My 50-mile walk as a 50-year-old
It is not a race.’ It was these words in the announcement of the 50-mile walk that the Nottingham branch of the YMCA was organising that fi rst attracted me. If it is not a race, I thought, then I’m going along.
According to the announcement, the purpose of the walk was ‘to test the ability of the ordinary citizen without any special training, to undertake physical effort over and above that which is normally required of him, and in doing so prove to himself and the country that he is still capable of rising to any emergency, despite a high standard of living’.
Had I had any special training? No – except a love of rambling, mainly around our neighbouring county of Derbyshire.
I sounded my husband as to what he thought of the idea. ‘Fifty miles is a long way. It’s like walking from Nottingham to Birmingham,’ he said cautiously.
‘You don’t want to go then,’ I said, nipping criticism in the bud; and, circumnavigating future opposition, added: ‘Well, I’ll relieve you of any undue responsibility towards me by entering in my maiden name.’
So, as Kathleen Cullis, I applied, and duly received a white card numbered 53 to pin on my coat, together with good advice regarding footwear. I was also advised to carry a torch as the event started at 7.30pm and much of the walk would take place at night.
As the day drew near, my enthusiasm mounted. I couldn’t stop talking about it, so much so that my husband could stand it no longer.
‘I’m going too,’ he announced a few days before it began, showing me his white card – number 144. I finished all the most important household chores very early that week, and we were in bed at nine every night.
‘What will you do if it’s raining torrents?’ my brother asked.
‘Go just the same, of course. You can’t expect to have ideal conditions for everything you undertake,’ I replied, giving him what I hoped was a withering look.
‘Oh ho! Listen to the brave one,’ he said, chortling derisively.
The Friday came, and every time I went into my kitchen how anxiously I looked at the sky above Nottingham Castle, a building I see from the window every day. There was no sign of rain, and the sun was bright.
The day passed, soon it would be 7.30. We took with us cheese, hardboiled eggs and chocolate, and walked into the Market Square where the manager of Nottingham Forest Football Club was to start us off .
When we reached the city centre we had quite a surprise. There were far more entrants than we had expected. After all, no monetary prize had been off ered – just a certificate for all those completing it. We had thought perhaps 100 would join; in fact, 300 began the walk.
They were of all ages, from 15 to over 50; some with packs (they’re going to weigh a bit after a few miles, I thought patronisingly), some, like ourselves, with all they would need stuff ed into their pockets.
Just as we were moving off , a 15-year-old boy of our acquaintance happened to see us and asked what we were doing.
‘A 50-mile walk, Maurice,’ I retorted with some hauteur.
He looked at me, then at my husband, then back again at me, thought a moment, put a forefi nger on his cheek and said, with what he thought was deep profundity, ‘One of you won’t make it.’
‘Well, it won’t be me who fails, Maurice,’ I replied.
We crossed Trent Bridge, seeing the small craft at anchor and the refl ection of lights in the water, and walked through West Bridgford on to the Radcliffe Road. Here was a bad patch: road work was going on, grit and stones and clods of loose earth to delay us – some of the party well ahead, some still behind us.
We noticed three girls who were walking in slingback shoes were already in trouble and stopping constantly to empty grit from them.
Some other youths on the walk brought out bottles of beer and fl ung themselves in exaggerated attitudes of exhaustion on a patch of grass. Needless to say, that was the last we saw of them.
On then into Radcliffe, to Bingham, to Elton and Bottesford where we rested on the steps of the Market Cross awhile.
It was getting late and bedroom lights were going on. We got up from the Market Cross and regained the road, when, to our absolute amazement, who should we see, stepping out smartly a couple of yards in front, but Maurice.
‘Hey! What are you doing here?’ I called out.
‘I’ve joined the walk,’ Maurice shouted over his shoulder – and off he went without a backward glance.
‘Well, what do you make of that?’ I said to my husband. ‘One minute he’s in Arkwright Street, the next he’s in Bottesford. He must have got a lift somewhere – that’s against the rules.’
