Tag Archives: walking

Pentecost pilgrims

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It’s always the last mile that’s the hardest! You think you must be there and the end is just around the corner or over the next hill… then it isn’t!

Arriving in Santiago de Compostela was just like this – we’d seen the cathedral towers in the distance way back, the streets were getting narrower and the yellow arrows appeared to have given up. Which way now? Then I spotted a brass scallop shell in the pavement – this was the way. We must be close! The narrow cobbled streets were full of people and it was hard work negotiating a way through with a back pack and walking poles.

At last we were entering the huge piazza and the immense cathedral frontage loomed above us. We’d arrived at the same time as a couple of pilgrims from the Netherlands who we’d be sharing the last few days of the journey with off and on. We all laughed and hugged and said the inevitable congratulations to one another.

Each of us seemed somehow dazed and after taking a few photos we just dropped our rucksacks and sat on the ground looking up at the vast stone towers.

We’d made it. It felt good. All around the square there were groups of pilgrims taking photos, couples hugging, people cheering, while some just sat staring ahead as if they couldn’t believe it was over.

As I limped towards the Pilgrim’s Office to collect my certificate, I was still trying to work out what it was all about. It had been more than a physical challenge, something else was going on and for each of us that would be different.

An hour or two later as I sat in one of the plain wooden pews inside the cathedral gazing up at the huge silver thurible suspended over the altar, I was still wondering what this Camino meant for me.

I have loved being immersed in God’s creation walking through such beauty and variety, from the sandy coastal boardwalks to the steep stone and water trails, with twisting paths beside gushing streams carving a route between moss clad trees and huge boulders. Then being bathed in scented shade through forests of eucalyptus and pines.

I have also loved meeting pilgrims from all over the world – sharing stories, giving encouragement and re-meeting each another throughout the journey. One group of young people from New York, who we had shared a meal with in our very first hostel, were so happy to meet up with us again on that final path into Santiago. The connection with others along the road is a very important part of pilgrimage.

But one thing stands out for me in all this and that has been precious time to talk with God in an unhurried way as I walk. Walking alone surrounded by nature has opened up a window on prayer that has been invaluable. I have loved chatting with God, asking for help, guidance and healing for friends, for family, and for myself. I’ve had a chance to listen to his still small voice whispering through the grasses or reassuring me as I rest my palm against a mossy tree trunk. I’m so grateful for this time and for new perspectives, deeper calm and glimpses of a rhythm of grace I have been searching for.

As we journey back by bus from Santiago to Porto for our flight home, we are speeding past all the hills, valleys and towns we have trailed through these past 14 days. It brought home that it really was quite a long walk!

Yesterday we stood in awe during the Pentecost service in Santiago Cathedral, while the giant thurible flew through the air above us. It was an amazing sight as the cathedral team hauled on the ropes and the smoke from the incense filled the air around us. I’d never seen anything like it. The choral music added to the atmosphere, and with the cathedral packed with worshippers, there was a tangible sense of our prayers rising up to God on this very special Holy Spirit day.

My hope and prayer going home is that this pilgrimage experience will open up a new way of praying and of being – both on and off the Camino.

Camino slow time

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The figure in rust coloured shorts with a green rucksack is disappearing over the horizon again… time to pick up the pace.

I keep telling myself “this is not a race”, but at times I’m having to increase my stride in an attempt to decrease the gap between me and my six foot six Camino companion, who seems to walk at one speed – fast!

Occasionally, I have found myself ahead. Once when I took an unintentional short cut and a couple of other times when I ploughed on because I didn’t spot him waiting on a bank or sorting out his walking poles.

Most of the time, I favour ‘Camino slow time’ – setting my own pace, not rushing on to the final destination. And this is in contrast to daily living, where we usually set out to get somewhere by a certain time or for a particular appointment. On this pilgrimage I’m discovering the destination is the journey.

