I did the maths. It's about 2 miles from my house to work. It's must be about 25 miles to Oxford, give or take. It takes me just over half an hour to walk to walk. One quick sum later and I figured it'd be about 6 to 7 hours if I kept up a good pace. Perfect. What could go wrong?
After all I had in my possession my brand new Sony Ericsson X10 mini super phone, with maps, and tracking and sat nav and wot nots. I could even photograph and upload my epic journey using this amazing piece of technology. Adorable wife banned me from taking the proper camera for fear I would be mugged and tossed into the canal for it. This was more out of concern for the camera than me, I should note.
And so, the cast was set. I awoke early with adorable wife and made my way to the shopping centre to stock up on supplies. A bit of lunch a drink from Boots, to supplement my banana and nuts (no snickering at the back).
The journey began.I was like Frodo (short, with hariy feet) heading out to Mordor, not knowing how difficult the task ahead truly was. Okay, so there were no orcs to speak of (though some of the residents of the houseboats I passed came close) but still, it was my mini epic.
It started off pretty innocently; the day was pleasant enough and it wasn't too hot. The rolling English countryside quickly becomes picturesque as you leave Banbury and into the wilderness. In some places the path was seriously overgrown, with vast thick leaves from the bankside reaching for the bushes on the opposite side, themselves wild and untamed. It's little exaggeration to suggest a machete would have been of some use at these points. Though to be waving an 8 inch (I said stop snickering) weapon left and right as I made my way down the towpath may have upset the infrequent passers-by I came upon.
I happily took photos and uploaded them to Facebook as I went. About an hour in and I had arrived at Kings Sutton, a typically scenic English village that in train terms is about 5 minutes away from Banbury. It was at this stage that I began to suspect there was a flaw in my plan. The battery to the aforementioned super phone was about half empty already. By my own estimation I was only about one seventh of the way through my journey but half way through the battery juice.
However this did not deter me completely. There were so many attractive things to see and it was hard to resist snapping a shot and sending it into the ether via the magic of technology.
And so I pottered along quite chirpy for another hour or so. I believe I was about three hours in when I thought, half way point, time for lunch. And so I sat by a lock and munched on my Boots wrap and watched the long boats sail by peacefully. I felt I had paced myself well, having snacked on my banana earlier. However, my stomach was starting to feel a little, well, off.
As I set off after lunch, it did occur to me that being in the midst of the English countryside with a potentially dodgy tummy was not high on my list of things to do. Regardless, I forged on, feet a little achey now.
I must point out that rather than wearing heavy duty rambling boots of some ilk, I had worn New Balance trainers. I had thought they offered the best support for my feet and were suited to a long walk. It is with retrospect that the heavy arch in their soles did their utmost to cripple my feet the entire journey.
After about 4 hours I reached another village and spot of possible rescue. My stomach had been doing some sort of gymnastics since lunch and this was having undesired side-effects. I will assure you now that I am a man of great self control and you will not be reading a blog that involves any, er, bodily unpleasantness. But regardless, my body was, to be polite, requesting an urgent release, if you catch my drift. Luckily Lower (or possibly Upper, I'm not entirely sure) Heyford came into view and I saw a glimmer of hope. Unlike Kings Sutton, which on the canal appeared to consist of nothing more than a picture postcard lock, Upper (or Lower) Heyford offered up a proper looking village entrance from the canal.
By now my feet were hurting something awful. They ached through and through and my legs were not much happier either. I staggered into the village, trying to nod politely to locals and not look like I was clenching. There must be a pub, I reasoned, this being an English village and all. But everything seems much farther away when your feet ache and your stomach is trying to undertake an emergency evacuation.
Hallelujah! There was the pub. I wobbled my way over and as casually as possible, strolled in. Now, I'm not one to use a pub loo without some sort of recompense, so with as much composure as possible I propped myself against the bar and enquired as to the cost of a coke. Of course, the thought of bringing actual money along with me had never occurred. That would have been silly. However I did have my debit card and I was more grateful than the landlord probably knew when he said I could use it for less than a fiver!
Coke was on the table in the corner. I however made my way to the toilet with great haste. Rarely has a pub toilet offered so much relief. I even cleaned it after! Ahem.
Anyway, suffice to say I had a choice. I was unsure how far from Oxford I was. My feet ached, my stomach was clearly not willing to participate and my phone battery was about to give up. The Heyfords have a train station, somewhere nearby, I presumed. I could throw in the towel. Admit defeat and head home, knowing I'd made it this far and that was nothing to be ashamed of.
But, said a voice, you challenged yourself. And by golly, you're not going to give up now! For some unknown reason I listened to that voice. I bid farewell to Upper (Lower? Argh) Heyford and made my way Oxford bound. Had I known I was just under half way I would never have gone. . .
The first sign things were not good was when my battery finally died minutes after leaving the village. That was it, I had just left the last semblance of civilisation behind and now I had no way of telling adorable wife where I was and whether I was still alive. Oh dear, thought I, she's going to kill me.
