A hole in my shoe- Worcester to Tewkesbury

That's me, on the right, riding the crest of a "Severn Bore" wave. Not bad for a novice, if I do say so myself!

I lie, of course. But I was interested in finding out about the phenomenon of the "Severn Bore" and would I actually see it? On the internet was a mind boggling amount of information about precise times, dates, places, statistics and an awful lot of charts. It was all getting far too technical and I sensed I was entering "serious anorak" territory. Time to switch off, but not before ascertaining that I wasn't in the right part of the river to view a sighting anyway.

And so onto today's real, but slightly less exciting adventure.

There was no denying it, I could feel pavement through my sock, and on investigation there was a sizeable hole in my shoe. Well, all things considered, they'd lasted me well to get this far,and just as well I was in a town with a "Miletts". Half an hour later, I was bouncing down the High Street the proud owner of a replica pair of new boots. Somehow or other they bounced me in the direction of the Cathedral. As if by perfect timing I arrived during a morning rehearsal. Lighting a candle, I sat back in the pew, closed my eyes, and let the wonderful sounds wash over me.It was so incredibly moving, I really wanted to stay forever (or at least until I was thrown out) but I had to go. Another day, and another rendezvous. Today I was meeting friends from home at Upton-upon-Severn, or that was the plan.

I got there, Beverley and Glenda didn't. Caught up in traffic on the motorway, they were hours behind schedule, giving me time to check out Upton and bus timetables. Tomorrow, Sunday, we needed to get back from Gloucester to Tewkesbury. (buses ran every day-except Sunday) Oh dear!

I dawdled along the river, stopping to buy an Ice Cream. It was a lovely sunny day, and the weekend crowds were making the most of it. What a shame B & G hadn't got here to enjoy it.

Or, perhaps not. The wide path slowly dwindled down to a narrow unkempt one. That I could cope with. A couple came walking up. Stopping for a chat, their parting shot of "watch out for some nettles further along the way" proved to be the understatement of the year. 1/2 mile of waist high nettles is not "some nettles"

I pulled up my socks, pulled down my shorts to try and cover any inch of exposed flesh, raised my arms high up above my head and waded through. It hardly made any difference, the little b.....s managed to find a way. In what seemed like an eternity I finally saw an end in sight, and hoped that was the worst of it. I needed to warn the obliviously happy pair, who were by now making their way out of Tewkesbury. "Are you wearing long trousers?" "Don't be ridiculous, it's a lovely sunny day, why?" Well, fortunately for them, that was the rest of the walk into Tewkesbury was nettle free. Feeling quite brave and macho I proudly displayed my battle scars, which resembled the crater like surface of a very fiery red moon. Ever the prepared girl guide she once was, Glenda whipped out her travelling medicine cabinet and put out the fire.

As we passed by, I looked longingly and nostalgically at the "Tudor House Hotel" Although they must have been ravished by last year's floods, they were up and open for business, but unfortunately not for us. As in Worcester, in desperation, I booked a "cheap" triple room in a Guest House. In my experience, cheap does not necessarily mean poor standard, and it wasn't really that bad (for one night only) Put it this way, we were as cosy as the three bears, but there definitely wasn't room for Goldilocks.

A warm welcome to Worcester

"Cashier number one please"

9.00 am, and I was first in line at the Post Office in Stourport upon Severn. I hadn't realised getting my "walking passport" stamped would be such a trial. "I'm not signing and stamping anything unless I know what it is" cashier number one retorted, flicking the passport from side to side, suspiciously. "Ere, Shirl, ever seen one of these?" Cashier number two (Shirl) heaved herself slowly of her stool and lumbered over to take a peek. "No, can't say I have" Meanwhile, an impatient queue started to form behind me, because as we all know, there are only ever two post office windows open at any time. I started again "I'm walking from..." Eventually she reluctantly signed, stamped and I went on my way.

Either it was the weather or the early start, I don't know, but I seemed to whizz alongside the river, and still have time for two pub stops along the way. And there's nothing quite like sitting by the river with an ice cold drink, on a sunny day.

I was looking forward to meeting Peter, his wife, Marguerite, walk leaders from the "Pitchcroft Pacers" in Worcester and Elinor, from Droitwich. But try as I might, I couldn't help conjuring up images of little men in farmers smocks trekking round the racecourse, with pitchforks for walking sticks.

We met, as planned at the "Sabrina Bridge" so called, as she is the Goddess of water. But not without a detour. The effects of last years floods meant I had to leave the riverside and the prospect of gawping at the houses on "millionaires row" for a much less attractive route down the main road into town. But what a warm welcome I received when I got there from the three of them. Why, Elinor had even brought me a present!

We all walked up to the Pump House together for a welcoming cup of tea, where we met and chatted with the young girl from the press, before posing for photo's outside.

