FREE FIRST CHAPTER
Like everybody else, I have been affected by the Covid-19 emergency. All the talks which were booked up until my 80th birthday in July have been postponed.
Like all charities, Pancreatic Cancer UK has suddenly lost most of its income. One source of the funds I raise for them comes from the royalties from my books. Every penny of the royalties goes directly to the charity, not to me.
I am printing the first Chapter of Vic's Big Walk below. If you want to carry on reading, for the price of a cup of coffee you can download the book from Amazon Kindle, iBookstore, Kobo, Barnes and Noble or almost any other e-book supplier. You won't need a Kindle to read the book - you can download (free) a Kindle simulator into your computer, tablet, phone or other device. Just Google "Kindle for PC" or "Kindle for tablet".
Here is the first chapter of Vic's Big Walk from SW France to NW England". This was a 70-day walk at age 70. Two-thirds of a marathon per day for 70 days.
Chapter 1
Day 1 Puivert to
Mirepoix. Letter from Nicola. Why am I doing this?
I step onto the Voie Verte, the old railway line between
Lavelanet and Mirepoix in the Languedoc
My objective is to reach the house where I was born, in Northern England , in 70 days time. This will be exactly
70 years to the day after my first appearance there. I am walking back through
my life, from my home near the Spanish border, to the very beginning.
This is something that has been in the planning, preparation
and training for 2 years. It is a massive undertaking and I only hope that I
can achieve the objective. My initial plans were to do the walk quietly and
unobtrusively and not tell too many people about it. But that changed when I
decided to raise money for charity. Obviously publicity is likely to increase
donations so I have maximised the exposure as much as I can.
In Puivert, the small French village in which I live, people
have gradually become aware of what I am doing and a small crowd turns out this
morning at 8 o’clock to see
me off. Most of them accompany me for the first kilometre or so. Among them is
my wife Gay, who will now lock up the house for three months and leap into the
motor caravan which is our back-up vehicle and our home for a while. I will
meet her again at the end of today’s walk.
Some time ago an old friend suggested that the start would
involve bands, speeches, roars of appreciation and acclamation from the crowd.
On the day, there are no bands or speeches but there is some cheering. Things
have moved on a bit from the original idea to slip quietly out of town. It is
touching to see that so many people have dragged themselves out of their beds
to see me off.
During the first 10 kms, two people from the village catch
me up, one on a bike, one in a car, to wish me well, which is kind. That is
when I am walking on roads, but for the rest of this first day’s walking, to
Mirepoix, I will be on the old railway track where there is no traffic allowed
and in fact where I rarely see people walking or cycling, which is a shame because
that is what the track is for.
This chemin de fer
existed to service local communities, to bring in raw materials and take away
the finished goods. Although it is now a splendid resource for walkers and
cyclists it is sad to see that it no longer exists as a railway. I say this not
as somebody who has any nostalgia for railways as such, but because all the
towns that I pass on this track have lost their industry, which is why the
trains no longer run. The first town I pass is Chalabre. Here they used to make
everything for people to wear – they could dress you from head to foot – hats,
shoes and everything in between. Now nothing is made here. The weekly market in
Chalabre used to stretch all over town, in various streets. Now you are lucky
if the Saturday market can muster 10 stalls. That is obviously a sign of the
disappeared prosperity of this town, which is clearly a sorry shadow of its
former self. The same applies to several of the smaller communities which I
pass during this first day’s walk.
As I walk past the extensive apple orchards of Sonnac sur
l’Hers a runner comes towards me, going at a good pace. He is wearing a huge
beret. As he approaches he shouts, “Good luck, Vic, see you in August”. I met this runner only this morning. He is a
journalist who was outside my house at 8 this morning to cover the start of
Vic’s Big Walk for the Independent and the Midi Libre newspapers. He says we
used to run in the same races when Gay and I were competitive runners. He has
also seen me out training for this walk but today was the first time we had a
conversation and, blow me down, here he is again a couple of hours later.
I emerge from the second of the railway tunnels –
fortunately both have lighting installed – and find myself crossing a bridge
high above the road at Camon. Camon offers itself as a miniature Carcassonne Carcassonne
I have never seen this track as muddy and wet as it is
today. I walk the Voie Verte regularly, although never before in this direction
– I have saved that for today. Almost every week I walk from Mirepoix to home
(34 kms) on this same route, as part of my training. I have used it at all
times of the year, including midwinter, but I have never seen it in this
condition. Yet we are five weeks from the high
point
Most of the old stations along the Voie Verte have been
converted into houses. Everywhere there was a station, there is now a placard
telling you something about the village the station served and the products
which were made there.
