Rousing from slumber, we slowly accumulated around our barista in pursuit of a little extra morning lift and to partake in leftovers from the previous nights feast. Seemingly, realisation dawned slower than the day, our carefully sequestered tit bits had been plundered during the night by local wildlife. Had those critters been the culprits of the night time moans which had allayed the sleep of so many? In the thickening drizzle over substitute cereal bars and caffeinated brews, tales were exchanged about brief bursts of clamour in the early hours. "The work of brazen wee beasties!" “Could it be the mythical Cornish Donglett?” Accusations rife and with the case unlikely to be solved soon, we turned our attentions to breaking camp for the final time and setting out on our homeward leg of our journey. As the rain slowly escalated, outwardly unnoticed to our climatically hardened bunch, we packed and prepared. Awash with pseudocream, bound in layers of strapping and worthy of a sponsorship deal from compeed, our band formed up for one last time. Captain Peel, take centre stage: “Now listen up to what I’ve got to say…. We're surrounded. That simplifies the problem…and I do not like this word "bomb." It is not a bomb. It is a device that is exploding. Look, give a man fire, and he'll be warm for a day, light a man on fire, and he'll be warm the rest of his life. And just one more thing…..This is not the end, nor is it even the beginning of the end, but it is the end of the beginning…” *A pause and a deep drag of his cigar. The ensuing thick plume of smoke is penetrated by his cold steel stare.* “I leave you with these final few words ….Cave ne ante ullas catapultas ambules…. Now let’s put this puppy to bed! Hoooahhh!” And as his words melted away with the smoke cloud in the rain, a common expression settled on the face of one and all. What may have seemed to the casual observer as a look of utter confusion was in fact, I am sure, the stark realisation that the words they had just had the honour to absorb had so elegantly encompassed all that this experience had meant. With the weather closing in inland, we made our exit back to the coast. The ups and downs continued to punish old wounds and lead to the generation of new. We looked to positive input from Dr Whitworth; perpetual optimism is a force multiplier. Scouts pressing on ahead brought back tales of what lay around the next bend. The cove of Lamorna appeared below, we wound our way down to the bay, joints complaining. A brief rest and we pushed on once more, focused on our next point, the fishing town of Mousehole, or “Mousall” if one values one’s life in those parts, an approach we eagerly adopted, cultural chameleons that we are. Emerging from the wild into tarmaced civilisation Mousehole revealed itself to us at the bottom of a valley. We congregated on the dock side. With time rolling on and evac set for 3pm, doubt made an appearance within our group. Flitting from member to member, intent on seeding disbelief and perpetuating worry, doubt was successful in bringing suggestion of public transport to the evacuation point into play. In the midst of confusion and ensuing desperation we needed a leader. All eyes looked to Captain Peel whose unflinching stare masked the conflict obviously raging behind. He remained silent. Who then could carrel the troops and galvanise us for one final push? A gruff voice from the back “I didn’t come here to ride no bus!” Spinning on our heels our gaze fell upon the source, the bandana clad Rock star Jim Porter, eyes ablaze with intent, will forged from punishing time spent on the stage. Challenge had awakened the folk-metal leviathan. No more need be said. In the bag Choc ice in hand and on fire underfoot from friction, we struck out for finish line. With the scent of success in our nostrils, the final 3 miles were achieved at pace. The scenery a blur, arrival in Penzance was made in good time. Caked in the countryside, wearing the delicate aroma of hard earned sweat we used the few spare minutes to indulge in a dip in the salt water lido, followed by hot soapy showers. A short hop took us to the train station and our extraction out of the wild. Job done Bags stowed and sinking back into the soft seats it was time to assess the damage. Like a freak show of lower limb injuries a group show and tell of the grotesque ensued. Assured that amputation was probably not a requirement….for now, we settled in to ride the rail home. Ridiculum aside, we entered into the trip with expectation and think all would agree we came away appreciative of why that particular part of the country was loved so by our good friend and in turn, gifting us understanding, a little a least, about what makes Joseph, Joseph. A Poem? We twelve set out with hopes and plans, Waypoints plotted round coastal lands, In honour of life, endless joy it brought, Advice, mayhem, caring support. In fetted bog our feet did land, In crystal waters, in golden sand, The densest fog, scent of manure, Breathtaking vistas, nature's beauty pure. As wind did howl and rain did pour, Our resolve held strong and our spirits did soar, Through sun and storm, o'wer rock and stream, Through memories and laughter we were thirteen.

