The Morgul Veruca
Each foot fall (right foot) is a pain. A pain like Frodo's when the Morgul knife broke at the tip, and the shard started making its way to his heart. I knew I would soon be in the power of this veruca. Sadly Pete was displaying non of his Sam Gamgee like qualities, and wasn't even carrying his own water. The tall dark peaks of Amberley station were towering ominously to the north. I forget the dwarfish name for them but its sure to be a jaw cracker. Towards lunch my remaining Kabanos sausages made a bid for freedom down a dark track. Luckily the situation was saved by the outstanding gents toilets at Amberly working museum. The afternoon wore on, treacherously bright. After a few wrong turns we sheltered in a beer garden and ate a frugal lunch (once the salad garnish had been moved to one side). I was awoken from my daydream by the ersatz Sam and had the terrible realisation that we were still only a third of the way on the day's march. At this point I thought it was prudent not to mention this as he was looking contently fed and watered and was bubbling with enthusiasm. In the immortal words of Gandalf at the council of Elrond "would anybody freely join the company if they knew what really lay ahead?"

Lost in the Forest
The emergence of the compass can only mean one thing: we are lost. Our merry company at this point, dubbed Flight 19, was aimlessly wandering in a small wood peering again and again at the visitor's centre car park, and trying to keep away from the road, to which all paths seemed to lead. The appearance of the compass at this point confirmed that North was indeed North and no matter which way we held the map up we had still lost the trail. There would be nothing for it, we would have to break out on to the road and face all the dangers that that held. We made fabulous moving targets that only walking gear can create. All those bright gaudy colours are like headlights to rabbits. Fortunately Sam II, the slight return, was covering my back. 5 minutes of traffic dodging that felt like 3 hours of mental torture on this highway to hell (Pulborough) and then thankfully we plunged into a small lane that lead to the nameless village.

Above the Pulborough fields
We first espied Pulborough, our no longer final destination by the side of the church on the hill. Our careful planning in the Lord Nelson public house had led us to choose Pulborough as the logical/reasonable/practical end to the first days walk. It was, we thought, the ideal lodging point between today and tomorrows epic legs. Alas due to poor and late and somewhat blokish organisation there was no accommodation to be had. Luckily a little finger's distance on the map lay the sleepy hamlet of Lower Fittleworth, and what promised to be a welcoming inn supplying victals and beer and, most importantly, accommodation in separate rooms with en suit showers. But now the realisation was that this now lay to the west on a distant line of darkening hills. Still the first glimpse of Pulborough lightened our hearts as this meant we were closer to our first pint and we could stock up on some valuable water as we had been running on empty for the last hour or so. The path descending steeply through a thicket of trees and then without warning were suddenly out in the open again in the rich meadow lands of the river, which was meanderingly majestically in the hot afternoon sun. The path was straight and true, yet underfoot it was becoming wetter. Then all of a sudden we came to a halt with a splash. The treacherous path had ended in a deep flooded bog and there seemed to be no way across. For the next 20 minutes we jumped from grass clump to grass clump trying to find away through. Pete the stout hearted suggested that we get the compass out again. "Unless you intend to sail in it I don't see what f*&!$king use that will be" I said as my foot dislodged another cloud of flies. Hope had all but departed when suddenly we espied a new path. We journeyed anew on the tricky shifting pathway, the OS map having been relegated to a dog eared orange fly swatter. After such a solitary journey we finally encountered our first fellow walker. A rather perplexed looking lady who said she had lost her dog. This was the final straw. Travelling footsore, rucksack chaffed, thirsty and harbouring the terrible truth of the true distance and now the added element of edginess as there was now a rabid mangy cur on the loose. Her honeyed poisoned words, describing it as a tail wagging spaniel answering to the name of Fido or something. But steadily the path rose form the meadow and the ground became firmer and drier and increasingly frequent dog spoors we knew that we were approaching the journey's faux end. Somewhat red faced and mud spattered we almost fell in the Aladdin's cave know as CO-OP one stop shop. We stocked up heavily (at least as they were piled into my rucksack heavily) on bottles of water.

The last debate - or lack of it
Pulborough was somewhat lacking in the public regional transport department. Whilst that woolly footed rascal Pete was ensconced in the local chemist looking for Athelas of the butt, I had ambled up to the local bus stop. Unfortunately the timetable must have had a bit part in the Davinci code. For a good ten minutes I was trying to make head or tail of the complex cipher. After 10 minutes and on Pete's advice and after deciding that this local service had nothing to do with Mary Magdelin's bloodline we gave up and started to walk along the main road which was to be our only path to Lower Fittleworth. The road was now thronged with cars full of happy carefree drivers racing home for the weekend. As we trudged slowly in silence up the never ending incline, the jolly little bus whooshed past. We both stood there, neither saying a word and resignedly carried on tramping our route. We took a few minutes out at the Stopham bridge which had now been cut off by the new main road bypass and was standing there isolated like an ox bow lake. It would have been a beautiful spot with the ancient bridge leading to a inviting looking Inn. Alas we were not in the mood and this idyllic river now had all the features of Hades . The evening was getting on and the sun was now sinking below the evil hills to which we were heading. After a few more decades of minutes we turned off the main road and descended into an unmade track, which was to be our shortcut. The conversation had died along with our appreciation of spectacular scenary. Each step forward was now torturous. In another walk in another body this would have been like walking through the garden of the English countryside, but now in the deepening gloom, each hill, each corner revealing no Lower Flittleworth was sinking our hearts in to our boots. After an hour we finally emerged from the long lane and there suddenly was the sight of the Swan Inn and Lower Flittleworth. With renewed vigour we upped pace to a pigeon step and hurried the last 200 metres and arrived to an indifferent and cold welcome. With pint in hand and backside on chair I can take ostrasisation. Bring it on.