We crossed a huge wrought iron bridge two days ago which marked our entry into Spain at Tui. The cathedral dominated the skyline and finding our little hostel, we climbed the steps and cobbled streets to the very top of the city. Standing below the ancient arched doorway we could hear the sounds of a service going on in Spanish. We wandered in through wide open doors and stood at the back of the packed service. It was a joy to see everyone worshipping in this ancient holy space and the songs and sounds spilling out to the streets and cafes below. The cathedral celebrated its 800th anniversary last year and it made me shiver to think of all the other pilgrims who had stood on those same stone slabs through the centuries.

What we’re doing is nothing new, because people have been going on pilgrimage for years, even Jesus took part in a pilgrimage each year to Jerusalem with his family. But we all do it in our own way and in our own time.

Today we reached the old Spanish city of Redonela and here the Portuguese coastal and central Camino routes converge. It actually seems quite crowded at times. There are families with teenagers, single people, groups of students, old friends, seasoned pilgrims with their badges and even babies! I passed a young couple pushing their baby in a buggy and drying the baby clothes on the back of their rucksacks. Last year we saw a family on mules with a young child and a baby beginning the start of the French Camino.

It takes all sorts, and while some are taking it as a challenge to complete it in as few days as possible, many others are meandering through the journey, stopping for coffee and enjoying the conversation and sights along the way.

The next stage of the Camino – the final 100 km or so – will be the toughest as the daily sections we’ll walk are longer and there are more steep hills. But we’re getting there and I’m excited to see what’s around the next corner because I have never been here before!

Camino rhythms

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My watch says I’ve walked more than 46,000 steps today, which appears to be 16 miles or 27km. My aching calves are telling me it must have been more! But here we are on day 6 of the Camino and still hanging in there.

By “hanging in” I mean we’re still walking, despite both of us having discovered a dreaded blister! At the hostel, we’ve spotted a lot of feet decorated with plasters in a variety of colours and plenty of pilgrims walking by in socks and sandals, which is a bit of a giveaway. Unfortunately we didn’t pack sandals!

Our Camino experience is starting to have a rhythm of its own now. We wake up, we fill up our water, re-pack our rucksacks and eat breakfast. Before setting off, we pray to start the day and after that we walk… and we walk.

“Bom Caminho” and “Bom dia” are our watchwords as we pass locals or fellow pilgrims. This morning we met Nathanial from the US with his friend in a cafe at breakfast, another day we were cheered by free spirit, Hennie from the Netherlands, who hadn’t booked any accommodation along the way!

We don’t know what each day will hold, sunshine or showers, steep inclines or sandy paths. Our steps are the constant each day. And as we walk there is time. Time to think, to pray, to stop and notice and to be thankful.

The rhythm of the day includes a stop for a lunch of bread & cheese beside the path or on a bench. Once we arrive at our destination, there’s washing to be done and hung out and a hunt for some food and often a cold beer!

There is a simplicity to these days that I love. We’re simply walking to the next stop along the way. It doesn’t matter when we get there, it isn’t a race. It’s our Camino – we’ll take it as it comes.

I love that there is time to listen to the birdsong, to stop and watch a stork feeding her young balanced on an impossibly large nest high up on a telegraph wire. There is time to notice things when you walk, whether it’s the largest lemons weighing down a tree overhanging the path or the colours of flowers growing in the sand beside the beach.

Today we had a nice surprise when we arrived at the hostel, as we were given two stamps in our Camino passports.

One from the hostel and another to say we were half way to Santiago! That means only about 134 km to go. This was a cheering thought as we rested sore feet, following a rather gruelling day on the Camino trail.

We celebrated by ordering a strange Portuguese variation on a club sandwich called Francesinha… it wasn’t quite what was expected as it turned out to be a very wet version!

Tomorrow we say farewell to Portugal for a while and cross into Spain. Viva la Vida!

The Camino is calling

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Are you up for a challenge? I thought I was, but at the end of a full day of walking, I’m not so sure.

