From Heathfield, he walked to Chudleigh Knighton along the B3344, and on again to Chudleigh. It was an effort to get that far, with such exhaustion deep inside him. He took a room for the night, disappointed he had barely managed five miles, although the following day he pushed himself hard and walked from dawn, covering another nine. The early sun shone through the trees in spokes of light, and by mid-morning the sky was pasted with small stubborn clouds that, the more he looked, resembled grey bowler hats. Midges shot through the air.

Six days after leaving Kingsbridge, and approximately forty-three miles from Fossebridge Road, the waistband of Harold’s trousers drooped from his stomach and patches of sunburnt skin peeled from his forehead, nose and ears. Referring to his watch, he found he already knew the hour. Morning and evening, he studied the toes, heels and arches of his feet, applying plasters or cream where the skin was broken or chafing. He preferred to take his lemonade outside, and sheltered with the smokers when it rained. The first of the forget-me-nots shone in pale pools under the moon.

Harold promised himself he would buy serious walking equipment in Exeter, and a further souvenir for Queenie. As the sun sank behind the city walls and the air chilled, he remembered again that there was something not right about her letter, but couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

8

Harold and the Silver-Haired Gentleman

Dear Maureen, Writing this from a bench beside the cathedral. Two chaps are doing street theatre, though they seem to be in danger of setting themselves on fire. Have marked my position with an x . H.

Dear Queenie, Do not give up. Best wishes, Harold (Fry).

Dear Girl in the Garage (Happy to Help), I have been wondering whether you pray? I tried once but I was too late. I am afraid that did it for me. Kind regards, The man who was walking.

PS. I am still doing it.