I’m not long returned from my first journey for the new book. Unlike previous books, where I’ve travelled mainly with my backside comfortably supported by upholstery, this one sees me firmly astride Shanks’s Pony.
The first journey was a whole big bunch of fun. I started in Norwich, walked to London and then up to St Albans; a journey that featured sore feet, an even sorer knee, more roadkill than you could roll a set of Goodyears over in a good year, a sudden fearsome hailstorm outside Ipswich, only one encounter with an Alsatian, the realisation that Tiptree is possibly the most pointless place in Britain, and my stumbling upon one of the most famous artistic vistas in the country.
I’m off again at the weekend, this time a walk of about 250 miles. Piece of cake, huh? Huh?