grotesquely overpriced cider heading to the coast.

So I wasn’t concerned when The Brain suggested a walk around Ashdown Forest. It’s the home of Winnie the Pooh after all. The worst that could happen was that we could have our moods lowered by a grumpy donkey. Or eat too much honey and get temporarily stuck down a rabbit hole.

But, just like those perky high schoolers on their tour of Europe, you can speak too soon. The wheels grind extremely slowly, but they grind extremely fine, as I believe it goes. So there we were, fresh from Piglet car park, when we come across an adder in our path. The only venomous snake in Britain you know. And despite growing up in the New Forest, I’ve never seen one before. Still, it didn’t leap into our faces spitting poison, so no harm, no foul. Then we saw a slow worm, but they’re not dangerous and are only mentioned here because I sometimes wonder if they couldn’t be the equivalent of a tequila worm for sloe gin.

Then I found a rope swing (see photo) which had all the classic death-trap markings, but failed to deliver me to a watery/armless grave. Then the route guide wanted to take us into a field which was surrounded by the kind of security last seen in Jurassic Park. So we went round it.

It was only when trying to get through the angry metal sibling of the normally obliging five-bar gate that the weight of it dropped onto the tip of my middle finger. I could see why it was so commonly used for swearing. Instant swelling, black nail, bruise on the back of the finger and destruction of manicure.

After it became apparent that I was going to live, and live without having to do a Ranulph Fiennes and amputate anything in a potting shed, I was able to get on with my life and think about whether a complete recovery might be effected with the aid of an ice cream. Until The Brain said she was amazed I hadn’t hurt myself more in training.

What could happen? I’m just walking about a lot?

She refused to elucidate.





You may be wondering why no photo of the offended digit. Like all good tabloid photographers, I’m not happy unless it’s truly horrifying and I’m hoping that will be tomorrow morning. I’m a bit of a puritan when it comes to Photoshop you see.

What have we learned:
Nothing about what terrible wounds I’m likely to suffer next

If you pick up a slow worm, his tail will drop off (I’m told - not allowed to actually do it)


Boot update:
Although directed to a likely bog to make them look more authentic, I didn’t. I must be growing fond of them...

141 days to go

So there I was, Sorting Stuff Out (pilates was cancelled, there was an hour until Glee and that’s not long enough to watch the Top Gear Bolivia special) when what should I come across, but my Marlene Bar 2007 badge. I was thrilled, as I’m sure you can appreciate. Wendy and I had only recently been speculating on what, in addition to moustaches, we could bring to the top of the mountain, and here it was.

For those who don’t attend the annual International Hotel Investment Forum in Berlin, and I am informed by the organiser that there were fewer Brits this year than normal, so that must be some of you, the Marlene Bar is the hub of all conference activity for three days.

Containing a lovely indoor pond, which, for health and safety reasons is covered over for the duration, the bar includes, at any time of the day or night, at least three lawyers, four bankers, 67 agents and a scattering of development executives, representing, if nothing else, a considerable proportion of tax payers’ wealth.

Described by one enterprising chap as ‘Glastonbury in suits’, the sheer strength of will required to attend ‘the Berlin conference’ and live to drag your expenses back to the office is an example to us mountain climbers.

Even more relevantly, the Kilimanjaro book says that mild altitude sickness is rather like operating with a hangover. As someone who has looked down at her watch and realised that she was going to have to put down the gin because morning had come and it was time to go to a panel on sale and leaseback, I am seeing close to a decade of Berlin as the equivalent of around 20 million lunges.

The good news for our party of adventurers is that Wendy has attended Berlin on several occasions and is also adept in the black art of thinking quite deeply about yield compression without having slept for three days and subsisting on green apples from the decorative displays.

It MUST count as training. They hand out commemorative badges to the bar, fer crying out loud.


What have we learned:
Don’t drink the clear spirits, you will confuse them with water next to your bed in the morning

Boot update:
Genius idea for next year’s conference

142 days to go

There comes a time, though we fight to delay it, when we are forced to realise that Barack Obama may not be right all the time. There. I’ve said it. It was a shocking revelation, but one that I had when it turned out that, despite his eCampaign, President Progress is a bit twitchy about technology.