I’ve been pining to be back on pilgrimage since we left the Camino in Pamplona, in October, having dipped our toes into the first few days of the French Camino.

Now we are setting out on a slightly bigger challenge, walking the Portuguese Camino from Porto in Portugal, 170 miles to Santiago de Compostela.

We’ve been “training” on the South West Coast path for a few weeks, walking with backpacks and I thought I was doing OK. But after a few hours walking today my pace began to slow, my shoulders ached and my legs felt so heavy…

My rucksack seemed manageable when I picked it up this morning. That’s because I’d ditched nearly everything I normally travel with… out go those “backup” items or anything I’d normally throw in “just in case”.

But then I filled up my water bottles and I could feel the weight of it sink onto my hips. Oh for a donkey, to walk beside me carrying all my gear!

On the bright side, we were greeted by the sounds of a talented cello busker outside the cathedral when we picked up our Camino passports. It was a beautiful send off and then the sun came out as we walked the never ending path beside the sea.

Crashing waves on the golden sand cheered me on each step, but I kept hearing a jingling sound just behind me. Thinking someone was approaching I glanced back several times, only to find the path empty.

When we eventually stopped for a late lunch the mystery was solved. I noticed the two scallop shells I’d hung from my rucksack – the symbol of the Camino. Now I am listening for their gentle tinkle urging me on every step.

Only about 144 miles to go!

What to put in your backpack

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What would your ‘must haves’ be if you had to put your stuff into a pack and carry it on your back across the mountains for a few days?

It’s a question I was wrestling with last week in preparation for a rather long walk.

I’d taken out everything except the absolute essentials, but when I heaved the pack onto my back, I knew a few more ‘essentials’ would have to go.

It was the day before we set off on the first stage of the Camino Frances – the full journey is a 500 plus mile walk from France across the Pyrenees into northern Spain, ending at Santiago de Compostela. This time we would only be doing the first gruelling 45 miles or so from St Jean Pied de Port to the bull running Spanish town of Pamplona.

I’d been informed we would have to climb to more than the height of Ben Nevis in the first two days – this might have felt less daunting if it wasn’t for the pack.

So, what was in the bag? Annoyingly a sleeping bag, a travel towel, pants and socks and one extremely light weight change of clothes, flip flops, plus my toothbrush, hairbrush, suncream and that was practically it, apart from the water, oh, and a hat and a waterproof. Then there was the food! It all added up.

It’s been a long time since I walked with a backpack, and it took some time getting used to the weight on my hips and the pull on my shoulders. Still, it was surprising how quickly I adapted and focused less on the weight and more on the views around me and the path ahead.

There is a sense of freedom about stepping out with all you need on your back and heading towards your destination without looking back. We wouldn’t be returning to the cobbled streets of St Jean until we’d reached our destination and grabbed a lift back to the car, which we hoped would be where we’d parked it!

I’ve been wanting to walk the Camino for years, ever since I stumbled out of the cinema in Nottingham, eyes still moist with tears, after watching the film, ‘The Way’.  I remember saying to my companions at the time, “I want to do that!” 

Although I’ve been banging on about pilgrimages and the Camino for years, my husband has remained solidly indifferent to the idea. So, it is a little bit of a miracle that embarking on this four-day ‘mini Camino’ was his suggestion. It conveniently filled a gap in our holiday, when our friends were busy, and gave us a chance to try out our walking abilities in advance of a planned two-week Camino next year from Porto in Portugal to Santiago de Compostela.

What we hadn’t quite taken in was how tough the first few days would be as we hiked up the Napoleon route to a height of 1,400 metres. The good thing about being out of breath is that you’re forced to stop and take in the views – and these were some views. Walking ever upwards, sometimes we were passed by the fast-paced pilgrims and at other times we overtook people taking a break. At one point five of us leaned on a five-bar gate, catching our breath and staring down at where we’d come from. There we were – two Aussies, two Brits and an American – it sounds like a joke, but a few days later we were pilgrim buddies, sharing our day and our lives over coffees, beers and pintxos.

