This post was written as part of my career counselling to help identify patterns from moments I worked toward a goal (from 'What Colour is Your Parachute?'). I thought it made a good account of my solo thru hike of the Hadrian's Wall Path in October 2019 so I'm posting it here.
“Hi everyone. Today I finished the first part of my goal, which was hiking the Hadrian’s Wall Path, about 95 miles. That means that tomorrow, when I finish the rest of my goal, I will have hiked over 100 miles, which is the most I’ve ever walked in one go. It’s extra impressive because it’s my first backpacking trip by myself and I’ve been in pain since day 2, and when I say ‘in pain’, I mean that every step has hurt.”
Watching a video I recorded of myself on my phone, sitting in a budget hotel room in Newcastle, I can hear the frailty in my own voice and can see the film of tears beginning to form over my eyes. “I’ve completely trashed my feet this week, I’ve been in tears thinking, ‘I never want to hike again’, which is really hard to admit... I was so discouraged that I was thinking, ‘Do I even want to finish the hike?’”
I remember that moment, recording that video, with a vividness borne of physical pain and raw emotions. My throbbing, swollen feet were propped up on a stack of pillows and my wet socks and boots were drying by the radiator. I had been hiking for 6 days across northern England in cloudy, cold, wet October weather, and I was reaching out to the people following my hike to encourage them to donate money to Wintercomfort, a Cambridge-based charity serving homeless and insecurely housed people. My goal was to walk coast-to-coast by myself to raise £300 for the charity, and I only had one more day of walking left, but I didn’t know if I could do it.
Day 1 had started out easy enough. I had caught the train to Carlisle the previous evening and the first day took me from the coast back to Carlisle, so I took advantage, booked two nights at a cheap hotel and left my backpack there for the day. I made the miles quickly and sheltered from a rainstorm for the afternoon. Day 2 was a longer day, however, and now I had my tent, sleeping set up, stove, food, water, extra clothes and so on to carry on my back. I knew it would be wet, so I’d chosen to wear a pair of water-proof winter hiking boots that I hadn’t broken in yet and were in my normal shoe size. By the afternoon of this second day, I was seriously worried about getting to my campsite before dark, and my feet were beginning to swell into the limited space in my boots. I sat down and cried in a wet field full of sheep, wishing I could quit for the day - stop walking and pitch my tent among the sheep - but having no choice but to press on until I reached somewhere to stay for the night.
That evening, after resting my feet for a bit, I could barely hobble for the swelling. “Okay,” I thought, “I’ll lace my boots a bit looser and maybe that will help.”
Over the next four days, I made my way over the wet, muddy landscape, following the bones of the ancient defences that marked the very edge of the Roman Empire before its fall. I camped in grassy fields beaded with rain and awoke before sunrise every morning to pack up my wet belongings and head further East, breath emerging in clouds, posting photos and videos along the way and reminding people to donate if they could. Words of encouragement came in through my fundraising page, but they felt faint and far away as I sank shin-deep into mud. I berated myself for not walking faster, for not being stronger, for being in pain.
“I actually spoke aloud something I realised yesterday,” I told my phone while walking through a cloudy day on the scenic, rolling Whin Sill section, recounting an impactful conversation with another hiker the previous evening. “I drive myself super hard and I always thought it was coming from other people, but it really is coming from me. And I have the power to change that.”
Over the daily miles I would experience ups and downs, unrelated to the undulations underfoot, that felt raw and pure and uncomplicated. In the morning I would get up full of optimism, and by the afternoon the pain in my feet would have increased and cast a pall on my mood. I learned this pattern, and learned that it would pass, comforted myself with music or podcasts when I got low, and drove myself forward with my intention to reach the other side of the country, my pain made meaningful by the donations coming in.
That brings us to the hotel in Newcastle, where my feet and legs were in so much pain that I was considering giving up and going straight home the following day. Would it really be so bad to quit? I rationalised as I nursed my aching extremities. I’ve accomplished one goal by hiking the whole of Hadrian’s Wall. How much do the last 6 miles really matter to anyone besides me? Will I be causing a long-term injury by proceeding? Will I even be able to walk tomorrow?
I had been cast into this dismal mood at Wallsend by an anti-climax at the end of the trail, coupled with the fact that once my bag was set down and my shoes were off, I could barely hobble down the hall to dinner in the hotel restaurant as the swelling in my feet made it feel like walking on bags of water and pain shot up my legs. I took a photo of my feet propped up on their tower of pillows and they were visibly puffy, having grown at least one shoe size within my too-tight boots. As every day on the trail had increased the pain in my feet and legs, I had doubts as to whether or not I’d be able to tough it out in the morning.
In the video, I'm honest about this. “When I finally dragged myself back to Newcastle, where I’m staying tonight, I was thinking, ‘Do I even want to finish the coast-to-coast? Do I even want to do I even want to do those last 6 miles tomorrow if it’s going to be such a let down?’ And of course I do. Of course. I set out to walk coast-to-coast, and I’ve been wanting to do that for a really long time. Whatever my feet feel like tomorrow, I’m going to get up and I’m going to walk the rest of the way.”
There’s a stubbornness in my voice that I had often characterised as martyrdom before, but now I was starting to recognise what it really was: Grit. I had learned to take better care of myself, to rest when I needed, to not berate myself so much, to make adjustments to achieve my goals, but that didn’t mean letting myself off the hook. I had to try.
First thing in the morning, I got dressed and packed my bag, and walked gingerly down to the restaurant for breakfast. The last day of walking was unremarkable; hugging busy roads, snaking through residential streets and alongside shipping yards. It was hardly glamorous hiking. My feet throbbed and my Achilles tendon rubbed painfully against the back of my boot. My knees ached and I listened to music all morning to keep my mind off of the pain and the lacklustre scenery.
Then I saw the North Sea.
This time, I was crying tears of pride and gratitude. I put my hand to my cracked lips and looked out to sea, nodding to myself, a smile fighting with the tears. I wanted to say, “Well, I did it! I’m here!” or sum up the trip in some pithy, memorable way, but as I looked at the camera, all I could do was wipe my running nose on my sleeve and give a thumbs up. I did it.
Over the course of seven days, I walked the breadth of England and raised over £450 for Wintercomfort. I coached myself through some mental and physical hardships, and felt free and far away, totally comfortable in the silence of my own company. I knew deep down that if I set a goal for myself, I would do everything in my power to achieve it.