Later when Peter and Marguerite dropped me off at the dubious looking B & B, I kind of regretted not taking them up on the offer of a drive out to the Malvern Hills and a bed for the night. But it was too late to run after them, and shout "I'm a tired traveller, get me out of here!"

The golden age of steam - Pattingham to Bewdley

Penkridge, Pattingham and Bewdley, all places I'd wanted to re-visit. Not just because they were nice places to stay, but more so because of the people I met there. Then, strangely enough, when it came to it, I didn't want to go back to Penkridge library, or the farmhouse B & B in Pattingham, because somehow I knew it wouldn't be the same. There was, however, one person I'd already planned to meet, and that was Adele in Bewdley. We'd exchanged phone numbers last year, but losing the phone, meant losing her number. Meeting in "The Pack Horse" Pub last year we'd shared histories over a glass or two and vowed to keep in touch. But perhaps it was just as well we were not destined to meet up.
The phone rang "Hello! Peter here! I've arranged for the press photographer to meet us at the Pump House at 3pm, is that ok?" I gulped, and quickly set the calculator whirring in my head. Bewdley to Worcester, 20 miles at approx. 3 miles an hour, with extra time for brief stops and getting lost, meant leaving at 7.30 am. "Fine" I said, breezily, "I'll see you there!"
Oh, it was so hot, sticky and unbearably humid today, I couldn't wait to get down to the river. To spur myself on, I earmarked a "blue cup" on the map, to treat myself to a large orange juice with plenty of ice, and what passed the time was meeting a retired policeman, full of local knowledge and stories of last year's floods. In the pub garden, it was hard to believe a year ago I'd have been 3 foot under water.
Was it the heat and fatigue that had made me imagine the haunting distance sounds of a steam train? Or was it all the nostalgic thoughts of yesterday? No, as I reached the river, there up above was the "Severn Valley Railway" chugging back and forth between Ardley and Bewdley. I had to take a look, not least because there might be the prospect of an Ice Cream. Sadly, it was already getting late and the shop was closed. As the last train to Bewdley pulled up to the platform, it was calling out to me "Come on Carol, you're tired, hungry, and it's only 5 miles, I'll get you there in a jiffy"
Now, can you imagine the powers of restraint I needed not to jump on board?

A Transport Manifesto- Pattingham to Penkridge

"Pillock?" she enquired, scanning a finger down the visitors book, "Er no, the name's Pollock, actually, I made the booking over the phone, perhaps you misheard me" I laughed, she looked puzzled. Young and Polish, she clearly knew not what she'd said. It was early morning in a Pub in Penkridge and I was itching to get going, once I'd extracted myself away from the jolly landlady who wanted to know all about the trip. How good it felt to be back in the Black Country. From the moment Keith dropped me off at Coventry station, where, with perfect timing, I caught the only straight through morning train to Penkridge, friendliness prevailed, from the ticket office at the station to "Curry's" in Wolverhampton, I was met with smiles and greetings. Why, I was even getting to like the accent!
Dumping the rucksack in Penkridge I made my way to Pattingham by train and bus. With an hour to spare in Wolverhampton, while "Curry's" were obligingly charging up the camera for me, armed with a town trail map I explored. And was pleasantly surprised. Wolverhampton is like one of many post industrial towns, making the best of their heritage
For the first time in the history of the Lejog/Jogle I found getting lost actually worked to my advantage! Following the Shropshire Union Canal, watching the barges chugging slowly up and down the canal, I started to muse about how our whole transport system had completely changed, for the worse really, in the last 50 years. While Beeching was ripping up train tracks, canals were drained, and tram lines removed, arteries of motorway were threading throughout the land, and the age of high speed travel arrived along with jumbo jets and Concord. Deep in thought, I found myself in the middle of a housing estate, and on asking for directions, was guided to the Staffordshire and Worcestershire Canal all the way into Penkridge.
So back to the Transport Manifesto. It seemed to me that in the name of progress we'd actually gone backwards. All because we've lost our sense of time. Continuously seeking ways and means of getting ourselves, and goods from A to B faster. If only the time element was taken away, we could return to the days of transportation by foot, bycycle, train, boat or barge.
But it would take a brave Transport Minister to radically tackle today's problem of pollution, overcrowded roads, and a confusing and inadequate railway system. I reckon whoever is in charge of National Express should be appointed. What a fantastically efficient way of travel. How else can you travel from London To Inverness (return) for £2?
And so all the new Transport Minister has to do is make us all go on compulsory "Canal Bank Holidays" Why? To get us all to de-stress and chill us out to the level where we can accept a slower pace of life. I've never been on a canal boat holiday, but it seems you've got to learn the art of travelling slowly and waiting patiently at all those lock changes.
And so, after a day of sunshine and "bon homie" along the tow path, I spent the evening in the "Littleton Arms" with Kim and her husband, good food, wine and lively conversation. Perfect!