But no! As it transpired, he hadn’t. After seeing us, he’d decided to join the walk, dashed off home to tell his mother, and then run and caught up with the party.
We got to Sedgebrook, where the first of three checkpoints had been set up and, giving our numbers to the official, we walked on again into the quiet countryside.
The moon had risen and was riding high, flooding the calm fields with light. Trees and hedges looked rootless as though they were transfixed in a misty vapour. Owls hooted and bats were darting over our heads screeching eerily, while in the grass verges, strange furtive rustlings were heard.
And all the while, the organisers kept their eyes on us, taking home the tired, encouraging the dogged, making everyone feel cared for and comforted. Had I been walking alone I should not have felt at all afraid for there, on the loneliest stretches of the road, were the little cars, their drivers calling out, ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ we replied, and on we walked through Denton, passing an imposing stone gateway, the moon showing us silvery water from either lake or pond behind a park wall.
Oh! It was bliss to walk through silent villages, to hear the chimes from the ancient clocks in the church towers, to smell the flowers in the cottage gardens – the tangy chrysanthemums, the nightscented stocks, to pause and sniff the big cabbage roses that rioted over the garden walls and to smell once again the mignonette my grandfather always grew in his garden.
Walking on and on through the night into the dawn, hearing the tentative twittering of birds from the hedges, seeing the road opening up before our eyes, seeing the wild flowers shake their dew-drenched heads like dogs after a swim and then lift them up to salute the sun.
We were now on a ‘horse road’ passing through lovely undulating country in Leicestershire, but we were terribly thirsty. Fortunately, a little way ahead we saw what we were looking for – smoke rising from a chimney, a cottage set back from the road.
A lady was standing in the porch and, as we approached, she came down to the gate.
‘What’s going on here this morning?’ she questioned.
‘It’s a walk organised by the YMCA,’ I answered. ‘We were going to ask you if we might have a glass of water.’
She looked at me with the understanding of another woman and said, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Do you mean it?’ I asked, knowing full well that she did.
‘Of course I do, come in. I’m just making some for my husband.’
Into the cottage we went, tablecloth whisked on, cups and saucers laid out – a share in their breakfast of cold boiled bacon offered, but declined. It was tea and tea only that we craved, tea of any strength, any make.
And never did a cup taste so wonderful. Talk about setting us up; when we left these hospitable people (and not before we had received strict instructions to let them know if we finished the walk), we felt our feet skim over the ground almost without effort.
The Belvoir Hunt was meeting at Holwell Mouth that Saturday morning. Two huntswomen and a child mounted on a dappled grey passed us, wishing us an affable ‘Good morning’.
How unkempt we felt compared with their ‘shining morning faces’ and freshly groomed horses. The very thought of a bath and clean clothes was an exquisite pain – to wallow in hot water – better not to think of it. We pressed on.
How many walkers there were in front of us we didn’t know, or how many behind. We had been with the leaders near Sedgebrook but had lost time resting and staying at that cottage. We reached Nether Broughton and had a glass of brandy at the inn there – the time about midday on Saturday.
How hot the sun was as we toiled up the hill to Upper Broughton – a wedding was taking place there, lots of cars, guests and onlookers. We sat on a seat under the chestnut trees and looked at them all arriving.
We were beginning to walk very slowly now. No one passed us, and later in the afternoon one of the contact cars found us resting in the bus shelter at Stanton-on-the-Wolds.
We were told we were the last. We affected not to mind. ‘If you can’t be first, you might as well be last,’ I said airily.
Then on again, almost crawling now, into Normanton-on-the-Wolds, bypassing Plumtree, on into Tollerton and another bus shelter. Here we sat, or rather lay on the seats, and my husband asked solicitously, ‘Shall we give up?’
Oh, if only we could, I thought, seeing the bus picking up passengers for Nottingham, a 10-minute ride away. But how jolly mad we should be tomorrow when we thought of the 45 miles we had walked.
