22/05/2026
So then, there we go. Yesterday was Day Four. The last one. And somehow, despite every available warning sign, poor planning decision, questionable overnight accommodation and absolutely heroic consumption of snacks, My Big Fat Walk To The Seaside is DONE.
The weather, which up until now had largely behaved itself, decided that for the final day it would become aggressively hot. Not Mediterranean hot. Not "lovely bit of sunshine" hot. More that very British sort of heat where you're simultaneously sweating, thirsty, slightly annoyed, and questioning every life decision that led to you carrying a rucksack around southern England. Given that only the day before I was wearing every bit of clothing I’d brought just to stay warm this felt wildly unfair, but hey ho.
A brisk march down towards the Gosport ferry started things off, before heading into Portsmouth. And, well, now Portsmouth I love. I've worked there before, know it well, and it contains layer upon layer of history. Everywhere you look there's another story. Naval history, old fortifications, hidden corners, strange little bits of coastline. If I DID ever write something properly about this whole ridiculous adventure, much of it – like the last – would be a bit of a travel book, with my somewhat colourful take on the areas I walked through. And to be honest, when it comes to History and Interesting Things, I could write one about Portsmouth by itself. But that’s for the future – back to yesterday.
Route wise I made an executive decision.
Rather than heading up around East Harbour, I diverted and hugged the bottom edge all the way towards Hayling. Same distance. Better scenery. Lower chance of getting trapped in marshland and having to explain to emergency services that I'd been defeated by mud. It also meant another ferry crossing, Portsea over towards Hayling, which felt fitting somehow. The ferries have become oddly central characters in this story.
Then came the final insult from the Solent gods. Bit between the top of Hayling and Emsworth. Last couple of miles. Tide fully in.
Route gone. Completely impassable.
And so, with the finish line almost visible, I found myself crawling through hedges and trees like some deeply underqualified cave explorer, rucksack being thrown ahead of me in stages whilst branches fought back with considerable enthusiasm.
Within seconds I'd acquired a three inch cut down my leg. Really wasn’t in the humour for this after 15 miles in the blazing sunshine, but out the other side I came.
One final mile. And the pub. Sarah. A pint. And, completely unexpectedly, Mum and Dad too, which was as wonderful as it was surprising.
And then? Well, I went home and got drunk. Done.
With respect to this silly endeavour, there’s learnings, and more importantly questions, which I’ll mull over across the next week (or rest of my life). Maybe I’ll post it, who knows? But I guess The Main Thing is that it’s easy NOT to do things like this - put yourself in discomfort, just for the craic. There’s bits I'll remember and perhaps bits I'd quietly rather forget. But it all makes for a story, which perhaps is the point.
But for now, thank you. For every comment, message, joke, encouragement and bit of support along the way.
That was my Big Fat Walk To The Seaside.