One of the communities I pass is Lagarde. There is a Chateau
of Lagarde, dominating the landscape a couple of kilmometres away. The placard
informs that it was often referred to as the Little Versailles of the Languedoc
Other communities with informative signs I pass along here
include Moulin Neuf, which used to be a water-milling centre, producing flour.
There was a railway turntable here, which is where my route turns sharply left
and another branch of the railway – I am not sure whether it is now used as a
track – swings right to Bram.
As I reach Roumengoux, very Italian-looking on its hilltop,
which is 6 kms from my finish in Mirepoix, it starts raining heavily.
I feel a bit tired after the first 25 kms or so. That
doesn’t sound a good omen for 70 days walking, but during training I have
already experienced that some days one feels good, other days, for no apparent
reason, even on the same route, one feels weaker. I think it is called being
human.
Today is one of the longer sections I will walk. I am trying
to average 30 kms a day. This leg is 34 kms. Most of my stages are planned to
be about 30 kms, some are more, and I am trying to ensure when I have done a
“more”, I try to do a shorter one the next day to even things up. This is not
always possible because the terminus of each day’s stage is really dictated by
where there is a campsite – ideally a campsite close to the tracks I will walk.
Lots of trees have fallen down over the track in the past
few days, making it quite difficult to negotiate. I don’t know how cyclists
manage. Unusually, there is a group of cyclists about today. They keep going
off the track to explore then reappearing. They have passed me three times and
have learned more about my project each time.
Some of the trees are broken and some are completely
uprooted, the whole tree falling over. I think this is a result of the ground
being so wet that the root system is weakened, which makes the trees
susceptible to the high winds and snow we suffered last week (May!).
I arrive at Mirepoix feeling fine if a little tired, but
have I bitten off more than I can chew? What will it be like walking like this
for 70 days, without a rest? Like most older people, I am not really aware of
my age. I feel no sense of trepidation. Maybe my mind is protecting me from
being aware of what a mammoth task this is. I was stunned to receive this
e-mail yesterday from my daughter Nicola.
Dad,
Only one day to go.
I think I must be feeling much more
emotional and agitated than you are. Or than you seem to be, anyway. I
have spent the last few days with tears in my eyes at the mere thought of what
you are about to undertake, and I’m sure YOU haven’t been going around with
tissues in your hand!! …
… the
thought of all the energy and effort, both mental and physical, you are
about to put into such a mammoth task would be worrying for any daughter of a
soon to be no longer 69-year-old man …
There was much more.
Gulp! Nicola is a very level-headed person, not given to
dramatics. She seems to be horrified at what I am doing and clearly fearful of
the outcome. What am I doing, and why?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It all started with a few simple words.
“I’ve had an idea!”
Gay looked at me as if to say,
“Oh dear, what is it this time?”
Previous “ideas” have resulted
in us both giving up well paid jobs, going to live in France; then to spending
the winters abroad – first in Cyprus, latterly in New Zealand. We were in New Zealand Southern
France to Northern England .
In March 2008, we were staying
in Alexandra. Each morning we walked along the Central Otago Rail Trail to Clyde . For me this walk had another objective, rather
than just getting some exercise. The old Post Office in Clyde
is now a café and restaurant. Their date scones are some of the best in the
world. The café opens at 10 a.m. so we made sure to be on the doorstep at that
time, so that we could both have a drink, I would have a date scone (Gay, being
more sensible, having had breakfast before we set off), then we would walk back
from Clyde to Alexandra along the banks of the mighty Clutha River, blue water
from the glaciers, powerful and roiling despite being constrained by the
massive Clyde dam. The round trip is 26 kms. Other more casual walking later
each day brought the total to over 30 kms.
We kept this up for two weeks,
alternating the direction of the daily walks, and an idea began to form in my
head. Until then I had found walking very boring. A competitive runner all my
life, I had recently been forced to give up my sport because of a knee injury.
