Aah, Bicester


Which is presumably a joke the burghers of Bicester have heard once or twice before. And anyway, I didn’t make it to the town, I just skirted south on my way, on foot to Hereford, for it is the occasion of a mighty walk. Too mighty, I decided last night, almost weeping with pain and rage as I barrelled through, over and under the brambles and farm machinery obscuring public rights of way. Sabotage or indolence, but walker/council apathy is a definite. And there are strands of my hair caught in brambles to prove how nearly it worked if they hadn’t been pitched against a bloodyminded tourist who’d waaay overestimated her time/distance/speed performance and couldn’t afford to go back and look for another route. God, yesterday was long. So long that when I missed my way again, thanks to no signposting, it was soon so dark that I simply headed towards the faint red smudge above the horizon that said west. A bit scared, I was. Today was shorter by far, but so unbelievably wet that my T-shirt was clammy through two layers of waterproofs and people in teashops were laughing at me. I may get myself varnished. Tomorrow combines all the chuckles of days one and two, ie rain and distance, but it’s also my mother’s birthday, and nothing bored her more than self-pity. I’ll see how far I can honour her memory (predicted score on that effort: looow.


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