dancingthroughchaos

“I will go anywhere, provided it be forward.” ― David Livingstone

The nineteenth century explorer and abolitionist, David Livingstone, was the first European to cross the entire swathe of southern Africa.  It was he who discovered the wonder and majesty that we call the Victoria Falls, and he who inspired many others to follow in his footsteps.  

Our own expedition around the Isle of White last week was on a much smaller scale and required neither porters, interpreters nor local guides although, on occasions, the signage wasn’t quite as clear as we would have liked; I only got separated from my fellow ambulists once.  However, we are now safely home to tell the tale, which contains considerably fewer exploits of danger, dramatic scenes of life-threatening illness or horrifying tribal conflicts.  Thank goodness.

The start was less than propitious as we found our ferry pulling into Fishbourne rather than Ryde, despite the information on our tickets.  No matter, we told ourselves, this will be our warm up session.  Thankfully, a timely number 9 bus saved us dragging our suitcases along three miles of pavement or beach.

If you read the previous blog, you will know that the purpose of our trip was to circumnavigate the island in tribute to, and celebration of, the middle sister’s forthcoming milestone birthday.  You will also recall that I had not managed to achieve the fitness I had hoped for and that, therefore, a slight air of personal trepidation hovered around the  endeavour.

Seventy miles is a long way, and when it involves multiple elevations and descents via a coastal path, plus detours where mud slips and erosion have occurred, it seems even longer.  That said, both middle and oldest sister stormed around with skips in their steps and enviable stamina.  Sadly, my feet had other ideas.

Half way through Day 2, I couldn’t understand why they were in such pain.  I was wearing walking boots that I’ve been using for the past five years and which have never caused me any bother.  Every agonising step now screamed at me that this was a crazy idea.  I was grateful to collapse inside a rustic pub for lunch, and it quickly became very clear that I wouldn’t be going much further. 

I hobbled to the Number 7 bus stop, nursing defeat and sore feet, grateful to arrive in Yarmouth where I could remove the boots and survey the damage.  It wasn’t pretty.  Blisters of gargantuan proportions were causing all sorts of problems.  Some of them even seemed to have spawned baby blisters.  Gross!  Some people get strange satisfaction from picking a scab or squeezing a spot (apologies for those of a fragile constitution); lancing a blister may do the same for them.  I found it quite revolting, horribly explosive and fairly messy.  Doubtless the girls serving in the local pharmacy chortled at my misfortune as, after soaking myself in a welcome bath, I limped in and bought ever conceivable variation on the theme of foot-care plasters.

I will not be sharing any pictures of said feet, but suffice to tell you they were encased with care in a variety of cushioned dressings, including the ones resembling fluffy Polo mints.  I was determined to ease all pressure points and press on.

I also discovered that it is possible to bruise the outside arches of your feet.  Who knew?  Not only is it possible; it is extremely uncomfortable.  In spite of all my care: switching between boots and trainers, alternating sock combinations, administering formulated unguents etc, the final day saw me lagging so far behind that once again, I was compelled to call on the services of the island’s excellent bus service.  

It had simply stopped being fun. 

Consecutive days of distance walking are a totally different challenge from my usual perambulations, and just don’t allow enough time for recovery if your feet are as shredded as mine were.

All that aside, I can tell you that we had amazing weather for walking and enjoyed some of the most stunning views I’ve seen in the northern hemisphere.  I’m so glad we went.  We had uninterrupted time to laugh, talk, reminisce, shed a few tears over those we’ve lost, share a variety of walkers snacks (the verb, not the company) and experience the hospitality and warmth of a number of welcoming hostelries.

Most importantly, sister No2 loved it.  I was glad to hobble along the seafront at Ryde and capture on film the conquering heroines return, as they completed the circuit. We celebrated with a paddle in the sea before raising a glass.  (Note to self: when lips are blistered with sunburn, it’s best to avoid alcohol…) 

Like David Livingstone, I went forward, even during the times I was on a bus.  Honestly, I was gutted not to complete the whole walk, but I hadn’t gone to prove something to anybody else, nor had I embarked on one of those journeys of self-discovery/finding-yourself type trips.  This was an opportunity for three sisters to be together for a week, and we loved it.  Everything else was a bonus (except the blisters).  

I think you’ll find there’s wisdom in my new proverb: if you can’t enjoy the journey, take the bus.

If there’s ever a next time, I hope we’ll spend more time dwelling on those amazing views together too. In the meantime I’ll put my feet up and wait for them to heal.