In a speech earlier this month he complained that iPods and iPads and Xboxes and whatnots were making information a ‘form of entertainment rather than a tool of empowerment’.

What tosh I thought. Clearly the man doesn’t have the Starbucks app, one of the most empowering tools ever to be created. Nearest outlets, opening hours, muffin availability. The power goes straight to my head.

But apparently Obama doesn’t wake up in the morning and wonder where his nearest latte is coming from, which is the benefit of having staff. The rest of us have to harness our virtual servants.

I had a chance to test out who was right: me or Obama, this weekend, when Wendy and I were due to do our first Big Walk. The first time that we had walked for six to seven hours - the kind of time we’ll be doing in our trailing up the mountain.

To this end, I had looked on Google and found that Arundel to Brighton was 21 miles. Perfect. And Arundel the home of hiking an’ all. I then looked up a suitable route on MapMyWalk. However - and this is where the human error part of any disaster comes into play - I had failed to back up my online route-locating skills with OS real-world skills. Largely because I already have an OS map of the general area, which I thought was bound to cover it.

A check the night before revealed that it didn’t at all, and because I don’t live anywhere near a 24-hour Millets, there was no chance of getting one before the next morning. Never mind, I thought and I got an untroubled night’s sleep safe in the knowledge that Obama was wrong.

I had an A4 print-out of the MapMyWalk map. I had my OS map which, although it didn’t include the majority of the route, nonetheless it did cover the final few miles. I had the iPhone, which had a compass, a map with locating and routing ability, an OS app and a pedometer app to track our general fitness and smugness.

The compass came in very handy immediately, for working out which way we were meant to be headed along the twisty turny Arun river. A river so twisty turny that it took us an interminable time to leave Arundel at all with the castle seemingly playing Simon Says behind us, very successfully, for at least two hours. Certainly long after the pedometer gave up the ghost.

The MapMyWalk map was good for as long as it followed the route of the river, but once there was a need to identify anything smaller than a massive river - a pathway, say - it was too small to speak up. At this point, the OS app also found itself mute, lacking the huge gobbet of bandwidth to operate in the middle of a valley. The iPhone map was more enthused, but, despite having a ‘walk’ option, very much wanted us to walk along the nearest B road. Technology is attracted to its own, it seems.

More worryingly than that was the map’s insistence that, despite having clearly walked around five miles by this point, we had 22.73 miles left to Brighton. More than we’d started out with. Although I was sure I could smell the sea/stag nights.

Shortly after that, our worry came in the form of the B2139, which was less pavements and more motorcycle race-track. Happily, there was a ditch full of stinging nettles which we could walk in to stop ourselves being smeared across the road. Eventually we also came across a track that would allow us to cross the fields next to us without getting double-barrelled. We then had merely to scale a sheer cliff face (see photo) to get onto the South Downs Way and the familiarity of performance outerwearers, large-calved cyclists and, oddly, given the lack of sofas, a herd of bichons.

Seven hours in, we decided the next sighting of dwelling which could support more than two people, even just a roof, would mark our exit. Despite walking for around 23 miles, we failed to make it onto the actual OS map.

I’m going to consult Obama when it’s time for my next software upgrade...

What we have learned:
An acquaintance, who has actually climbed the mountain, managed to do so without the madness/vomiting, although admitted to singing nursery rhymes. We are going to put together a repertoire of TV themes, starting with The Littlest Hobo.

Boot update:
After seven hours, they seemingly walk on their own. Handy.

146 days to go

If there was one thing that was drilled into me as a child, it was that all your body’s heat is, at any given moment, flooding out of your head. Even more than the importance of finishing your greens, or not swimming for an hour after eating, hats were imperative at all times. Odd, given the lustrous locks pouring out of my head, which would seem to do the job, but I know better than to mess with Science.

