I’ve lived in England for nearly 13 years now, and to my shame I’ve still seen very little of it. My first ‘home’ was a little village called Acton Burnell, which was where my A-Level boarding college was. So I like to say that my home town in Shrewsbury, and my home county is Shropshire. Which is no bad thing, because Shropshire is wild and beautiful. I guess it’s only real problem is that it’s miles from anywhere else.

Eventually I lived in Southampton, then London, then back to Southampton, and now London again. Which isn’t terribly interesting considering the post subject, but at one point while living in Southampton, I went on my first solo holiday. And that was to the Lake District.

All I did in those few days was eat, sleep, and walk. I walked all the pretty places that I could get to from where I was staying. I have no idea how many miles I clocked up in those few days, because it didn’t really matter then, but I figured I walked plenty, and climbed a little bit.

Since then there wasn’t a lot of walking until I was properly installed into the Irish family, and Daddy Irish had decided that of all the exercises he could do, it was walking that he enjoyed the most. So it began a few years ago, where he’d start with half a dozen miles at the weekend, which grew to eight or so. Then ten. Then twelve. Now sixteen is probably the most he’d do on a weekend before he’d get fed up and go home. Especially if it’s raining.

So, as you’d expect, he is Blame Number One.

Blame Number Two is Martin.

Some time last January Martin called out to his fellow geeks, asking if anyone wanted to join him on the Trailwalker challenge. 100km in 30 hours, raising money for the Gurkha Welfare Trust. 100km is about 62 miles, if that helps make it seem less insane. So foolishly, I signed on, and thus began our training hikes.

Apart from the training hikes, Daddy Irish took an interest in the mad idea and decided that I could come walking with him whenever I visited. And so it was, that since then if the weather was decent, he and I would be out the door and will not be seen again for a goodly few hours. I liked this very much, because, as I sometimes tell Nick, “One of the best things about marrying you is that I get your dad.” So enthusiastic he was, that at one point he took the team out over a weekend to attempt the entire Worcestershire Way, which everyone did over two days. (I didn’t, because I managed to sprain my ankle less than 5 miles in, and Daddy Irish himself called it a day after doing the first half, which to be fair was a little over 16 miles).

Just like that, the English countryside opened itself up to me. I saw places and views I would otherwise have missed. Now that we have a car I went back to the Lake District with Nick and we covered a good thirteen miles in two days, walking the lakeland and up to new places.

I absolutely adored the walking.

That is, until my feet exploded during the actual Trailwalker event, and I never finished the 100km. Though the rest of the team did, in 31 hours and 10 minutes.

After some time spent in recovery and with my osteopaths, I tried for another challenge. Only 20 miles this time, for the London Night Hike. Again, I didn’t finish. My feet exploded again, 15 miles in, and it killed me that I only had another five to go.

So as it turns out, I have plantar fasciitis, or Policeman’s Heel. It will forever be Daddy Irish’s joke that I always wanted to be a policeperson when I grew up.

A combination of pilates, podiatry and exercise is pretty much all I can do about it at the moment, until some insoles arrive and I try those out as well. I’ve gone back to the gym to try and strengthen all the parts of me that will keep my feet from collapsing on themselves all the time, so we can only wait and see.

Meanwhile, I’ll always have this moment to remind me of what it is I’m trying to go back to.