Education through adversity "That thorny path, those stormy skies, Have drawn our spirits nearer; And rendered us, by sorrow's ties, Each to the other dearer.” – Bernard Barton, Not Ours the Vows “The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief.” – William Shakespeare, Othello Many insightfully apt words from some of the wisest of minds. None of which found their way into our heads. Pulling up the zip and wrestling back the limp, damp fabric door and rising into the morn murk one word galvanised our thoughts - “Rain”. Injuries sustained during the previous days efforts were more apparent in the cold, low light of day. The unyielding micro climate was quashing our enthusiastic spark and once more the local nightly animal inhabitants had interrupted our slumber with beastly clamour. Suggestions of the creatures to be following? This was, of course, brushed aside as the work of exhaustion on the psyche exhibiting paranoia. Enter Dr Dunning. Flame to gas, our resident barista swung effortlessly into action, dispatching customised caffeine fuelled concoctions to the bleary eyed explorers by way of his conspicuous looking espresso pump. Within the time it takes to consume a reconstituted bag of granola mixed with powdered milk and a few obligatory cereal bars, the map was out. Captain Peel to the helm… “Neither a wise nor a brave man lies down on the tracks of history to wait for the train of the future to run over him. A champion is someone who gets up, even when they can't. I want you all to remember this, nobody ever drowned in sweat and heed my warning, the best armour is staying out of gun-shot! I leave you with these words… Catapultam habeo. Nisi pecuniam omnem mihi dabis, ad caput tuum saxum immane mittam. Now let’s get to work! Hoooaahhhaaa!” (retold to you with assured 95.7% accuracy) In what I can only assume was muted admiration of our leader and brimming with patriotism the team stood hollow gazing, allowing those astute words to wash over in waves. Jewels in the crown It was clear that alterations to our approach were an absolute requirement to ensure success. An Advance party was sent on ahead to ready to our next site, whilst the uncompromising coastal was once again dealt with. Camp broken and rousing with intent we resumed our trek. Some of the most utterly glorious sights of British geography were taken it that day, shinning in resplendence out of the encroaching gloom held inland. The long sweeping golden curve of Sennen Cove. The poignancy of that signpost at Lands End... to which we had not fully realised the gravitas for aging rock stars. Reprieve from our rapid roaming was had in the icy, deep turquoise waters of the secluded Nanjizal (Mill bay) followed by ablution in the nature's crystal clear power shower from the surrounding headlands. Refreshed and rejuvenated we were off once more. Pushing hard and entertained by the exquisitely delicate musings of human nature, courtesy of Dr Dunning, we made superb progress, arriving at camp to be greeted by a welcoming feast with your host Michael Edwards dragging an inflamed lower limb. To the backdrop of a magnificent sunset we eagerly consumed our barbequed feast and as the golden skies turned to red, mellowed to purple, melting to black we regaling tales of giant staircases carved into vast hillsides and of Jai’s burning inner thighs. Our achievements expediting drowsiness and ushered along by the returning rains we once more sought our dry canvas refuges and looked toward restful nightly dreams.

Lock and Load Waking to the now familiar drum of textile greeting raindrop, we rose wearily from our dry, temporary shelters and welcomed the moist gloom once more. Scurrying for cover we convened in the rec room for discussion of all things weather and of our nights rest. City residents, unfamiliar with the countryside’s crepuscular chorus, tales were exchanged of the moans of the wild heard emanating during the hours of darkness. Guttural whaling and at times shrill lament. “Nature at its most raw” we all agreed and turned our attentions to breaking our fast. Packing up camp in heavy downpours we huddled round for team briefing by Captain Peel, mountain hardened expedition leader. His words, clear and forever enduring in our hearts and minds; “Remember men…err and ladies…The journey of a thousand miles begins with one small step. There is no problem that cannot be solved with the use of high explosives. Do not touch anything unnecessarily. Beware of pretty girls in dance halls and parks who may be spies, as well as bicycles, revolvers, uniforms, arms, dead horses, and men lying on roads -- they are not there accidentally. Incoming fire has right of way and always remember to pillage BEFORE you burn! I leave you with these words.. Cum catapultae proscriptae erunt tum soli proscript catapultas habebunt. Now get out there and make a name for yourself! Hoooaaahhhhh!” (retold as well as I can recall). The forecast, near gale force winds and driving rain. The outlook, grim. The task ahead, 16 miles to