The journey begins

My good friend, Patrick, who I met on the Camino Frances in 2012, flew to London to join me on my adventure. We trained it down to Winchester and headed to the cathedral to obtain our credentials, the booklet in which one accumulates stamps from churches, places of lodging, and villages along the trail. 

The verger was surprised and delighted to meet two pilgrims walking to Rome. He arranged our credentials and wished us a blessed journey. Whatever one's beliefs, the good wishes of others are always welcome.

After our stay at the well-worn Ranelegh guesthouse, Thursday morning dawned bright and dry, not a cloud to mar the cerulean sky, despite rain having been forecast. A bracing 3 degrees Centigrade, 37 Fahrenheit.

We walked along wooded footpaths and through wetlands and meadows. We were greeted by nearly newborn lambs, four pigs named Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme (yes, really - there was a sign), and an octet of gambolling young cows that seemed to play a game of tag with us, romping ahead some 20 meters until we caught up with them, repeating their game some four or five times. 

It all seemed quite idyllic until we realized that the GPS track we were using had been constructed, not by walking, but on a map, using many long straight lines. Our path, instead, zigzagged, increasing our distance to a leg-straining 26 miles, eight more than planned. We arrived in Alton, of Jane Austen fame, dragging our sorry selves to a shower, a juicy hamburger, and a couple of welcoming beds. What a pleasure to be on the trail again with aching feet, a sore back, and nothing on my mind outside the cast of my own shadow.