LITMIR.BIZ

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kit from PHD and new shoes. It’s like a birthday party! I leave a couple of hours later feeling happy and exuberant.

      The first place I arrive at that has rooms is a very prosperous bordello, one of the best in town, says the landlady as she shows me up the stairs. They have plenty of rooms for the budget traveller as well. The whole establishment seems to have been designed as a stage set for a Feydeau farce—with separate staircases so those going up for fun won’t collide with those coming down and be embarrassed, she informs me archly, taking me up to my tiny room.

      It’s only when I stop and the euphoria of arrival wears off that I become aware of the extreme pain in my left foot. I sink on the bed, close the gingham curtains and examine my foot which had trodden on the glass and which is now very painful. There’s a huge lump like a corn with a glistening sliver of glass still in it and the callous has grown around it. I get out my small knife and dig the glass out a bit ferociously, but it doesn’t work and the foot soon becomes agonising. The little room is spotless but black mice keep darting here and there. If I turn on the light, I even find them sitting on the shelf. So there is wildlife here too. They entertain me all through the night as I can’t sleep.

      Next day a nearby pharmacy gives me the name of a doctor. I call Ann in Tenby, still keeping an eye on my finances, and go for it. The nurse wraps a black band with a blood-pressure measuring dial around my left ankle and injects my foot. The doctor proceeds to cut off most of my third toe but it’s probably just the skin. The nurse wraps it all up in thick bandages so it resembles a Yeti’s foot and says I have to buy a giant blue surgical slipper she’s produced.

      No running for two weeks, the doctor says.

      I retire to my bordello, determined to make it in three days. The foot will heal fast as I’m fit. I’m concerned that I had a visa for the little piece of Russia called Kallingrad, which is all on its own in Europe; an extra visa to get through this area has also been arranged by Liza but will run out if I don’t get there soon enough.

      I get ready. It’s 12 November; if I can leave on the 14th, that would be fantastic. Behind my hotel, alternating with the many wild-looking clip joints and naked shows, are small, inexpensive shops selling food from around the world, ranging from African sweet yams to delicious tiny Caribbean bananas and rye-bread.

      The kiosk walls in the many small businesses offering cheap phone-calls are paper-thin. As I queue up with others, mostly from a large, hard-working immigrant community living quietly alongside the thriving nightlife, I recognise joy in the voices at once as soon as anyone gets through.

      It’s the first time on my run I’ve been amongst others far from their homes who have left families behind in more straitened circumstances of poverty and war than I could ever dream. They are sweet people and very polite to me. We communicate with words and gestures. As an Icelandic friend later tells me, ‘Need makes the naked lady spin.’

      The mice look on with definite approval as I unpack my purchases of figs, dates, cheese and bread until I shut the whole lot into a tin with a firm lid.

      I call Eve and James, and the line is so clear I feel I am reaching out and hugging them. They are part of me—the very best part—and I feel so close to them. I am happy and cheered knowing that everything is well at home. As many parents with grown-up families do, I feel that Eve and James and Pete are more than daughter and son and son-in-law to me; they are friends who I admire so much as well as love. They are in their thirties and with their own lives, but they are so good to me. They live far from Tenby, and often in the past we’ve been at the end of a phone like now. The difference this time is both that I shall be gone so long; but also that we are perhaps getting even closer in spirit than ever before.

      It’s a delightful boost when Geoff flies to Hamburg to walk with me for several kilometres before catching his flight back the same day. He also takes some good photos for the sponsors, which has been hard for me to achieve alone.

      As we set off, I find that I can cope without too much trouble with the bad foot. I wear a running shoe on one foot, surgical slipper on the other. With a plastic bag over the bandage, it works OK. Every time I get tired we call into a shop; they pull out a chair so I can rest for a few minutes but I soon get stronger.

      The only sad thing on the way from Hamburg is that Tenby Bear gets lost. I feel more than a twinge of sorrow. He’s been firmly tied and squashed into the backpack, but has vanished. Maybe he didn’t approve of the Red Light District or, on the contrary, liked it too much and has rushed back there to join in the fun. I hope some child in Hamburg who needs a beautiful bear will find him and love him a lot.

      By 15 November I’ve made 14km. I’m out in the forests again, it’s nearly −8 and the trees look like gossamer with stars caught in the frost branches. It always turns me inside-out with feelings I can’t describe, because of the sheer beauty and the feeling of being all alone in it.

      It’s cold but doesn’t rain, which is lucky as the foot stays dry and doesn’t get infected. I’m gradually able to wear a shoe on my bad foot, though without an insole.

      By 17 November I’ve reached Ratzeburg. Between here and Gadebusch, I run across the former border of East Germany. There is more difference between the old East Germany and West Germany than I realised. Bus stops in villages don’t have shelters, there are fewer cycle tracks. Houses are older, usually having smaller windows; penny marts and stalls sell everything. They seem quietly spoken, private folk who smile a bit when they hear my efforts at German. I had to learn the basics of five different languages before leaving home because in many cases nobody outside towns can speak English. It also seems to be a courtesy as well as necessity to learn a bit of each language.

      In a penny mart I meet Marion, selling salami with her husband. She writes in my book and says she’d love to cycle across Africa one day. ‘A dream is as necessary as being able to eat. It’s even more important when it’s all you have,’ she says. ‘We’ll go one day. Don’t tell my husband yet as it’s a secret.’ I can see he knows, from the affectionate smile he gives her. Maybe they should get a tandem, but then again maybe not. A week ago near Hamburg on a cycle path I saw a couple on a tandem. The man in front was beaming, pedalling fast. Luckily he couldn’t look back to see his wife her face like thunder, and not pedalling at all.

      Chunks of snow decorate the sweet-smelling pine forest after the first snowfall. Beneath mighty trees, little spruces and firs, delicately fringed with snow, are waiting to be collected to give pleasure over Christmas. I think, I want one like this next Christmas. I imagine my family sitting around it; parcels beneath. I think, It’s what I have always taken for granted that means the most now. That’s the biggest lesson of my run so far.

      People show me paths from farm to farm and through mighty pine woods before I head back onto a big road leading to Schwerin with its Cinderella-like castle. The last big place was Hamburg. I’m finding that reaching a town becomes part of the adventure.

      My foot is much better. The rest and recent low mileage have helped too—I ran 46km today to get to Schwerin, but am pretty tired; I decide, it’s definitely time for a treat.

      The first hotel I call at is expensive; the elderly blonde woman has a mean mouth. But a handsome young man with flowing hair is in charge of the next. He has a little dog with a bow in its hair that never leaves his heels. He welcomes me and charges half price. I have dinner in a hotel cafe with large aquaria everywhere, so one is truly dining with the fish; there are no other human guests. I retire to a comfy room where I can sort everything out and have a bath, soak the sore foot—and stretch in the warm water and luxuriate deliciously.

      Next morning I run in lashing rain across the Rampamoor, leading past mangroves and swamps close to the road between the water. It’s said to be a famous beauty spot but is ghoulish and full of restless ghosts as I cross in a near gale.

      A downpour has caused splashes of rainwater to be released in the trees. Each time the branches shake it’s like living under a waterfall so I have to keep moving the bivvi in the middle of the night. Since by now there’s no chance of getting to sleep, I do some writing. As my handwriting is a trainee MI5’s operative’s masterclass in decoding, especially

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