One of the greatest joys on this Camino turned our to be our fellow pilgrims. Sitting across the table on our first evening was an enthusiastic 78-year-old who was walking The Way with her daughter. If she could do it, surely we should be able to? 

The ‘pilgrim supper’ in the hostel, for almost 20 of us, included a delightful mix of nationalities from Japan to Canada and the Netherlands to Australia. Each one had a story to share about why they were walking the Camino and there was a common theme – they all hoped this journey would be one of self-discovery and for many spiritual enlightenment. There was an air of excitement and high emotion that evening, no one knew what lay ahead.

That night we settled down in our wood lined room, items of clothing drying all around us, we hoped we’d be up to the big climbs tomorrow and that the 7am breakfast and dawn start wouldn’t be too much of a shock.

Three days on the ‘pinch of salt path’

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A brief encounter of the naked kind was just one of the unexpected happenings during three days on the South West Coastal Path.

We’ve been on a mission for a few days – a “training” mission apparently – preparing for a possible long hike along the coast of Portugal to Santiago de Compostella. This would be a 170-mile pilgrimage journey over a couple of weeks, if we can manage it.

As we have one of the world’s best hiking routes on our doorstep we decided to test out our endurance levels with three days back-to-back walking. This was a bit of a first for us.

Having completed other parts of the ‘salt path’ over the past few years, we decided to fill in some of the stretches we hadn’t pulled in. The first day dawned with some light cloud and a gentle breeze and I quickly realised I would mainly be walking solo as my hiking partner’s long stride was impossible to keep pace with. 

One of the things keeping me going on all the ups and downs and twists and turns was taking off my walking boots and having a swim in the clear waters of Lannacombe bay. This was also the point at which we turned round and retraced our steps to Gara Rock.

En route we’d passed some amazing rocky outcrops and hidden sandy coves where the path became narrow and it was a bit of a scramble through the rocks, with a very steep drop below us. I was just recovering from one of these rocky passages and keeping my eyes on the uneven path, when I looked ahead and saw a man in a rucksack approaching. The path was very narrow and I realised he had stopped to let me pass. It was then I realised why he was holding his hat in particular position. He was completely naked – apart from his boots.

It had turned into a balmy afternoon and I’m sure he was enjoying the sun on his back (and his butt). As I squeezed past him, I thanked him for waiting and thought for a millisecond about saying, “Nice hat!”. I resisted the temptation to look back at his bare essentials heading along the cliff. However, when I eventually caught up with my walking partner, he gave me a blow-by-blow description of everything I’d missed. I’d heard of naked hikers, but this was the first one I’d met… he certainly helped brighten up the last few miles of that day!

Blisters = 0

Blackberries eaten = 5

Wildlife = 2 seals and a slowworm

Water = not enough

On the morning of day two, although we knew all the right things to pack, we were tired. So, when we eventually sat down for lunch by Mothercombe beach, we discovered I had forgotten to pack the lemon Fanta. Small things (especially food and drink items) seem to take on enormous importance on a hike and it took one of us some time to get over the disappointment of only having water to drink.

While we were waiting for the sun to come out, we chatted to another pair of hikers from Belgium who were heading east, hoping to cross the river Erme somehow. They ended up persuading a man with a dinghy to take them across with their packs. Breaking away from his birthday beach party, he bundled one ruck sack and one girl into the little dinghy and set off against the tide, the dinghy lying low in the water. Meanwhile we went for a swim and expected to see him appearing back around the headland for his second passenger. 

A long while later we spotted him rowing the dinghy to his yacht, which was anchored some way off the beach. We assumed he’d run out of fuel. Drying off from our swim, we watched as he reached the yacht – hopefully he would pick up his fuel and return shortly. But a few minutes later we spotted the dinghy floating across the bay, away from the yacht, and he wasn’t on it! The drama continued. On the beach, the other hiker was on her phone messaging her friend. The party on the shore, looked across the water as the lone yachtsman pulled up his anchor and went in pursuit of his dinghy, which can’t have been tied up securely. Although we really should have been setting off again, we couldn’t leave until we’d seen the outcome of the seaside rescue!

