www.josiedew.co.uk - archive news from November 2001

Decided wobbly knee had turned up its toes for quite long enough. So, ignoring its protests, revved in into action along with Roberts-riding mother in tow — she had gamely volunteered to accompany me on Day 1 (of Departure No. 3) about twenty miles down the road to Rowland's Castle.

That's funny, do I hear you say, I didn't think Rowland's Castle was in Cornwall. Well you're right, it's not. It's in Hampshire. But instead of resuming my haphazard coastal jaunt where I had left off (among Cornwall's leg-conking hills) my flimsy knee had felt more inclined to go to Portsmouth and lead me left across the comparative flatlands of the Southeast. The big question was, would I even make it to Portsmouth?

Things didn't look too good as I struggled to keep up with my septuagenarian mother (well, 69 3/4 actually, but I like to remind her what a spring chicken she is at heart) on the 8 1/2 miles to South Harting. The out-of-breath knee demanded a rest. Obligingly we called a halt and sat on the village playing field trying to shelter out of the whistling wind as we consumed a hearty packed lunch. If in doubt, eat, and then eat a bit more, is my motto. It might not mend knees or get you any closer to Portsmouth but it tastes nice all the same.

Anyway, when all was said and done (or not done), and eaten, it was then so late it was almost tea time and Rowland's Castle — let alone Portsmouth — felt about as far away as Vladivostok.

"I could do with a nice cup of tea and a bun," said mum.

Everything then became very funny, especially when dotty mother spotted Stonehenge on top of the South Downs (but that's another story and we only had an overdose of bananas to blame). When I remarked to mum that this wasn't much good, that I used to be able to cycle to Africa and back no trouble and now I couldn't even make it down the road to Rowland's Castle, we guffawed even more.

By the time our stomach muscles had recovered it was so late that the only sensible solution to a highly unsensible day was to pay heed to my mother's advice (and not often can I say I've done that).

"Why not cycle home with me now," she said, "have a good night's sleep and then try again tomorrow?"

I said, "I can't do that. I can't give up before I've hardly even started!", before quickly adding, "actually, sounds like a very good idea!"

So we did an about turn and cycled home where my false-start day came to a close with me sleeping in my tent in the front room. Made me feel I had gone somewhere even if I hadn't.

Will the wonked knee ever see me to the elusive Rowland's Castle let alone around the coast of the British Isles? Keep your handlebars honed and your pedals primed on this campsite of a website for the answer. . .