Call of the Wild

In 1973 it was not at all easy to plan a week's walking holiday on the Peddars Way. Jack and I poured over Ordnance Survey maps, read East Anglia by RR Clarke, and I asked around at the office, where I found someone who had walked it 20 years' before. But information was sketchy. We didn't even know where the path began, whether it was a continuous route, or how much of it ran over privately-owned land.
Equipment was also tricky. Neither of us had any lightweight gear - which at the time was impossibly expensive - though we could scrape together an ancient two-person tent, which was certainly not lightweight, and a couple of sleeping bags. Another problem was that neither of us had done any serious walking before, and thus had no real idea of what sort of task lay ahead.
In the end we started from Brandon, walked the Harling Drove and joined the Peddars Way north of the A11, and then spent seven days in a heatwave, tottering sweatily under impossible burdens, all the way to Holme next the Sea. That very night the heavens broke, and it was then we discovered the old blue tent was not actually waterproof. Hours later we were rescued by my wife, who bravely drove out to the coast from Norwich, and finally got back to our homes long after dark, wet, exhausted, and - after a decent spell for reflection - absolutely determined to do it again.
Nowdays, with the long distance route already in its 26th year, there are waymarks and guidebooks, duckboards and B&Bs. Forty years ago there were none of these. Not even a Coast Path. No signposts, no advice or guidance, no actual public route, no footbridges or safe means of crossing boggy areas, and no places to stay. Pubs? At least one of them did not welcome muddy-booted walkers. Rivers, such as the Little Ouse and the Thet, well, we had to take off our boots, put our rucksacks on our shoulders, and wade across. Camping? Where-ever you could find somewhere off the track and largely out of sight.
There were other problems, too. In 1973 the Army was still making use of Battle Area land on both sides of the path, and the route was closed for a short distance (there was a barrier, and a sentry box) at Stowbedon Plantation, south of Thompson Water, while military exercises spilled back and forth across the track near Sparrow Hill. There were other detours which had to be walked, too, such as the boundary of the Merton estate, and a section near Anmer which was blocked by brambles and vegetation.
As for water, I recall that aside from the occasional pub where we tried to persuade the landlord to refill our plastic canister, we came across one desperately needed supply thanks to a cattle trough (which had clean water inlet) near Harpley Dams, and a solitary public tap, at Holme.
But there were compensations. The freedom to wander, to invent a route, to carry all your possessions of your back. They were all high on the list. Fresh air, the sky, the sun, and the landscape, they contributed greatly, too. And sitting around a small fire in the evening, sipping scotch and listening to the owls, was memorable.
So despite the exhaustion and the blisters, we did walk it again. And again, and again.