It should therefore have come as no shock to students of genetics that my sister should make me a hat for the task ahead and jolly lovely it is too. It combines perfectly with my tiny child-like head to allow me to wear my furry bear-hat and still see out.

But can you really have enough hats? I’ve been reading the book on Kilimanjaro again and I can’t help but think it looks nippy. So, when The Brain and I were in an outlet mall in Fareham (because it was the nearest Starbucks to the New Forest, alright?) it was but the work of a moment for me to snap up the above. And, as you can see, it was easily adapted to keep with our moustache theme.

I tried it out walking round the Cissbury Rings and right toasty it was.


What we have learned:
My head is the same size as a child aged 8-10. The balaclava was, in fact, a bit loose...

Boot update:
I also acquired some discount socks. Success will be sock-based, is my feeling

150 days to go

Practice may mean perfect, but not at the cost of a bit of book learnin’. As I’m sure that Touching the Void fella would attest, if you’re going to look down and see your shin bone poking through your knee, you want to know what it is, why it’s there and what type of fisherman’s knot you’re going to need to tie a nearby piece of vine into to restrain it.

To that end I have been reading a series of survival guides. And not any survival - 1950s RAF survival. Where the SAS Survival Handbook is a good source of rabbit-peeling tips, this will keep you alive and ensure that you remain a fine, upstanding representative of the Empire at the same time. Ideal.

Some edited highlights

Jungle survival (relevant - we will be travelling through such terrain at the base of the mountain)

Whatever type of country into which you are unfortunate enough to crash-land, or bale out, or if after a successful ditching you make a landfall on some small tropical island, your chances of survival and eventual rescue depend on a few definite factors. By far the most important is determination to live.

If you wish to attract attention, do not wear yourself out by shouting. Hit the trunk of a tall tree with a stout stick

Never rush blindly forward

Take things easily, giving yourself a break every hour or thereabouts. This break of five or 10 minutes should be utilised to discuss your route, take refreshment and de-leech

Natives:

Treat natives like human beings and don't 'look down' on them; after all, you will be wanting their help sooner or later

LEAVE THE NATIVE WOMEN ALONE

Entertain and be a good audience

Take practical jokes in good part

When you depart be sure to leave a good impression

Hunting:

Learn to attract animals by kissing the back of your hand vigorously and making a squeaking noise, which indicates the presence of a wounded mouse or bird; that should definitely attract some hungry animal. But learn to conceal yourself.

Conclusion:
The jungle is by no means as formidable a place as the average person imagines. There are many difficulties and snags, but the large majority of these can be surmounted, and eventually, with due care, consideration and perseverance, one can expect to arrive amongst friends. Undoubtably a little weary, worn, unkempt and certainly sick of jungle foods, hard rations and the irritating forms of jungle life; but nevertheless, safe and sound, ready to carry on as before


What we have learned:
More than we thought possible and that it’s all going to be OK in the end, probably with tea.

Boot update:
Leeches. ‘Nuff said.

153 days to go

Election days lose their thrill once you've voted, you've watched the potential leaders vote and you've laughed at the leaders' wives lie about who they've voted for. So, as it's a sunny day, I'm freelance and I was planning to be up all night anyway, I decided to cart myself off to the Downs.

Rumours have been swilling round Brighton of late, not only that everyone who said they were going to vote Green had failed to register, but also of a butchers which did homemade scotch eggs so amazing that you would immediately want to tattoo your face with the St George's cross. Or rather the St Andrew’s cross.

All this babbling about the wisdom of wrapping eggs in pig flesh is relevant to the wider goal. Our two A4 pages of Stuff We Need is not solely Stuff To Boost Millets Share Price. It's Compeed and drugs and snacks to eat between meals that won't ruin your appetite for pasta.

We haven't really road tested anything yet - although I'm telling you now it won't be Kendal mint cake (or that carb paste) - so why not start with a series of delicious English delicacies?

And delicacy it was indeed. Herby sausage meat with a crispy crumbly shell and a perfect egg. They had scones with clotted cream and strawberries in too, but the iPhone doesn't have a defibrillator, so I steered clear.

