O lucky man

I am so lucky.

I do not care about the tips of my toes, which painfully bang against the front of my boot with every step I take, because I am so lucky.

I am lucky with the weather. Four days out of eight are completed and it has not rained. Downpours are forecast for tomorrow, but I do not care because they may be needed to save England in the Third Test.

So I do not care about the searing pain in my calf muscles every time I climb over yet another stile, because I am lucky.

I am extremely lucky, for example, that I was not part of Harold's army that marched in four days from London to Stamford Bridge , which is about 200 miles. It's called a forced march, which sounds about right to me because right now my kneecaps are seized up and I am not sure I can make it the 200 yards to the pub for dinner.

I am very lucky that we have met so many lovely people on the way: Elaine, the charming proprietor of the Bollam Cottage B&B in Kirkby Stephen; Elaine (a different one), who runs a tea shop in the middle of nowhere between Reeth and Richmond and who makes the best chocolate cake north of Johannesburg; Rob, the allegedly sane teacher from Melbourne, who when I asked "Isn't the best thing about teaching the opportunity to thrash the kids?" looked straight at me and said "if you think like that, mate, you are probably not cut out to be a teacher."  And these fortunate meetings stop me from thinking of the pain in my back or my neck.

I am very lucky that I have my favourite wife with me to cheer me up so that I don't spend all day going on about the pain in my soles from walking miles along tarred roads. I am extremely fortunate that the gorgeous views have distracted me from my aching bones.

And, somehow I feel I will be even luckier on Thursday evening when it is all over.