A Newbie Tackles The Ridgeway 40
Dorm etiquette, bungled - bearded men - fizzing pigeons - yomping about the countryside- bananas, vexing nature of - perils of the tea tent - epic fail - Beyoncé thighs, lack of
We arrived at Streatley Youth Hostel just after 9 pm. Reserved for the weekend by the Ridgeway 40 organisers it was full of long distance walkers, and us. Our scheme to save space by packing all our stuff into one bag was scuppered when we discovered we were in different dorms. I blundered into my dorm, pitch black and silent, to discover my dorm mates were already tucked up for the night. Eyes opened, daggers flew out, I snapped the light off smartish. Flustered, I grabbed some things from the bag and gave it back to my husband, subsequently finding that I had too many pants and not enough toothbrushes. Drat.
The dorm had the kind of silence that librarians can only dream of. I couldn’t even hear anyone breathing. Not wanting to incur the wrath of the potentially un-dead others by farting about making the bed I crept into my bunk and spent an uncomfortable night cocooned in a sheet.
At 5am I couldn’t stand another moment in there so got up and went to read in the lounge. There seemed to be a corpse/person sleeping on the floor so I retreated outside to glorious sunshine pouring down onto rolling green hills and towering trees. As I sat there, the influx of other walkers began. They were mostly men, mostly bearded, mostly mature in years, and mostly tall. I felt the first stirrings of unease.
The hostel came to life, with a newly acquired retirement-home vibe about it. The league table was enthusiastically scrutinised, greetings exchanged, and, much like wildebeest amassing at a river edge, all of a sudden 200 people were queuing for the coaches. And jolly swish the coaches were too, though try as he might, the poor chap behind us found no satisfactory way of folding his legs such that he could fit in his seat. Being a stumpy legged soul, I had bags of room.
After a scenic 40 minute drive through sunny, open countryside and quaint little towns we arrived at the Overton Hill start point. All was frantic activity as walkers registered specific start times, made last minute adjustments, psyched each other up and wished each other luck even as previous coach loads fled away up the hill. And off we went, steadily upwards, past fields of comically rotund sheep, lush green verges and bushes alive with yellowhammers. The Ridgeway, being high ground, had shaken off the weeks of rain and, further dried by breezes, was soft and steady enough underfoot to allow everyone to enjoy the views. The sunshine lit up fields of heady-fragranced oilseed rape, and green - so much green after weeks of grey rain! The blue sky sparked with the songs of skylarks and the air above us fizzed as a small flock of pigeons flew low overhead.
Oh those first miles were so easy. Even the first whisperings of a blister were hushed by my abundant optimism. I fairly skipped up the hill fort of Barbury Castle and was rewarded with stunning views over the hills and more skylarks tickling the grass as they zipped hither and thither. But gradually my lack of training and proper preparation became apparent. I fell out with my day pack, again.
I hate my day pack sometimes, it has no compartments and is dark blue so I can never find anything in it. I doesn’t matter how I pack it, whatever I want is right at the bottom. But it has been with me almost every day for the last 8 years, on adventures near and far. It’s carried all my stuff without complaining and stayed calmer than I did when I nearly shoved a trapdoor spider in it by mistake in Australia. Spiders it can deal with, bananas it cannot. Why did I pack bananas? It is a truth universally acknowledged that a banana in close proximity to a rucksack will be singularly ill behaved. The bananas could have been cradled in gossamer resting on the breath of angels and they’d still be mashed to a pulp within 2 minutes of setting off. 10 miles in, they were not an attractive prospect. I ate the flapjacks instead.
The lovely folk manning the checkpoints also provided plenty of refreshment as well as words of encouragement. It was all splendidly British; jam sandwiches, rice pudding, a chap in a deckchair reading Model Rail magazine, more beards. The marshaling was second to none.
By checkpoint 4 (19.5 miles) the pain in my legs was really quite something, though oddly it didn’t detract from my enjoyment of the walk. As I’m something of a wuss this was both pleasing and surprising. I took comfort from other walkers, who all looked like they knew what that were doing, also talking about aches and pains and rummaging about with plasters and tape. Getting going again was quite painful and involved a rather inelegant crouching slo-mo scuttle until I could stretch my legs out a bit. I was cheered by the idea of seeing the Uffington White Horse, but it turned out to be on the other side of the hill, out of sight.
Over the next few miles, I got slower and slower, giving me ample time to admire the hoards of (mercifully non-biting) flies thronging the air. A cheery bloke galloped past me wondering how much sustenance he could gain from them and whether they might taste like chicken. Time began to seriously outstrip distance covered and, as I watched a kestrel hovering with superb grace in the blue, I came to the sudden and simple realisation that I wasn’t going to complete the route. Almost simultaneously, I realised that it didn’t bother me in the least. I’d had a jolly nice walk, I felt like I had achieved something, hadn’t seen any cows, discovered a beautiful part of the world; there was lots to feel good about. And no pain, no gain, right? (My usual mantra is ‘no pain, no pain, brilliant.’) Therefore, I even had the added bonus of Beyoncé-like thighs in the offing. Excellent.
After three false summits, I finally crept into checkpoint 6, at 28 miles. This was the sexiest checkpoint of all; a tent festooned with cakes of all kind and a monolithic tea urn stationed outside. The tea siren shimmied into action, ‘would you like a cup of tea, dear?’ I nearly burst into tears. Cake siren sensed a complicit victim ‘would you like some ginger cake? Bread-and-butter pudding? Do have a commemorative cup cake’. They were torn between fortifying me for the onward journey and tactfully suggesting that I didn’t have another 12 miles in me. In truth, the decision was already made and I couldn’t retire fast enough - largely because my legs had totally seized up and I couldn’t get out of the chair.
A lovely marshal drove us and another walker back to the hostel. There was much talk of ‘retirees’. ‘I hate that word’ said the other walker, ‘why don’t they just call us losers?’ Back at the hostel, I had to shuffle backwards up the steep slope to the door. I’d expected scorn, and possibly some fruit to be thrown, from the assembled masses outside but everyone was engaged in reliving best bits and trying to recover.
My dorm was much friendlier the next day, nice chats all round and even a ‘I hope we’ll see you again next year’. I hope so too, but with different footwear and no bananas. I know that with more effort there are 40 miles in me. I’m not so sure about the Beyoncé-like thighs though, sadly there’s still no sign of them.
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