Walkies

Yesterday my wife and I journeyed to the Welsh border county of Gwent to walk a 12 mile track following alternately the graceful curves of the river Usk and the more linear path of the Brecon and Monmouthshire canal. Although the rain held off through most of the walk, the wettest June in modern history rendered much of it damp, soggy or sometimes awash with groundwater. The guide we followed suggested there was a "small mud patch" about 2 miles into the walk, but it had now expanded into a large morass more reminiscent of a battlefield in Paschendael, though thankfully free of the rotting corpses of horses and men.

I had selected white clothing for the journey, which proved to be unwise as about half way through I slipped and fell into the mud, coating my entire right side with the stuff. Fortunately I was in an equable mood and laughed it off. My washing machine will be busy today, however.

How did I stand up under the conditions and physical effort? Not too badly, it turns out. My buttocks still feel laden with lactic acid, and my early-arthritic hips are still glowing with internal heat, but with any luck I shall feel fine tomorrow. I'm not sure if I'll be able to walk 10 miles at 80, as the marquis in "Brideshead Revisited" aspired to: I'll settle for 5. And if I ever get to 90, which I doubt, I'll be happy if I can get from the living room to the kitchen under my own steam. I've always said I want to hang around as long as I can still operate my remote control; when I lose that, you can have me.