‘Let’s rest awhile and see how we feel,’ I suggested. So we sat on and on until the sun dipped and the sky became the colour of pewter that heralds the onset of evening.
We stumbled towards West Bridgford, sat 10 minutes on every seat we saw (blessing the Urban District Council for putting them there) and passed over Trent Bridge and into the Market Square. It had taken us 24 hours and 20 minutes to walk that 50 miles.
But we had done it, and we should get our certificates. Oh, yes, our certificates – now I’m in a fix, I thought. Officially I’m Kathleen Cullis and the man I’ve been walking with all this time, what relationship is he to me? Should there be an account of it in the local press, who knows what complications may arise.
No, they’re not married, my dear, I saw it in the paper in black and white. ‘O, what a tangled web we weave, when we first practise to deceive!’
Obviously, something had to be done – a letter of explanation must be written to the Organising Secretary. I was not so chastened though that I did not ask them to make my certificate out to Kathleen Cullis- Peet. After all, it had been my idea in the first place and my husband should not steal all my thunder.
A fortnight later, the Lord Mayor of Nottingham presented 60 certificates to those who had completed the course. When he gave us ours he said, ‘It just shows you what you can do when you’re 50 years young.’
And what about Maurice? He called to see us at midday on Sunday. ‘Did you make it?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Maurice. Did you?’
‘No,’ he told us. He was picked up, almost walking in his sleep, about six miles from Nottingham. When questioned further by me I learned that he hadn’t taken anything to eat with him.
As he was leaving, a gnawing thought that had been eating its way through my mind ever since I saw him near that Market Cross suddenly reached some bone in my cranium.
‘What made you join in the walk, Maurice?’ I asked.
‘For the sport of it,’ he replied.
Fifty Miles Walk By A Fifty-yearold, by Kathleen Cullis-Peet, first appeared in The Lady magazine on 21 April 1966.
WHERE TO STAY AND EAT EN ROUTE
THORESBY HALL HOTEL
This beautiful period property, with stunning grounds, is an adult-only hotel, which is ideal for more mature couples. Famous for its afternoon teas and walks, Thoresby Hall Hotel provides a great place for a restful weekend or day trip. From £130 per person for a minimum two-night stay. Thoresby Park, Ollerton, Nottinghamshire: 0844-871 4523, www.warnerleisurehotels.co.uk/hotels/ thoresby-hall-hotel
LANGAR HALL
The quirky manor house, with its charming and historic ambience, is a great option for a relaxing weekend stay. Its restaurant offers a great place for a reasonably priced meal. From £130 per person per night. Langar Village, Nottinghamshire: 01949-860559, www.langarhall.com
SAT BAINS
This two Michelin star establishment is both an impressive restaurant, with its taster menus providing the perfect opportunity for celebration, and a cosy hotel with eight elegant suites. From £129 per person, per night. Lenton Lane, Nottingham: 0115-986 6566, www.restaurantsatbains.com
THE BINGHAM
The exterior suggests a simple country pub but The Bingham offers the highquality food served at any top restaurant, with the atmosphere of a great pub. Long Acre, Bingham, Nottinghamshire: 01949-358008, www.the-bingham.com
THE OLD VICARAGE HOTEL
This small boutique hotel in Southwell is perfect for an overnight or weekend stay. Its stylish, individual rooms and top restaurant make for a relaxing break. From £115 per person per night. Westhorpe, Southwell, Nottinghamshire: 01636-815989, www.vicarageboutiquehotel.co.uk
LA ROCK
With both minimalist decor and beautifully presented food, La Rock is a stylish option for an evening meal. It has a regularly changing and contemporary menu. 4 Bridge Street, Sandiacre, Nottinghamshire: 0115-939 9833, www.larockrestaurant.co.uk
WALTON'S HOTEL AND RESTAURANT
With its picturesque setting outside of the city centre, the 19th-century hunting lodge is an idyllic place to stay. The atmospheric restaurant is a great choice for a quick drink or a relaxed meal, particularly for Sunday lunch. From £88 per person per night. 2 North Road, The Park Estate, Nottingham: 0115-947 5215, www.waltonshotel.co.uk
According to the announcement, the purpose of the walk was ‘to test the ability of the ordinary citizen without any special training, to undertake physical effort over and above that which is normally required of him, and in doing so prove to himself and the country that he is still capable of rising to any emergency, despite a high standard of living’.
