'I spent the last year walking 4,000 miles around the coast of Great Britain'
Walking back to my tent from the campsite shower block, I notice a fox sat ten feet away watching me intently. It takes a few minutes for my brain to catch up. "It's best not to leave food outside your tent…" the campsite owner had mentioned casually as I checked in. "We've had a few problems with foxes." Hot, hungry and footsore, I was too focussed on a shower and dinner to think any more of it. After all, I’d camped near hungry bears California a few years back... I could outwit a fox in Cleethorpes.
It turns out I couldn't. Lured by a piece of cheese, the brazen animal had slashed open my tent to retrieve it. Still clutching my toothbrush – and observed by a riveted audience sitting snug in their caravans – I chased her off time and again, only to see her continue to reappear and proudly eat her takeaway dinner in front of me.
Tired, furious and having failed to patch my tent back together with duct tape, I looked up trains back home to Dorset. I'd lasted three months on my expedition — far longer than I'd anticipated when I set out to walk around the 4,000-mile coastline of Great Britain. I could call it a day and go home after losing to a fox, couldn't I?
I can't remember when exactly I decided to spend a year walking around the coast of England, Scotland and Wales. There was no one moment of clarity — more an accumulation of events. The end of a relationship, a growing sense of time passing, and the realisation that the 'right' time to do something bold would never arrive — found me standing at the John o' Groats signpost on 8th August 2023.
The idea to circumnavigate Great Britain came when I read Elise Downing's book 'Coasting' — her story of running the same route. The running part aside, the idea appealed to me — a neat, tidy loop. Never too far from home, no need to take any long haul flights plus plenty of opportunities for friends and family to join along the way.
I packed in my job, bought a rucksack and some freeze-dried meals and booked a ticket to Inverness. One short flight and three buses later and I was at the northernmost point on the mainland. I'd looked around the gift shop, had my third coffee in the cafe and finished my book (one less thing to squeeze into my pack). The rain had stopped and I found a friendly Scottish family to take the obligatory signpost photo. There was nothing left to do but take the first step. And so I did.
My plan was simple. Starting at John o’ Groats, I would walk clockwise down the East coast of Scotland, through the Borders and into Northumberland, then Yorkshire, Lincolnshire, Norfolk, Suffolk and Essex. I'd cross the Thames Estuary into Kent, then round the South Coast through Sussex and into Hampshire, aiming to get as near as I could to my parents' house in Dorset in time for Christmas.
After a break for turkey and presents, I'd set off again through Dorset, Devon and Cornwall then over the Severn Estuary into Wales. Next was Lancashire, Cumbria and the West coast of Scotland before turning the corner and heading back to John o’ Groats. I reckoned I could do it in a year.
I’d follow coast paths wherever I could and detour inland where needed. I'd camp most of it, stay in bothies, hostels, with friends of friends and the occasional B&B as a treat. I chose two homelessness charities to fundraise for based on the fact that the thing I found hardest was finding a place to sleep every night — whether that was a safe, secluded wild camp spot, a campsite or even a bed.
For me, it was a choice to sleep in a different place each night. I knew that if I needed to, I had a home to go back to. But thousands of people have no option but to bed down in a bus shelter, under a bridge, or in a dry doorway.
Despite my big plans, I didn't really believe I could or would do it. Whilst a couple of week's walking and camping on the sunny East coast of Scotland might feel fun and adventurous, how long would that last? What would I do over the winter? Surely I’d get injured somewhere along the way. How would I afford it?
But somehow the days turned into weeks, which then became months. And almost exactly a year later, I crossed the finish line having raised £25,000 for charity and walked 4,000 miles… with no real disasters.
In fact, my encounter with the fox was one of only a few real low points. Yes, I felt homesick often (Sunday nights were the worst) and the walking was physically hard to begin with. My legs burned when I lay down to sleep, I never really got used to carrying my backpack and, despite investing in a decent sleeping bag and mat, I slept fitfully night after night, hips aching in the cold.
But it didn't take long to find a rhythm and routine. Wake up, make tea and porridge on my stove, eat breakfast and do Wordle, still snug in my sleeping bag. Map out the day's route on my phone. Put off getting dressed in cold, tent-damp clothes for as long as I could. Pack up, leaving my tent till last in the (usually vain) hope it might have dried out. Rucksack on, start walking. The mornings were good for thinking, but as the day went on, I'd listen to podcasts or audiobooks.
Lunch was usually pitta bread with peanut butter and an apple eaten on a slipway or a haybale somewhere. Dinner was a pack of just-add-water macaroni cheese with a bag of spinach stirred in. I'd save my modest daily budget (£20) for a flat white and a flapjack wherever I could find one – although meals, accommodation and replacement kit took most of it up.
Every 10 days or so, I'd take a day off. This was a lesson I learned the hard way when, after three weeks of walking without a break, I found myself crying in an Aberdeen cafe after the cheery waiter brought me a panini instead of the tuna sandwich I'd ordered.
Customers crying in the window isn’t a great look for any establishment and he hastily brought over a chocolate brownie to make amends. I burst into tears again. Exhaustion removes all sense of perspective.
There were other bumps in the road — an infected tick bite that was quickly and efficiently dealt with at Newcastle's NHS walk-in centre; and a curious cow that tried to eat my expensive prescription sunglasses before spitting them out and trampling them instead.
There was the night in a mixed dorm at Dundee's backpackers hostel on the hottest day of the year. The gender split turned out to be me and five men, all with an aversion to fresh air and each with their own snoring pitch and pace. I gave up and slept on a sofa in the communal lounge, windows open wide.
As the winter rolled in, so did the weather. This year, the UK experienced the greatest number of named storms since 2015 as well as the wettest February on record. Wet feet were the norm, and the mud slowed my pace and sapped my spirits.
With winter taking hold, B&B owners, pub landlords and hotel managers came to my rescue. With my tent out of action, I started contacting pubs and guesthouses in places I passed through, explaining how far I'd walked and who I was raising money for. The response was overwhelmingly generous and I know now that being able to sleep inside during the winter months was crucial to being able to finish the walk.
Yet in amongst the record-breaking weather, the fungal toenails and the often dispiriting trudge along litter-strewn, traffic-heavy roads that led into towns and cites, there were days of pure, unfiltered joy — at the ever-changing scenery, the people I met and the thrill of the adventure I found myself on.
The highlights were many and varied. I stopped to swim and eat lunch on pebbly beaches along the John o' Groats Trail, explored the fishing villages and tidal pools that punctuate the Fife Coast, jogged along the South West Coast Path to reach St Ives before the winter sun dipped below the horizon and discovered Wales' Pembrokeshire Coast Path and the breathtaking Llyn Peninsula.
I drank coffee and watched the cold water swimmers at Lulworth Cove, ate crumpets with Lancashire cheese in Preston, butteries (somewhere between a flat croissant and an English muffin) in Dundee, fish and chips at Robin Hood's Bay and ice cream on Holy Island having crossed the muddy Pilgrim's Way at low tide. I saw dolphins off the beach at Findhorn, seals at Brora, stags near Strathcarron and hundreds of tiny frogs minding their own business along the boggy Cape Wrath trail.
Would I do it again? Absolutely. And next time, I'd slow right down. I'd spend longer in places I loved and skip the less memorable bits. I'd explore the history and landmarks, eat more regional specialities, write more down and talk to more people.
Having visited pretty much every village and town on the Great British coast, the list of places to revisit is long and I can't wait to get back on the road.
To make a donation, visit justgiving.com/great-british-walk.
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