Next time out: jellied eels

What we have learned - election special:
Well, more ‘what have Green Party canvassers learned’: Just because I’m walking back from the station in performance outerwear, do not assume I voted Green


Boot update:
White clay mud still intact, now with brown topping. Bootiful.

156 days to go

Carrying Compeed in your backpack may mystically protect you from needing to use it, but the same can't be said of an OS map and iPhone with compass and GPS.

I had wondered what the difference between rambling and hiking was and I think I may have found out today. Actually I hadn't at all, it's all to do with real ale, but that would ruin the story.

I had headed out planning on going to Hassocks or Lewes, but when the bus to Devil's Dyke stopped next to me I took it as a sign and got on. Plus, next to Curry Mallet in Somerset, it's the UK's best place name, which is enough of a reason for me.

I had also been somewhat surprised in our to-ing and fro-ing along the Downs that I hadn't come across it yet and was curious to see where it went. Geography fans will realise I hadn't seen it because it is west of Hassocks. Now I did GCSE Geography, but we all know that's less actual places and more alluvial plains. I used to teach orienteering too, but you didn't see me getting out the map and compass (likewise I taught sailing and archery - but having me on your yacht caught in a storm surrounded by Red Indians will not lower your insurance premiums).

I understand that, if I had one of those round-the-neck map holders then I could easily look at the map, but that raises a whole other set of issues. So I left the map in the bag and headed in what I suspected might be the right direction and yes, Devil's Dyke turned out to be a but ravine-y and a little heavy on the gorse, but when I eventually popped out at our old friend the A273 I knew all would be well.


What we have learned:
In the Top Gear Bolivia special, Richard Hammond was wearing the same performance trousers as me. I was tremendously reassured - his legs stayed on and he was able to operate heavy machinery. And I can say that I am climbing a mountain in Richard Hammond’s trousers. We’re about the same size, it could well be true.

I was also very covetous of his head torch* that was shaped like a dinosaur and roared. Mine merely has the choice of white or red lights - the latter presumably for reversing down the mountain.

In the same hugely informative piece of programming, it turns out that Viagra is a treatment for altitude sickness. I can’t say this has been mentioned in any literature that I’ve been given so far.


*Turns out it’s from M&S. “Not just any mountain, this is an M&S mountain...”

Boot update:
I gathered a fairly glutinous volume of chalky clay. It looks very impressive. And permanent.

158 days to go

As part of my so far hugely successful attempt to develop a lovely t-shirt tan, I was back romping from Lewes to Hassocks this afternoon.

And, it being a Saturday, there was a fair amount of the Youth released into the wild, looking all Duke of Edinburgh Award'd up. Nothing wrong with that, as those pro-National Service types would no doubt attest. That said (and I didn't DofE myself) I would be prepared to bet that at least part of the weight they were toiling along under was probably illicit cider.

But learning to outsmart authority, or sobriety, is a key life skill. So is orienteering and, as you can see from the sign, there's none more necessary a skill needed on the Downs. It's all very 'this way, that way' a la Alice in Wonderland.

What disappointed me about DofE is that it could be so much more. When I think of the Duke, it's not his outdoor skills which spring to mind, it’s his stunning way with words. Most teenagers have a creative line in insults, but while they’re boning up on tent pitching and late-night sleeping-bag-swapping, why not also chuck in something a bit more cerebral?

It’s long been my dream to be insulted by the Duke, although I fear my opportunity has passed. I met the Queen when I was three and was so overwhelmed by shyness and terror that the flowers I was due to hand over had to be prised from my hands. I assume the Duke was there - I had my eyes shut for the duration - so could have swooped in and insulted me at any point. There’s no record of this, however, which saddens me.

What we have learned:
Gordon Brown may be the first candidate for the new-style DofE, judging by this week’s antics

Boot update:
Smug comes before a fall and sure enough, I was on the verge of thinking they were the best shoes I'd ever owned when something happened to one of my big toes. No idea what. It felt like it was trying to separate out into its constituent molecules. Just goes to prove what I've long suspected - I'm not breaking them in, they're breaking me in.