In the end the dinghy was retrieved, the yacht was re-anchored and the sailor returned to the shore. He collected the other hiker and her pack and sped across to the far beach to reunite her with her friend. It was turning out to be a very eventful day on the salt path.

As we were nearing the end of our journey that day, we’d skirted round a large mobile home park on the cliffs and passed a lot of people coming and going from there with their dogs. I now owe an apology to the man in the straw trilby we passed later that afternoon. I had made a disparaging comment about his orange T-shirt and white socks being an indication that he’d come from the holiday park. No sooner had I said this quite loudly, to catch the ear of my fellow hiker who was striding ahead, than I turned round to see him directly behind me. I jumped and let out a stifled gasp. He asked me what was wrong, and I said he’d given me a shock as I hadn’t realised he was behind me. I don’t think I could have gone any redder, as I was already flushed with the sun and walking.

Blisters = 1

Blackberries eaten = 10

Wildlife = another slowworm

Water supply = just right

Day three it was a little harder to get up and out, but I had packed the lemon Fanta this time – it was double checked before we left the house. The clouds were gathering as we drove into the car park where we would start our walk towards Plymouth.

Reaching back for our boots, there was an ominous, “Oh, no. I’ve left my socks behind.”

This was bad news, I didn’t think much walking could be done without a pair of hiking socks. Surely this was a larger error than forgetting the Fanta? Luckily, as I’ve developed a blister I had my trainers in the car with a pair of thick white socks in them. It turned out they fitted size 11 feet also! I glanced across at my fellow hiker, he was now wearing white socks and in his bag was an orange fleecy top! We both burst out laughing – it was a good way to start the day.

The rain came eventually once we’d reached our destination and as we trudged through the woods back along the coast, we could hear the foghorn from a ferry booming through the mist. A marker by the path said Poole was 175 miles from this point, which means there is a lot more “training” to be done!

Blisters = 1

Blackberries eaten = 15

Water supply = 2 spare bottles

The sea is our home

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Sailing voyages are completely different to anything else… perhaps with the exception of space travel.

We see the world from a new perspective. Surrounded by blue, I’m enjoying the wide open seas and broad horizons. When land emerges, the coast isn’t a beach or a sea front or even a harbour. It’s a line on the horizon. As we come closer we bob past tiny houses in a variety of colours clustering round a hilltop, the trees and bushes appearing like a miniature railway set.

Then eventually we step ashore and everything comes into perspective again. The houses zoom into focus and begin to assume normal proportions, the roads and streets emerge and we breathe in the smell of land.

Yesterday we braved the heat to call in on some of the family holidaying nearby. Following instructions we trudged up a narrow track from the harbour. I inhaled the scent of pine needles and enjoyed the sweet aroma of jasmine as we passed a garden.

Looking for a padlocked gate, we wound our way up an increasingly steep path, eventually coming to a dead end at a gate into a large house. We must have gone wrong… of course there was no phone signal to call and check. We were sure we were close and started to call out, before retracing our steps. Getting lost has been a favourite pastime of mine, but this time it wasn’t long before I heard a shout from lower down the track.

“You’ve gone too far!”

With a guide to follow we began a steep climb up the hillside, through the “unlocked” gate, plodding up a line of steps reaching as far as we could see.

“There’s a pool at the top,” our son encouraged us, as drops of sweat raced down my cheeks like rain.

“It’s not much further… honestly!”

I paused on one of the many terraces lined with olive trees – it was beautiful. Behind us I glimpsed the shimmering blue of the sea twinkling between the trees.

