Somewhere near Carlisle, I hit the biggest wall of the walk. My feet cramped inwards like figs shrivelling on a gnarled branch, the rain came at a vindictive slant, my useless boots soaked up water like a biscuit in tea, and the blisters grew more confident with every step.
Then I saw it—a semaphore of salvation flapping in the wind; a red flag with chubby lettering promising one thing: ‘Food’. Inside what I now realized was a trucker’s café, the lights were off, but Oktay, the owner, agreed to refire the grill and prepare his most calorific bap. I punched it into my mouth, then pleaded for painkillers. “I’m all out, sorry pal!” he said, in his Turkish-Geordie lilt. It was a ‘goodbye’ from me and a wincing ‘good luck’ from him as I set off for another marathon of pain.
Three miserable hours passed before I saw a car pull up on the pavement, main beams blinding me through the gloaming. It was Oktay. He’d driven miles to the nearest petrol station to buy me paracetamol and water.
During the British summer of 2024, I walked 505 miles—1,040,360 steps—from Hastings on the south coast of England to Gretna just over the Scottish border. Along the way, I responsibly trespassed and illegally wild-camped to raise awareness—and a few quid—for the Right to Roam, a campaign that advocates for greater access to nature in England and Wales.
