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Walking Land's End to John o'Groats with Mark Moxon

Pengoon Farm to Truro

A tin mine south of Porkellis
A tin mine south of Porkellis

The most remarkable thing about today's walk is how lacerated it has made my feet. Whenever I've walked I've developed an unhealthy obsession with blisters, and at last that obsession has something to work on; I'm the proud owner of a small patch of raw skin on my left Achilles tendon and two blisters on the underside of my right foot that are so deep below the skin that they're thankfully unbroken. They are, however, bloody painful to walk on, and when I walk – or, to be more accurate, hobble – it feels like I'm standing on a couple of drawing pins.

Primal Feral

The pretty village of Ponsanooth seems to melt into the greenery

Pengoon Farm was a great spot; the old couple who ran the place were utterly charming, the local pub was a delight, and the walk back to my tent was lit by a combination of moonlight and the dull glow of the long-departed sun. Looking forward to a good long sleep, I tucked up into my new sleeping bag, lay down on my new inflatable sleeping mat, plonked my head on my new travel pillow and whispered goodnight to my new tent as the chirpy silence of the countryside muffled around my ears. It was bliss.

Man: Can you turn that music down?

Feral: What?

Man: Turn that music down! You can hear it in all the other caravans. It's ridiculously loud!

Feral: Hey, don't fucking shout at me!

Man: I've got to shout because your music is so damn loud!

Feral: I said don't you shout at me!

Man: Turn this music off now!

Feral: I said don't... shout... at... me! Ask me to turn it off politely and I'll think about it.

Man: [through gritted teeth] Turn off your music. Please.

Feral: Hey listen, I'm a human being, don't yell at me. What's your name?

Man: What?

Feral: My name's Alan. What's your name? Treat me like a human being and I'll be nice, shout at me and you can forget it.

Man: Uh?

Feral: Here, shake my hand. Treat me like a human being. Come on.

Man: Listen, will you just turn off your damn music? It's ridiculous playing music this loud in a caravan park at night.

Feral: Shake my hand.

Man: [sighs] I don't believe it. [shakes hand]

Feral: There, that wasn't hard, was it? [turns music down] Goodnight, then.

Man: Um. Yes. Goodnight.

As I lay there, I couldn't help admire the feral, even though he was quite blatantly a nutter. After all, he had managed to control the conversation from the start, despite the fact that he was the one shattering the delicate peace of the caravan park; I wonder if that was the agenda behind his sonic invasion.

Rain and Hedgerows

An old tin mine in Nancegollan
An old tin mine in Nancegollan

As I drifted off to sleep it started to rain, the wind started to howl, and it started to get uncomfortably humid in my tent, but worst of all I started winding myself up about today's walk. The thought of 17 miles struggling through grim Cornish weather filled me with a deep foreboding, and although the tent held up and the rain drowned out the sound of the feral's incessant but quieter music selection, I slept badly. At 6.45am I eventually gave up trying and got up before my alarm went off.

Truro Cathedral
Truro Cathedral