At the top the view was spectacular and there was iced coffee to enjoy. Through the gaps in the trees we looked down on a lone Pura Vida, bobbing happily in the bay. Perhaps she was enjoying the space from her passengers!

The climb up was worth its weight in gold, as we enjoyed a refreshing swim and great company in the setting of an authentic Italian villa, complete with a long table on the terrace overlooking the sea. It was strange to be on land for so long, but before we had time to get used to it, we were back on board ready for the next leg of the journey.

Departure was slightly delayed by a little engine trouble. A few hours was spent rolling in the bay, while oil was pumped out and then replaced… I’ll spare the technical details!

So, late afternoon we waved goodbye to familiar faces and the hillside villa to move around the next headline in search of a quiet bay, where we hoped for a peaceful night.

For now our world is on the sea again. Land, towns and villages seem like alien places. The sea and the waves are our windows and our garden. The wind is our road taking us on to the next destination and it’s our comfortable place.

Only in England

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It’s pouring with rain. I’m wearing shorts and craddling a bottle of prosecco as if my life depended on it. Up ahead steam is curling into a grey sky and weaving its way through the thick branches lining the track. A sharp whistle and sure enough the train is in sight… where am I?

Only in England can you expect to shelter at a level crossing with a backpacker and discuss “summer holidays in the UK”. A few hours earlier we’d been watching a family of dolphins playing around our boat in glorious sunshine. Now we were absolutely soaked on terra firma waiting for a steam train in the rain!

England is full of surprises and for the past week, the south coast of Devon has been delivering a kaleidoscope of holiday experiences, that could only happen in the UK.

We’ve been under sail for a week on what I like to call The Diva. She is new to us this summer and has already delivered some fun days shared with friends and family. We’ve been thinking about buying a boat for some time, years in fact, now we actually own one – well a bit of one – 18 per cent to be exact! But when we get to sail her, she’s all ours – all 35 feet of her!

Our kaleidoscope week started with a few hours sail from Dartmouth to Salcombe. After hurriedly stowing the food and kit, we managed to catch the tide and get on our way. Salcombe welcomed us with sunshine and the next day there was a chance to stroll on the beach, swim in the icy clear water and even walk a bit of the stunning South Coast path.

We decided to stay for the Salcombe Regatta fireworks on Thursday night, only to find they’d been postponed due to the weather. We’d woken to mist and rain and a day of bouncing in waves that were being whipped up even in the relative shelter of the estuary. The mist hung around the next morning, making warnings of a heatwave across the UK very hard to believe. We could barely see the boat a few metres away on a neighbouring buoy.

The next night we hoped the splendid fireworks would signal a change in the weather. And it did, gradually. The sun eventually broke through on Monday and we enjoyed some exhilarating sailing with friends and a lunch of Salcombe pasties in one of Devon’s rocky bays. That morning we’d woken up to watch a seal eating his breakfast beside the boat, munching on a huge fish held between his flippers!

Fast forward 24 hours and we were back in Dartmouth. We’d sailed in alongside a family of dolphins after an early morning sail.

We managed to find a quiet place up the river Dart to enjoy lunch with a hint of sunshine. But back at the marina the sky was turning grey and we decided to try out our legs on a walk along the river Dart towards Kingswear. The idea was to see if we could find something to toast the end of our trip. The clouds looked threatening as we headed along the narrow path beside the railway track.

After capturing some steam train footage and soaking up the smell of coal and oil and engines on the platform, we managed to find a decent looking bottle of Prosecco in a corner shop. 

The rain had now started in earnest with no let-up in sight, and I wondered if it would be more pleasant to catch a ferry back to the boat, but it seemed we “needed” the exercise, even if it meant getting drenched. So, I found myself standing in the rain, while a huge green train puffed towards me. I wondered whether to put down the bottle and take a photo or just smile and wave at the driver.

If you’re looking to experience four seasons in one day, Dartmouth is the place to go! It also offers rides on steam trains, ferries and even paddle steamers. And of course there are plenty of boats of all shapes, sizes and ages everywhere you look.

