LE JOG

[El Gordo]

I press on, full of confidence after my 13 mile leg. However, I soon come to grief and end up limping into Tresillian, where I seek warmth and comfort in the historic Wheel Inn. Built in the 1400s, the Wheel earns its place in history as the HQ of the parliamentary army during the English Civil War, and it was here that the Royalists surrendered in 1646.

However, the food does not live up to expectations, and leaving my lukewarm pasty only semi-consumed, I throw a low value banknote onto the table, growl loudly, project my most alarming sneer at the quivering barmaid, and stumble through the door into the Cornish countryside. In my anger, I wrench from the wall of the pub a decorative wheel, and hurl it onto the thatched roof. A passing mugsmith cries out: "Caramba! This is something worth commemorating!" He takes from his back pocket a small notebook, and begins to sketch.

A half mile out of the village, I spy a tempting haystack in a field, and make my way towards it. I am sinking gratefully into its warm heart when ouch! Something sharp is sticking into my backside. It's a needle. I take this as a good omen. I carefully push it into my collar for future use, before drifting quickly into a deep sleep.