I had been in the habit of running 40, 50 or more miles per week. When the
running had to stop, I found it very frustrating to walk even 4 miles because
it was taking me 3 times as long to cover the same distance. Now with an
objective – the splendid scone and coffee – what a simple soul I am – I was
enjoying the walking, despite each trip taking four and a half hours. There was
beautiful scenery, something to aim at, and a sense of achievement because,
after all, the walks were pretty long.
That is part of what gave me
the idea for Vic’s Big Walk. We had walked over 400 kms in two weeks. This fact
was gelling with other thoughts already in my head.
Throughout my life I have read
mainly non-fiction books. These included many accounts of people doing
long-distance walks. I remember the tremendous coverage given by press and
television to Dr Barbara Moore as she walked from Land’s
End to John o’Groats in 1960. Long ago I read John Hillaby’s Journey Through Britain and have since
read several other books about people doing that same trek in one direction or
another. Others have undertaken walks that are more personal to them. The Sea On Our Left is about Shally Hunt
and her husband walking around the coast of Britain Mediterranean to the Atlantic ,
averaging, as it happens, 30 kms per day. I thought that if this really unfit
couple could do it, so could I, although I would prefer to pick my own route.
So even before the inspiration in NZ I had already thought that I would like to
do a long distance walk some time but needed a point to point which was
significant to me.
Quite separately I had also
been wondering what to do to celebrate my upcoming 70th birthday.
Most of my other big birthdays have been marked by dramatic changes in my
career or lifestyle. At the age of 20 I had already ditched one “safe” career
as a Merchant Navy officer. By 30 an even safer Civil Service job had gone. At
40 I left a well paid and established career with a computer manufacturer. At
50 I severed connections with the then thriving company which I had founded at
40. When I was 60 I celebrated by throwing the only birthday party I have ever
had, and was living in a foreign country. What to do for my 70th?
While doing the scone marches
in NZ I began to think again of doing a significant walk, then I thought of
possibly connecting this to the 70th birthday. The Eureka Blackpool ,
to the house in Southern France where I now
live. This would take me, in 70 days, along the journey which, at the first
attempt, had taken me 70 years.
My feeble brain gradually
realised that Plan A would have me on the roads of France France
I would walk backwards through
my life, from the present to the beginning.
I told Gay what I was thinking
of doing. She supported the idea, although she did
point out that 70 days on my own did not sound like something I would enjoy.
That is true. I am not a man who enjoys long periods of his own company. I
would of course like Gay to accompany me on the walk but she was silent on that
score. A few days later she said she would come with me.
I
tried the idea out on some friends, partly to clarify the ideas in my own mind
and to talk through some of the snags. The response was most encouraging,
although this is when I was first asked whether I was going to walk across the English Channel or to swim it. I soon perfected the groan
that question produces.
By
the time we arrived back in Europe I was
referring to the walk as Vic’s Big Walk or just VBW. Most comments from friends
were encouraging, but I’m not sure about this one, “Its a most original way
of spending a 70th birthday but then you were always a bit off the planet - in
a nice way of course”.
Or
from another friend (after I had mentioned the difficulties Gay and I, as
vegetarians, would face eating away from home in France India
Having told so many people, I
was now committed. But why was I doing this? I was born 23rd July 1940 . So on that same date
in 2010 I would hit 70. A walk of 70 days seemed an obvious idea, once I had
thought of it. Obvious symbolism – 70 years of life, 70 days walking. 70 years
getting to where I am now – 70 days to reverse it. The distance covered would
be somewhere between 1700 and 2000 kilometres, depending upon the exact route
chosen.
Why? I wanted to do something
memorable (for my own memory, that is – I don’t expect it to go down in the
history books) to mark the occasion and to celebrate the fact that at what used
to be regarded as an advanced age, I am luckily still fit and healthy. I had
been thinking for a while of doing something to celebrate my arrival (I hoped) at
my 70th birthday in a reasonable state of repair. Vic’s Big Walk was now that
something.
I
also wanted to do something which would give me a sense of achievement and
which would give me plenty of thinking time to dwell on the long journey from
then to now.
I started a blog on the
Internet (http://vicsbigwalk.blogspot.com), the aims being to receive comments,
advice and help, not only from family and friends but also from anybody else
who strayed onto the blog and who felt they had something to contribute.
A
great deal of planning had to be done. Also a lot of thought about the perils
and pitfalls, the roads and routes, the accommodation, the feeding and
watering, whether this would be for my own satisfaction alone or if I should
use it as an opportunity to raise funds for a good cause.