Had I had any special training? No – except a love of rambling, mainly around our neighbouring county of Derbyshire.
I sounded my husband as to what he thought of the idea. ‘Fifty miles is a long way. It’s like walking from Nottingham to Birmingham,’ he said cautiously.
‘You don’t want to go then,’ I said, nipping criticism in the bud; and, circumnavigating future opposition, added: ‘Well, I’ll relieve you of any undue responsibility towards me by entering in my maiden name.’
So, as Kathleen Cullis, I applied, and duly received a white card numbered 53 to pin on my coat, together with good advice regarding footwear. I was also advised to carry a torch as the event started at 7.30pm and much of the walk would take place at night.
As the day drew near, my enthusiasm mounted. I couldn’t stop talking about it, so much so that my husband could stand it no longer.
‘I’m going too,’ he announced a few days before it began, showing me his white card – number 144. I finished all the most important household chores very early that week, and we were in bed at nine every night.
‘What will you do if it’s raining torrents?’ my brother asked.
‘Go just the same, of course. You can’t expect to have ideal conditions for everything you undertake,’ I replied, giving him what I hoped was a withering look.
‘Oh ho! Listen to the brave one,’ he said, chortling derisively.
The Friday came, and every time I went into my kitchen how anxiously I looked at the sky above Nottingham Castle, a building I see from the window every day. There was no sign of rain, and the sun was bright.
The day passed, soon it would be 7.30. We took with us cheese, hardboiled eggs and chocolate, and walked into the Market Square where the manager of Nottingham Forest Football Club was to start us off .
When we reached the city centre we had quite a surprise. There were far more entrants than we had expected. After all, no monetary prize had been off ered – just a certificate for all those completing it. We had thought perhaps 100 would join; in fact, 300 began the walk.
They were of all ages, from 15 to over 50; some with packs (they’re going to weigh a bit after a few miles, I thought patronisingly), some, like ourselves, with all they would need stuff ed into their pockets.
Just as we were moving off , a 15-year-old boy of our acquaintance happened to see us and asked what we were doing.
‘A 50-mile walk, Maurice,’ I retorted with some hauteur.
He looked at me, then at my husband, then back again at me, thought a moment, put a forefi nger on his cheek and said, with what he thought was deep profundity, ‘One of you won’t make it.’
‘Well, it won’t be me who fails, Maurice,’ I replied.
We crossed Trent Bridge, seeing the small craft at anchor and the refl ection of lights in the water, and walked through West Bridgford on to the Radcliffe Road. Here was a bad patch: road work was going on, grit and stones and clods of loose earth to delay us – some of the party well ahead, some still behind us.
We noticed three girls who were walking in slingback shoes were already in trouble and stopping constantly to empty grit from them.
Some other youths on the walk brought out bottles of beer and fl ung themselves in exaggerated attitudes of exhaustion on a patch of grass. Needless to say, that was the last we saw of them.
On then into Radcliffe, to Bingham, to Elton and Bottesford where we rested on the steps of the Market Cross awhile.
It was getting late and bedroom lights were going on. We got up from the Market Cross and regained the road, when, to our absolute amazement, who should we see, stepping out smartly a couple of yards in front, but Maurice.
‘Hey! What are you doing here?’ I called out.
‘I’ve joined the walk,’ Maurice shouted over his shoulder – and off he went without a backward glance.
‘Well, what do you make of that?’ I said to my husband. ‘One minute he’s in Arkwright Street, the next he’s in Bottesford. He must have got a lift somewhere – that’s against the rules.’
But no! As it transpired, he hadn’t. After seeing us, he’d decided to join the walk, dashed off home to tell his mother, and then run and caught up with the party.
