I did leave here ... I promise! Twice. Three times maybe.

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Amendment: It is so rare that I can get on line, and I spend a good portion of all that alone walking time thinking up intro's to my next blog (and talking to cows, sheep, horses and one llama; asking unanswerable questions; avoiding thinking about what my thesis is about; misconstruing things; investigating strange and macarbe objects at the side of the road ... but that's beside the point) so I have decided to give you an overall picture of the trip just through the intro's.

Intro 1:
I did!! I have been on the road/track/path/barely discernible trampling down of the foliage/forest of stinging nettles for 8 days. One hundred and fourteen kilometers done and have just turned inland to Bodmin. But am now back in Cheltenham for some more luxurious King's Oasis R & R for my days off--shall we say.

You know what is odd? This is England right--home of people who speak a strange form of english (sorry Liz, but it is odd), but their keyboards are different. It took me ages to find @ and #, which are unfortunately key password elements of mine. Who would have thought?

I left Cheltenham two tuesdays back for the bus ride down to Penzance, where a lovely friend of Adam's collected me and let me crash, before delivering me to Land's End wednesday morning. The bus trip was mostly snoozed through--and Wesley (the beaver--someone whom everyone seems to think it is extraordinarily funny to made lewd jokes about, and who also manages to scare the wits out of dogs - Bern, you should take him on your next trip through rabid dog country) makes a very fine pillow. At the services though, on one of the stops, I was wondering around and looking at pots of roses to take to Janeta in Penzance, a man popped his head out the gaming room and asked if I would get him four coffee cups--he had just won the jackpot--'and I'll give ya 10 quid'. He woulnt say no, so poor Janeta's roses were bought with the proceeds of illicit gambling. But generosity is following me. I am often given cups of tea in campgrounds by caravaners who can't believe I just spent the night in a sack, albeit a waterproof one with what I like to think of as a skylight to the stars. People have pulled me off the road for cups of tea, I have had offers of accommodation and free breakfasts and discounted accommodation. It's all so lovely--but part of me thinks that they may just think I am a little mentally unstable. And that is often when I am not even wearing ballgowns.

Intro 2:
Again, lack of communication is only to do with lack of internet and I have not been eaten by a large black cat on Dartmoor. In fact, can someone please tell Phil from Gold that the most ferocious cat I have seen on Dartmoor so far was lying at the end of the seat I was on while having coffee, freshly baked biscuits and toasted tea cakes for breakfast at Two Bridges, Dartmoor, after a night free-camping in a little forest enclave that I discovered in the morning was attached to the infamous Dartmoor Prison. Apparently, no one can escape from Dartmoor prison though, so I think that was fine, and what's-his-name (gone blank) from Great Expectations, he escaped, but all works out for Pip, in the end, sort of. So I think the worst that could have happened would be that I inherited a moderate fortune, and fell into an irretrievably unrequited love--that didn't happen. Anyway, the cat. It was so ferocious that it wouldn't even open its eyes when you patted it, and would only show you that you had hit the right spot by stretching apart its toes. Scary, scary beast. But Phil was right about the SAS running around--possibly discovering bodies--because I had to change my walking plans when I got to the White Tor and found red flags flying over it to say the army were out shooting things with live bullets. The bodies found are probably walkers unable to see the infinitly tiny flag on top of a big rocky hill. What exactly do they need to use live bullets for anyway? Someone could lose an eye.

Intro 3:
Bern--you think I can swing my head around quickly at any given controversial 4 Pickles statement. You should see how quickly the cows do it here. Whip! And there is a whole herd of heads staring at you as you cross their field on some dodgy public right of way--on which you have just had to undo Gordian's knot on the gate (lucky I brought a sword/swiss army knife--just kidding any listening farmers--wasn't me) to enter. And they do it mid mouthful. I cannot say how many times I have had to tell some cow or horse or sheep 'you've got something on the side of your mouth there, yep that's it, the gorse bush on your cheek/long stems of grass between your teeth/etc.' I had to ask advise from the locals in the pub the other day because I got into one field--and this only ever occurs in fields that I have to traverse eighteen times because I cant find the way out; I am beginning to think of public rights of ways as some sort of scary, inescapable funhouse!--and all the (what I was calling) bulls (apparently not, just young calf bulls or some such--no! they are just bulls practising to get mean, and looking for subjects to practise on) started running towards me! Normally they run away!! What do I do? Are cows territorial? Should I be avoiding eye contact, not making any rapid movements? Was it Wes? Should I pull him off the pack and throw him to the wolf-cows?? I couldn't do that to Wes. Turns out, according to the locals (but isn't it them that locked the outward gate in the first place, can they be trusted?), that the non-mean, non-bulls are just 'curious'. Hmm.

Intro 4:
There must be at least 318 ways for a person to go between fields: stiles of wood and stone, built up and dug down like cattle grids, gates that swing, lift, push, pull, step ladders and stone steps, latches, locks, tugs, pulleys, knots, chains, barbed wire--you name it. I've had to throw my pack into the next field and hope like hell I can actually get through whatever obstacle is in my way. I have torn my clothes and my knees. Something really tells me that not everyone is happy about the public rights of way. Actually the best marked paths are the ones through the army shooting grounds. I think I am going to gravitate towards those more often. I walk on the tiny little roads often too. They are fun when they are slightly narrower than a tractor, bounded on both sides by hedges ten feet high and mostly grown from bramble, thistle and nettle as well as the odd spiky tree, and a tractor is approaching. Sometimes I wish I could get a photo of the pose it requires to dive into one of these hedges with arms and legs twisted and contorted to avoid all prickly parts. But the drivers are always so polite and appreciative that its worth it. This is a very polite country. I find myself thanking everyone I meet. It has replaced goodbye as my parting greeting (is that right, can you greet someone as you are leaving, what's the opposite?) Thank You.

But just one last thing:
I decided this ages ago but haven't--as I may have mentioned eight or nine hundred times--been able to let anyone know, I decided to give a dollar to charity for every km I do. I thought I'd open it up for other if they want--eg. 5 cents a km would be $5.00 if I do a hundred kms. If you would like to participate there is also an added bonus (I call it bonus, you may call it indecision): if you decide to contribute you can have a guess at how many kms I am going to do, nominate a charity you like, and the person who guesses closest can have all the dosh put to their charity. Let me know if you would like to play--absolutely no obligations or expectations, I am happy to just do mine and it would probably be an animal charity.

More intro's later if I can. I am unable to attach photos at this stage, but will follow. And could someone please tell Simon that I don't (spewing!!!!) think I will get to the tour--not enough days in the week. Take care all!!!

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