Bath, United Kingdom

Woke up and immediately realised I was going to need a full hip replacement. It wasn’t so much the walking that had done them in, but rather lugging around a weighty backpack. The ache dampened my enthusiasm for the first phase of my Lack of Plan, decided on yesterday, which was to walk all the way to Stonehenge or thereabouts. Eventually stubbornness won out and I hobbled up and about via a cold shower onto the streets of Bath.

I have never completely trusted anyone who claims to enjoy exercise. People have tried to tell me it’s all to do with endorphins, but I don’t see what clever sea mammals with a penchant for inflatable balls have to do with it. Personally, I have never had a single session in that mystical building called a “gym”, with my idea of a good workout being a brisk three-point turn in a car with no power steering. But as I puffed up the hill towards Bathampton, I reconsidered, and thought to myself… nah, still don’t get this exercise lark in the slightest.

Soon enough I hit the once-controversial Batheaston bypass (I wonder where Swampy is now? Bet he’s an Estate Agent or something), which although direct would’ve been certain death to follow, so I took the long way round, via Bathford and Batheaston itself and passing through a number of other well-to-do villages such as Kingston and Atworth.

Around these parts it seems it’s practically a local bylaw to have a large shrubbery growing up the front of your rustic-look house. To fully comply with local planning laws, though, it should be accompanied by an SLK in the drive (for the wife, of course - everyone knows they’re hairdressers’ cars). There was certainly a lot of money sloshing about around here.

I ambled on through Whitley, at which point the grey clouds which had been gathering decided to utterly piss down on me. Luckily enough, I had just passed a pub called The Pear Tree - fully licensed and 100% bylaw-compliant with an impressive shrubbery up the front and a few SLKs in the car park - so I turned back for it and burst inside, dripping, and made for a seat by the roaring open fire clutching a warming pint of bitter with the intention of drying off.

After the downpour had stopped, I headed for the unpleasantly-named Gastard, at which the final turnoff for tonight’s destination, Lacock, was situated. The light was fading and so I was dismayed to find the junction in question was poorly signposted. There were two routes off to the right, with an inconclusive signpost pointing vaguely at both of them. Worst still, my TomTom TwatNav, which so far had rather successfully made up for my complete lack of sense of direction, had run out of battery. So I took what I thought was the more likely route and hoped for the best.

It was the wrong route, of course. I ended up walking a fair way north of Gastard and had to loop back round south to reach Lacock with an unpleasant stint stumbling along the verge of a major A-road at rush hour in the dark. I had been walking for over six hours and was utterly exhausted, so I let out an audible “hooray!” when I reached the High Street in Lacock. The medieval village was deserted, with all inhabitants safely inside behind glowing curtains: a proper Sleepy Hollow.

I was glad to spot  the Red Lion up ahead, the hostelry I had booked earlier. It was everything I had hoped for: warm and cozy, with good portions of pub grub delivered by a barmaid with an impressive, er, selection of condiments. I extracted the maximum value out of my period Georgian room by turning it into a laundry factory, washing my dirty clothes in the sink and cranking the radiators up to the max to dry them, and slept like a log.

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