And yet on I walked, at first ignoring the throbbing pain from my feet, telling myself I can't be that far away. Telling and telling. It can't be much further. IT JUST CAN'T.
It bloody can.
At one point the towpath vanished and I found myself in a field surrounded by cows. Now I know cows are nothing to fear. I grew up spending my summer holidays at my Gran's farm and they had cows, so this was not an issue. Until I realised the cows had calves. One does not want to get on the wrong side of an overprotective mummy cow, dumb they may be, but they are big. Big, dumb and angry is not a combination I want to stand in front of.
Sadly for me, the exit to this field was blocked by a baby and I suddenly spotted, from the corner of my eye, that for every step I took, a mummy cow got more and more agitated. Uh, yeah, she's heading my way. Death by cow was not the outcome I had planned for this venture. All I could think to do was make my way towards the canal. There was no exit, but the slope was quite steep, and more importantly, it was in the opposite direction of baby cow.
I stood at the foot of the canal and peered up at the mummy cow, now reunited with her child. That cow eyed me suspiciously and for a moment I suspected I was going to be there for the night. No food, no cover and no phone. Who's stupid idea was this anyway?
I sighed with relief when the pair turned their back on me and headed to the centre of the field. With as much energy as I could muster I rushed up the hill slope and made a hasty retreat back to the towpath.
And it was now that the mind games began. This must be about six hours in and by now I was not only physically drained, I was also becoming psychologically unhinged. I knew I was trapped with no option but to forge on regardless of what I wanted. And what I wanted was for somebody to rescue me.
Each step began to seem like it ought to be the last. Each curve up ahead was supposed to reveal the spires of Oxford. Each person spotted was supposed to prove that I could shout 'land ahoy' and weigh anchor. But everything I saw was a lie.
I even reached Oxford and happily walked all the way through Oxford waiting for the train station to appear, before I realised I had only just walked through Kidlington. Kidlington is not Oxford, it's just another freaking village! A big village, but who bloody cares, it's not Oxford and that's all I want. It's like finding an oasis in the desert, only to find it has a dead body in it that has poisoned the water and you have to keep going.
I had to distract myself from the pain that shot up my legs every time a foot touched the path. So naturally I concocted an elaborate sexual misadventure between me and Sandra Bullock aboard one of the passing long boats. As one does. Still, it killed half and hour. (Don't tell adorable wife).
Until suddenly, it appeared. A sign! And upon that sign it said 'Welcome to Oxford'. To say I wept with joy would be a lie, for I am far to masculine for such foolishness (ahem) but I certainly wept inwardly.
Oh how I despise that cursed sign. I'd say by all accounts it was another two hours before I actually reached Oxford.
TWO HOURS.
Not even a steamy encounter with Sandy could distract my slowly disintegrating state of body and mind. I was losing the will to live for nigh on two hours.
Yes, eventually the signs of Oxford arrived. At first I was suspicious. Kidlington had already lied to me, this could yet be trickery. But no, I was in the suburbs and was walking past lovely town houses to my left, across the water. They all had nice long gardens that stretched to the canal and often led to row boats. I even walked past a group having an evening barbecue. Bastards.
By now I truly suspect I was walking like the hunchback of Notre Dame and probably looked like an escaped convict.
Finally, finally, finally, yes, yes, finally I saw the bridge that I recognised. It was a real Oxford bridge. There were lots of people on bikes too. Definitely Oxford, definitely near the centre.
And yet I think it still took me another hour to get through the accursed city before I saw the most glorious sight. Train tracks. Real bloody train tracks. For trains!
And better yet, not long after I saw a sign. This sign I shall love for all eternity. It was the sign to the train station.
If I could have kissed that sign. Indeed, one day I may make a pilgrimage back there and do just that. Ahhh. Train station. Bliss.
I staggered like a madman through the student quarters and limped my way up to the Oxford train station, half expecting to disintegrate to dust to find myself still dragging my corpseing legs along the towpath. But no, it was real enough. And I had one thing to do before buying my ticket. I had to tell adorable wife I was alive!
The phone went to voicemail. I left a short message.
I couldn't remember her mobile number. Nor her work number. And my phone was dead hours ago.
That was it. I had to catch the train and get the hell out of here before I collapsed to the ground and stayed there for a week.
So I limped to the ticket machine. Spotted a Banbury bound train was already at the platform and somehow, some way, I ran. I ran. Because the idea of missing that train would have just splintered my fragile little mind and I would imploded. So I ran, up the steps, along the bridge and down the steps.
The moment I sat down on the train my heart did a little skip of joy. I had done it! I had done it! Wow.
All of twenty minutes I was back to the place I had started. It had taken me nine hours to make the first journey. My brain couldn't quite work out how I could be back in this very spot in twenty minutes, when it had taken nine hours the other way.
Then I realised I still had to walk home.
That, my friends, was the longest walk home I ever had. . .
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