I lived about six miles from Plymouth and was doing agency work during my summerbreak from university. I knew I had a full week’s pay. All I had to do was fill a rucksack, get my pay, pootle to the ferry terminal and be off and running. Oh dear... So, I went into Plymouth (on foot, lacking the bus fare) carrying only a rucksack (badly packed, containing little I needed and plenty that I didn’t), a blanket, one change of clothes and a day’s food. Yes, no sleeping bag, tent, race ticket, camping permit or clue as to what I was actually doing. With a small house on my back I staggered to the ferryport. I arrived looking like I was about to die, feeling like I might and smelling like I just had (I’d made a six mile march, in June, with a full pack after all.). Arriving at the port with only an hour until boarding, fifteen minutes before check-in closed, I spent almost a third of my entire (woefully inadequate) budget on a return from Plymouth to Roscoff. It was as close to sensible planning as I got. The ferry was uneventful. I arrived in Roscoff at... (read more)