We got to Sedgebrook, where the first of three checkpoints had been set up and, giving our numbers to the official, we walked on again into the quiet countryside.
The moon had risen and was riding high, flooding the calm fields with light. Trees and hedges looked rootless as though they were transfixed in a misty vapour. Owls hooted and bats were darting over our heads screeching eerily, while in the grass verges, strange furtive rustlings were heard.
And all the while, the organisers kept their eyes on us, taking home the tired, encouraging the dogged, making everyone feel cared for and comforted. Had I been walking alone I should not have felt at all afraid for there, on the loneliest stretches of the road, were the little cars, their drivers calling out, ‘Everything all right?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ we replied, and on we walked through Denton, passing an imposing stone gateway, the moon showing us silvery water from either lake or pond behind a park wall.
Oh! It was bliss to walk through silent villages, to hear the chimes from the ancient clocks in the church towers, to smell the flowers in the cottage gardens – the tangy chrysanthemums, the nightscented stocks, to pause and sniff the big cabbage roses that rioted over the garden walls and to smell once again the mignonette my grandfather always grew in his garden.
Walking on and on through the night into the dawn, hearing the tentative twittering of birds from the hedges, seeing the road opening up before our eyes, seeing the wild flowers shake their dew-drenched heads like dogs after a swim and then lift them up to salute the sun.
We were now on a ‘horse road’ passing through lovely undulating country in Leicestershire, but we were terribly thirsty. Fortunately, a little way ahead we saw what we were looking for – smoke rising from a chimney, a cottage set back from the road.
A lady was standing in the porch and, as we approached, she came down to the gate.
‘What’s going on here this morning?’ she questioned.
‘It’s a walk organised by the YMCA,’ I answered. ‘We were going to ask you if we might have a glass of water.’
She looked at me with the understanding of another woman and said, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Do you mean it?’ I asked, knowing full well that she did.
‘Of course I do, come in. I’m just making some for my husband.’
Into the cottage we went, tablecloth whisked on, cups and saucers laid out – a share in their breakfast of cold boiled bacon offered, but declined. It was tea and tea only that we craved, tea of any strength, any make.
And never did a cup taste so wonderful. Talk about setting us up; when we left these hospitable people (and not before we had received strict instructions to let them know if we finished the walk), we felt our feet skim over the ground almost without effort.
The Belvoir Hunt was meeting at Holwell Mouth that Saturday morning. Two huntswomen and a child mounted on a dappled grey passed us, wishing us an affable ‘Good morning’.
How unkempt we felt compared with their ‘shining morning faces’ and freshly groomed horses. The very thought of a bath and clean clothes was an exquisite pain – to wallow in hot water – better not to think of it. We pressed on.
How many walkers there were in front of us we didn’t know, or how many behind. We had been with the leaders near Sedgebrook but had lost time resting and staying at that cottage. We reached Nether Broughton and had a glass of brandy at the inn there – the time about midday on Saturday.
How hot the sun was as we toiled up the hill to Upper Broughton – a wedding was taking place there, lots of cars, guests and onlookers. We sat on a seat under the chestnut trees and looked at them all arriving.
We were beginning to walk very slowly now. No one passed us, and later in the afternoon one of the contact cars found us resting in the bus shelter at Stanton-on-the-Wolds.
We were told we were the last. We affected not to mind. ‘If you can’t be first, you might as well be last,’ I said airily.
Then on again, almost crawling now, into Normanton-on-the-Wolds, bypassing Plumtree, on into Tollerton and another bus shelter. Here we sat, or rather lay on the seats, and my husband asked solicitously, ‘Shall we give up?’
Oh, if only we could, I thought, seeing the bus picking up passengers for Nottingham, a 10-minute ride away. But how jolly mad we should be tomorrow when we thought of the 45 miles we had walked.
‘Let’s rest awhile and see how we feel,’ I suggested. So we sat on and on until the sun dipped and the sky became the colour of pewter that heralds the onset of evening.