And so we went home - Uttoxeter to Penkridge

"Where shall I drop you?" asked Kim, "At J.C.B. City!" I cried. And we sped off back to Uttoxeter at the start of yet another grey drizzly day. I'd met Kim on a "Natural England" training course, where we'd swapped "if you happen to be passing through this area..." contact details, and here she was! Why J.C.B. City?, well, the surreal landscape of "giant prawns claws" had really caught my attention last year, and I'd ever since regretted not taking a photograph. I think Kim must have dropped us at another smaller depot, as it didn't look quite so majestic, especially under grey clouds. Never mind, it was onwards and out of Uttoxeter, a place I'd never imagined I'd be in again. As we left, I thought back to last year, the enthusiasm of the local press, how we'd "posed" purposefully walking down the High Street, for "how many times was it?" to get the photo they wanted. This was no time for nostalgia as there were more pressing matters to deal with, e.g. the burgeoning blisters on Sheila's feet. Sticking to the roads to make the journey quicker we stopped en route at a pub where the locals were busy preparing for a big BBQ "fun & games" event. As we left under menacingly dark skies, it looked likely to be a wash out. Or hopefully not, because as we walked southwards, the weather certainly improved for us and it looked like we could enjoy a scenic route into Penkridge along the canal in the afternoon sunshine.

But we didn't. Why?, because, as usual, I talked too much when I should have been map reading.

Faced with a ford in the road caused by the heavy rain, I had to persuade a doubtful Sheila that there really was no alternative. Besides, "It won't be that deep" two seconds later we were ankle deep in water. It wasn't pleasant squelching into town on yet another main road. Had we gone back (as she suggested) we'd have picked up the right track to the canal. Oh dear. When Sheila, cried "I need Blaster Plisters!" it was lucky we hadn't got far to go and could see the funny side of what she'd just said. And finally, to round of a "cracking" day, if we were hoping, showered and refreshed, to venture out of the hotel into the evening sunshine, it wasn't to be. The thunder cracked, the lightning struck, the heavens opened and it was another night dining at the "Quality Inn"

The following morning, we weighed up the situation. With the odds stacked against us, rain, blisters and the fact that I'd probably walked too much for too long, we made a decision, booked the first bus back to London and called it a day.

Weddings and Wimbledon- Fenny Bentley to Uttoxeter

Well, that was a welcome reprieve! Thanks to Jane. It was interesting to read someone else's "blog" and saved me two days of "What do I write now?" moments.

I have to say it was quite exciting waiting for Sheila to alight from the bus in Ashbourne, as this was the first time someone on this trip had come out to join me en route. We celebrated the prospect of three days walking together with a nightcap in the pub. Sheila fighting fit, and fully equipped with the pedometer, was rearing to go. Yes, today had been a great day of sunshine and easy walking along the "Tissington Trail" the B & B in the delightful village of Fenny Bentley was luxurious. Things could only get better.
Or maybe not. The next morning dawned with drizzly rain as we set off along the last stretch of the "Tissington Trail" towards Ashbourne. Circumnavigating Ashbourne, by the third "I think we've been down this road before" experiences, we were confidently giving directions to the locals, never mind the passing tourists looking for Uttoxeter race course.

Sticking to the minor roads was easy, but looking for the ever elusive "Limestone Way" was a tricky business. Ploughing through the undergrowth and a nasty patch of nettles, we somehow stumbled, albeit briefly, upon the "Staffordshire Way"
Fed up with all this "which way" confusion, we decided the best option was to find a road, any road, that would take us to Uttoxeter- our destination. Happening across a farmhouse, in the middle of nowhere, we knocked on the door. It looked like no-one was home, until through a window we saw this old crone in nylon overalls, circa 1950's, (the overalls, not the crone) of about 104 heaving herself out of her chair. Three years later she eventually managed to open the door. Now, we didn't quite get what she croaked in answer to "Where is Uttoxeter?" but she pointed wildly in a southerly direction, and that was good enough for us. Where there's a farm, there has to be a road. Unfortunately it was the A515 into town. And even when we got there, the next problem was how to get to Penkridge? The bus driver at the bus station obviously hadn't chosen local Geography GCSE, as he hadn't a clue, but fortunately a passenger on the bus had. According to her, if we got a bus to Stafford, we could then get a train to Penkridge. But not before we had to kill time waiting for the bus in the greasiest of spoon cafe's where, lingering over a stewed cup of tea, we had time to admire how the proprietess dealt swiftly and efficiently with the local "Riff Raff" Any attempt by them to loiter in the caf and they were sharply booted out.
And so it was after a long, long, day we finally arrived at the "Quality Inn" in the middle of a wedding reception. Too tired to venture further than the bar, we joined the wake of the wedding party and the bar staff around the TV watching Wimbledon Highlights. The highlight of our day was a pedometer reading of 20 miles walked. 2,800 calories used which = eat, drink and be merry-Hurrah!