Miraculously the Prosecco made it back in one piece and was enjoyed later that night. Thank you Dartmouth and South Devon for a ‘pick ‘n’ mix’ week of weather, but no shortage of excitement and variety. 

Lost in the jungle – just for an afternoon

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How hard can it be walking down a hill for a few hours? Well throw in a jungle, 37 degree heat and a lack of signs and it turns out to be quite difficult…

Last month I found myself staying for a few nights in Penang – a small island off Malaysia. It was meant to be a mini break with a colleague, which we had tagged onto the back of a week of work meetings in Kuala Lumpur. We had both decided it would be nice to take some time to explore a little of Malaysia and take some time to relax.

The word ‘relax’ didn’t fit too well into the first morning. Due to the extreme heat, we decided to pick up a ‘grab’ (Asian uber) at 7am and head to the historic George Town before the temperatures overtook us. We enjoyed meandering round the streets filled with murals that reminded me of Banksy and enjoyed photographing a huge variety of doors and ornate buildings, along with a stroll through the ramshackle market stalls on the jetties.

As the heat started to crank up we caught another grab to the foot of Penang Hill and bought tickets for the funicular railway which would take us to the top. The plan was to enjoy the shade of the trees and cooler air higher up as well as the views and the wildlife. 

The journey on the train was a little longer than I had envisaged – after all this was just a hill. And as it rose higher through the trees we could see paths and steps descending below. I wondered how long it would take us to walk down.

After enjoying lunch Malaysian-style with the vista of George town spread out below, slightly obscured by the clouds, we started to look for the start of the path down. The monkeys chattering overhead distracted us for a while and we eventually had to ask a passing man in running gear and trainers if he knew the way down the ‘hill’.

“You walking?” he asked. We nodded enthusiastically. He was looking at our feet – both displaying less than sturdy sandals.

“You can go that way, but probably the jeep track is best.” And he pointed at our shoes… or lack of them.

My colleague, Annette, is from New Zealand and didn’t fancy a track used by cars.

“How bad can it be?” she said. And so we followed the path down.

The jungle lined trail zig zagged down the hillside and we were encouraged by meeting other hikers coming up. They gave us breathless greetings and carried on in their trainers and walking poles. We continued to slither a bit in sandals.

There were some intersections at various points without any signs, we followed our noses, which took us to someone’s house. So, we trailed back up the hill, breathing heavily as sweat began to drip down our faces. We didn’t want to make any more navigation errors in this heat. But half an hour later we found ourselves back at a gateway, with images of guard dogs on the entrance.

As we retraced our steps yet again, I told Annette I had seen the pictures of an animal higher up on a tree but, as I wasn’t wearing my glasses, I had thought it was a tiger – which is more worrying a tiger or a guard dog?

The lack of signs and the apparent inaccuracies of the map we’d taken a photo of higher up, were beginning to become frustrating. As we finally began heading on what we thought was the right path, a young man in trainers bounded across to us and asked if we knew the way. We felt confident we’d found the trail at last and he seemed to agree and quickly overtook us. We saw him pause at yet another junction in the path lower down, before turning left. We followed on, which turned out to be a mistake. The path became narrow and steep. But there were ropes built into the trees to hold onto and the trail quickly evolved into a kind of assault course, where we had to descend backwards, holding the ropes and at some points swing ourselves round steep rocky drops to the path below. The sandals were doing their best, but they were only sandals.

We’d been going sometime now and occasionally had glimpses of the train through the trees or heard it rumbling by up above. The climbing ropes eventually joined the proper path we should have taken and there were several more dead ends before we finally came out into a clearing where we could see one of the midway railway stations and the houses and town below seemed a little closer.

It was gone two in the afternoon and the sun was intense. We could hear voices on the other side of the railway and began to fear we were on the wrong path again. A narrow trail led left and right below. Which was the right way? We were very tired and hot. The water was running low and we needed a sign. 

