Every year or so or whenever we can fit it in, my brother, my father and I go on a holiday. To stop us drinking all day and arguing we tend to theme the break around a pleasant walk. And by 'pleasant walk' of course I mean 'ridiculous endurance challenge'.
Last year found us struggling against driving snow and forty knot headwinds on the Norfolk coast. Not to be outdone, my brother has organised this year's trip. We are going to walk the Test Way, which follows the river Test from source to mouth for forty-six miles across most of Hampshire.
Obviously, that seemed a bit easy for our normal long weekend, so he has made it tougher by restricting us to two days and insisting we start the first day before it gets light so we can get a couple of leagues in before breakfast. This is all very well for my country-dwelling coffee-drinking companions. Whom early nights and early starts have made healthy, wealthy and free of farts (or something, not too up on my rhyming aphorisms). But for the indulged city-boy who would never rise before noon given the choice it presents something of a challenge. I am actually writing this, in bed, at quarter-to-three in the afternoon. I did get up earlier so I could lie in the bath for a bit. Forty-six miles. Two days. Hmmm...
The Typography of Tears
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