We stumbled towards West Bridgford, sat 10 minutes on every seat we saw (blessing the Urban District Council for putting them there) and passed over Trent Bridge and into the Market Square. It had taken us 24 hours and 20 minutes to walk that 50 miles.
But we had done it, and we should get our certificates. Oh, yes, our certificates – now I’m in a fix, I thought. Officially I’m Kathleen Cullis and the man I’ve been walking with all this time, what relationship is he to me? Should there be an account of it in the local press, who knows what complications may arise.
No, they’re not married, my dear, I saw it in the paper in black and white. ‘O, what a tangled web we weave, when we first practise to deceive!’
Obviously, something had to be done – a letter of explanation must be written to the Organising Secretary. I was not so chastened though that I did not ask them to make my certificate out to Kathleen Cullis- Peet. After all, it had been my idea in the first place and my husband should not steal all my thunder.
A fortnight later, the Lord Mayor of Nottingham presented 60 certificates to those who had completed the course. When he gave us ours he said, ‘It just shows you what you can do when you’re 50 years young.’
And what about Maurice? He called to see us at midday on Sunday. ‘Did you make it?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Maurice. Did you?’
‘No,’ he told us. He was picked up, almost walking in his sleep, about six miles from Nottingham. When questioned further by me I learned that he hadn’t taken anything to eat with him.
As he was leaving, a gnawing thought that had been eating its way through my mind ever since I saw him near that Market Cross suddenly reached some bone in my cranium.
‘What made you join in the walk, Maurice?’ I asked.
‘For the sport of it,’ he replied.
Fifty Miles Walk By A Fifty-yearold, by Kathleen Cullis-Peet, first appeared in The Lady magazine on 21 April 1966.
WHERE TO STAY AND EAT EN ROUTE
THORESBY HALL HOTEL
This beautiful period property, with stunning grounds, is an adult-only hotel, which is ideal for more mature couples. Famous for its afternoon teas and walks, Thoresby Hall Hotel provides a great place for a restful weekend or day trip. From £130 per person for a minimum two-night stay. Thoresby Park, Ollerton, Nottinghamshire: 0844-871 4523, www.warnerleisurehotels.co.uk/hotels/ thoresby-hall-hotel
LANGAR HALL
The quirky manor house, with its charming and historic ambience, is a great option for a relaxing weekend stay. Its restaurant offers a great place for a reasonably priced meal. From £130 per person per night. Langar Village, Nottinghamshire: 01949-860559, www.langarhall.com
SAT BAINS
This two Michelin star establishment is both an impressive restaurant, with its taster menus providing the perfect opportunity for celebration, and a cosy hotel with eight elegant suites. From £129 per person, per night. Lenton Lane, Nottingham: 0115-986 6566, www.restaurantsatbains.com
THE BINGHAM
The exterior suggests a simple country pub but The Bingham offers the highquality food served at any top restaurant, with the atmosphere of a great pub. Long Acre, Bingham, Nottinghamshire: 01949-358008, www.the-bingham.com
THE OLD VICARAGE HOTEL
This small boutique hotel in Southwell is perfect for an overnight or weekend stay. Its stylish, individual rooms and top restaurant make for a relaxing break. From £115 per person per night. Westhorpe, Southwell, Nottinghamshire: 01636-815989, www.vicarageboutiquehotel.co.uk
LA ROCK
With both minimalist decor and beautifully presented food, La Rock is a stylish option for an evening meal. It has a regularly changing and contemporary menu. 4 Bridge Street, Sandiacre, Nottinghamshire: 0115-939 9833, www.larockrestaurant.co.uk
WALTON'S HOTEL AND RESTAURANT
With its picturesque setting outside of the city centre, the 19th-century hunting lodge is an idyllic place to stay. The atmospheric restaurant is a great choice for a quick drink or a relaxed meal, particularly for Sunday lunch. From £88 per person per night. 2 North Road, The Park Estate, Nottingham: 0115-947 5215, www.waltonshotel.co.uk