“Oh God, please give us a sign!” I said, and it was a kind of prayer. We stepped towards the path leading directly down and passed under a wooden arch. As we turned to look back, we saw the sign for the Penang Hill Trail directly over our heads. We had found the official path at last.

However, finding the path was just the beginning of a very long walk downhill filled with steps that seemed to go on forever. Our legs were becoming very wobbly, and we started counting to 20 steps and then stopping for a rest, but the mosquitoes soon had us moving on again.

When we finally found our way back we headed for cool drinks in a café and nursed our aching limbs as we waited for a grab to take us back to the apartment. Plans for an evening out on the town were on hold, in favour of a bit of a lie down in a cool room!

Penang ‘Hill’ turned out to be more of an adventure than we had planned and it took some time for our muscles to recover from that afternoon stroll through the Malaysian jungle. 

I am not sure Malaysians use the word ‘hill’ in the same way as us at all – we’re calling it ‘Penang Mountain’ because that’s what it felt like that afternoon.

The final march out

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Here I am back in the same situation as I was when I first started this blog nine years ago – on the move again and surrounded by boxes! But this time we are heading to our new home, instead of another army posting.

I haven’t done my farewells to our last army quarter just yet, that will happen this weekend when we get it ready for our final “march out”. For non-military readers, this is a kind of inspection of the house to make sure you have cleaned it properly and there is no dust in the plug sockets, mould inside the window frames or even a whisper of grease in the oven.

As I discovered nine years ago, cleaning can be a kind of therapy that helps with the emotions of leaving somewhere treasured and familiar before heading into the unknown.

So, while I’m down on my knees cleaning the toilet, I will also be remembering some of the good times, while looking forward to what lies ahead.

Living on the Jurassic coast has been a privilege and a joy. We’ve managed to walk a whole section of the south coast path from Poole Harbour entrance to Burton Bradstock, with most legs completed there and back. We’ve enjoyed kayaking through caves and paddleboarding as the sunset across Lulworth Cove. We’ve fought off the seagulls, while eating fish and chips from Bennetts in Weymouth, and dreamed of owning a yacht, while watching boats moor up along the quay. 

The amazing stars overhead in the dark Dorset sky have made up for the booming sound of tanks firing day and night on the ranges we live beside. We’ve watched tracers lighting up the night sky on summer nights, and during the day I’ve looked up from my desk and spotted the splash from shells landing in the sea beyond. On the quieter days, without firing, we’ve enjoyed hosting family and friends and taking them to the hidden coves and beauty spots on our doorstep.

This is also the house where we lived through lockdown, which involved walks to the sea almost every day, listening to birdsong on the normally busy road at the back of our garden and a marathon bike ride to Poole Harbour and back again. “Never again!” we said.

I’ll miss all that, but I won’t miss the barb wire lining our fence or the taps that don’t match and the threadbare carpets or magnolia chip papered walls. Or the moles who continue to wreak havoc across our lawns!

Army life has been fun. We’ve forged new friendships and had to say goodbye countless times. We’ve had a run of amazing postings these past nine years, from sunny Cyprus to living on the magical Thorney Island. I’ve also loved my time with the Military Wives Choir, both in Cyprus and in Bovington. Singing with them has lifted my spirits time and again and I’ve met some of the most caring, encouraging and zany women, who’ve also made me laugh. Despite all this, for me it’s time to move.

Change is exciting, but not always easy. After spending a large proportion of my life as an army wife, I’m looking forward to putting down roots, sorting out my garden and having all my stuff in one place at last. But my soon-to-be ex-army man is not so sure. He’s wondering about what’s next, what will life be like beyond the military and where his next adventure will take him.

Although we’re leaving Dorset, we’re not heading so far, just next door to Devon. Our new home, which we already love, will be ready for us to move into in the autumn. In between then and now, it seems we have time for a little sailing adventure in Greece! As long as we pass that final “march out”…