the next campsite. Wrapped head to toe in waterproof excitement, fuelled by endless cereal bars and dried meats we made our first strides into the wet Cornish abyss. Of Mud and Men It is oft said that the first few steps are the hardest. In our case, initial footfalls through ankle deep mud mixed 1:1 with farmyard “organic” matter certainly were the most aromatic. The coastal path lay ahead in the distance. Bovine pursuit, made traversing those fields a darn sight faster and we were off on our way down the trail. Emerging from the persistent precipitation 3 and a half hours later we arrived at the Gurnnards head Inn. A lone bricks and mortar haven in a battle field of sludge. Respite from the rain. The heavy oaken door swings open… “No room at the Inn!” Shown the door, apparently nothing to do with country cologne we were sporting from the knees down. “Gentrification of the Great British Countryside” branded Dunning. Cue cereal bars and dried meat atop wooden benches in gusty drizzle. Amidst the shunning the buzz of our morning’s achievement was palpable. Battling in the face of nature’s harshest onslaught we had driven on hard. “Captain Peel! How far have we travelled?” “What news of our progress?” “A headland or two and we must be nearing our day’s destination!” “This cannot be?” “Is the map scale correct?” “5k in 3.5 hours?” The penetrating sogginess in our boots spread to dampen our spirits. Retreat? Hell, we're just attacking in a different direction No time for lunch, if we’re to make it to camp before sundown we need to crack on. Captain Peel.. “All right, they're on our left, they're on our right, they're in front of us, they're behind us...they can't get away this time” There it was again. That indispensible quality of vocalising the right words at precisely the correct time. Enlivened, off we go. Over rock and builder, skipping through stream around knurled root, we find ourselves at the foot of an incline. The path before us a moving conveyer belt of deep, thick mud, atop of what appeared to be the local donkeys favoured place of relief. In a manner bereft of beauty, but in fits of comical hysteria we squelched, chortled and guffawed our way to the top with all boots accounted for on the correct feet. This success stoked our fires and progress was rapid. Finally we turned away from the coastal path, heading inland to our campsite, the harshness of asphalt underfoot dealing one final bout of punishment to tired limbs. Camp made, personnel scrubbed, summary of the day’s events. Strength and weakness, Winners and losers. “How about those slugs? What a day for them!” excited charm from the lips of Dr Edwards. Fed and watered we retired to our tents and our dreams once more.

The Insertion Boarding the First Great Western express From Paddington, laden heavy with all manner of gear one could never hope to use, we said goodbye to potentially the hottest weekend of the year and embraced the ensuing grey that shrouded our out bound journey. A team of 12 accompanied by anticipation we made light of the first 5 hour leg to St Eirth. Disembarking to a prelude of greyness that was to remain a theme of the trip, we changed and made the short hop to St Ives. Enter Rain. The train terminated, first campsite, approx 2miles away. No taxis, we are here to walk. Packs on, hoods up. left foot, right foot off we go…. “2 miles!” “2 miles?” “Does that account for wild winds, lashing rain and steep incline?” “How much further?” “Surely it’s been well over 2 miles now?” Softened by the weathers first flurry of blows. This doesn’t bode well for the coming days. Arrival at last. Thursday nights campsite cricket match cancelled due to raging storms….”beef shop still open” however. Small mercies! Tent erection 101. Glad to report that all passed without incident. Camp made, off to the remarkably well appointed communal marquee. With Jim on rum and Jake on Vodka cocktail hour began, facilitated by a grossly undignified mish-mash of half drunk coke bottles. Elegance and courtesy protocols aside, this is the unyielding outdoors, such practices hold no place here. The night held a foray into St Ives for a slice of civilisation prior to complete immersion into the wild. A soggy bus ride, followed by a soggy walk through town delivered us to a wonderfully hospitable restaurant named “Rhubarb”. Whilst the mussels, Hake, bream (or apparently brem in some countries) and bouillabaisse received rave reviews, the rankling, repeat of Ben Howard roiled and riled. ”Give me shelter, or show me heart, come on love, come on……” Grrrrrr! Satiated by food, soggy from rain and seething with Howard we returned to base camp by way of bus. A quick co-op pit stop for supplies….”Michael, what’s that you see up there on the top shelf?” One exhilarating bus ride, and a quick wash later, we were bedding down for the eve accompanied by the enduring pitter-patter of rain drop on canvas and numbing sounds of melancholy love songs seared into our minds. Off to sleep…for some…..for all, a fairly uneventful nights kip.