Rutland Water

I woke up yesterday wondering how best to use the opportunity for a day off. To walk? Yes, of course. But where?

Throughout the winter, I've been walking circular routes from home. That's saved time but it has meant walking the same paths over and over. Sure, there are new things to see each time but yesterday I fancied something different.

I set off for Rutland Water, knowing that my friend Paul has walked all the way round with his walking pals. I packed a full rucksack, probably not as heavy as the load that I'll be taking on the Long Walk but certainly heavy enough.

The sunshine was thin but pleasant. It's been a long frosty month. There was a definite sense of the approaching spring - more birdsong, hedges being cut by a tractor on the A6003. But the snow still lay in the shaded furrows and along the hedges. At the Whitwell car park on Rutland Water's North Shore it was slushy and rutted. I decided to set off on a clockwise circuit, with the water on my right.

It took a while to find the path, which walkers share with cyclists but I was soon underway. The third Monday of February is hardly peak season but there were a few people around. I'd not been walking long when I found a small group of people on the path, huddled with their bikes laid nearby. Either side of the path dinghies sat waiting for warmer days. In the middle of the small huddle a woman sat on the path, looking as if she was in some pain. I couldn't tell if she'd fallen off her bike or was ill for some other reason. I asked one of the group if I could help in any way but was told it was all under control. Ten minutes later I was passed by two of the younger children who had formed part of the group. I said a prayer for the injured woman and hoped she wasn't seriously hurt.

The first miles of the path were tarmac. I felt a little disappointed, as I wanted a country walk. But later on I found that the tarmac gave way to fine gravel and then to paths which were the gloopy consistency and exact colour of peanut butter, the smooth variety. In places the mud was still frozen and my shoes even left prints in virgin snow every now and then.

The preponderance of warning signs was bizarre and ultimately irritating. Cyclists were warned at every cattle grid with the word GRID. Accurate, certainly but not particularly illuminating. And at those places where my heart would have jumped at the exciting prospect of a downhill dash I read 'SLOW - DISMOUNT FOR DESCENT'. I wondered whether I'd see such signs on the French legs of my forthcoming adventure and decided that it was unlikely.

By the time that I reached the sunken church at Normanton (now a Visitor Centre) I realised that the main issue of the day would be whether I'd make it all the way round before the car park closed for the night. I'd noticed, but not given much thought to, the sign that informed users of the Whitwell car park that the gates would be shut at 5pm. I had set off at 10.30 am but didn't know exactly how far round the route was. The lady at the Information Office hadn't been particularly helpful and the leaflet she gave me when I asked for a map was the kind of three-colour schematic that would only just help navigate around a theme park. It was certainly not up to the standard of the OS 1:50,000 map that I had on my phone.

I parked up at a bench at Normanton and used the Memory-Map software on my phone to plot a route around the lake. That suggested that I had about 12 miles left to walk. That was potentially another five hours of walking and it was now 1130. If I gave myself half an hour for lunch, I would only just make it. I decided that the Visitor Centre would have to wait until another day and pressed on, a little quicker than before.

I lunched at the restaurant at the Sailing Centre, with the company of a couple of daytripping families. I enjoyed their 'pig sandwich' (three thick slices of hot roast pork and stuffing in a bun) but gulped down the tea too quickly to enjoy all its refreshing potential. I think I must have stopped for only about 20 minutes.

Walking is meant to be leisurely, gentle and relaxing. I enjoy the contrast with my rather hectic life. But today's walk was turning into a race against the clock, a time-trial in which losing would result in a locked-in car. I wondered what I would do if the worst happened. I decided that sleeping in the car was less preferable to calling Jennifer and returning to pick it up in the morning. That would be pretty disastrous all the same.

I pressed on. At a nature reserve I thought that initially I'd walk through alongside the lake. But then I found a sign on the gate which said that I had to go back to the office to pay for admission. This was irritating. I didn't want to linger over the nature, just to take the shortest route. Looking at the map, I couldn't be sure that a foray into the Nature Reserve wouldn't lead to a dead end. If I lost half an hour, I really would be in trouble. So hoping that I'd made the right call, I followed the cycle path signs up the hill away from the lake and on to the Manton Road. By the time I reached Manton, I felt that I'd left the lake miles behind. Was this really the quickest way round? I was beginning to doubt it.

I hadn't been giving myself proper rests and the dull ache in my left foot was growing worse. On reaching the bus shelter in Manton I decided that I'd give myself a five-minute banana break. As I took off my pack with rather obvious relief, a lady passer-by asked if I was waiting for a bus. I said no, that I was just going to eat my banana. "Good job," she said, "you've missed it."

Eventually the path returned to the lake's western shore. The path was very muddy but prettily wound its way through a wood. This was the quietest and most attractive part of the whole walk. Brooks cackled their milky white meltwater into the lake. The path led out of the trees into the pretty village of Egleton. The next few miles were all along the road and not very attractive.

By the time I reached Barnsdale I had catalogued a half-dozen separate pains and aches. The sore left foot had been joined by two other familiar walking companions: the outer part of my right hip and the inside of my left knee. But I also had new acquaintances: two small sore patches on the rear of my hip bones, probably where the belt of the pack was pressing. And overlaying all of these a steady dull ache of everything waist-level and below.

I hadn't stopped for a long time and it was now after 3pm. I checked the map yet another time and used the built-in GPS receiver on my phone to calculate my position and ETA. At times it promised that I'd be back at the car by 4.30pm but it sometimes threatened that I would still be plodding at 8.30pm. (I put that down to poor satellite reception through the trees and now-heavy clouds).

I paused again briefly and pressed on. I thought about the way that the effort of walking affected my ability to think. For the first few hours, the fresh air and elevated heart-rate seemed to help my reflecting. In walking I have learned the enjoyment of allowing my mind to wander, explore a thought and then to drift into new thoughts. But now my world had shrunk to the path and the clock. I noticed how I wasn't thinking much at all, just counting miles and noticing the passing of every quarter hour.

The North Shore's paths were dark, very wet and rather miserable. Apart from a small group of birdwatchers near the Barnsdale Hotel, I saw no one on this stretch. This was a late February afternoon and everyone sensible was inside with a warm cup of tea. I plodded east.

I was about a mile from the car park when I finally realised that I'd make it in time. I got there at 4.30pm, six hours after I set out and with only a 20 minute break. When Walking Home there will be longer days than this (up to eight hours of walking on one day). But Rutland Water had taught me the importance of a steady pace with plenty of rest breaks. That's the point of all this practice though, learning the lessons.