The Tour de Trigs is back

My husband’s face went pale when I told him the news. Stunned at the revelation, he hurriedly started making plans to be “otherwise engaged” over the weekend of December 1 and 2.

The cause of his horror? After a gap of two years, the Tour de Trigs is back. And back in 44 days time. In fact one of the Tour de Trigs organisers helpfully left a comment at House With No Name, asking me to spread the word.

For anyone who hasn’t come across it, the Tour de Trigs challenge is a gruelling 24-hour orienteering hike through the wilds of the Oxfordshire, Warwickshire and Northamptonshire countryside. Competitors (lots of them walk for charity) are given a set of map references and have to be checked off at each one.

If that wasn’t tough enough, the event is always held in December – when the days are short, the temperatures are freezing and the fields are clogged in mud. Worst of all, at least half the trek is done in the dark.

I’ve never done it (and never intend to) but my husband has. A crazy five times – and usually in lashing rain. Each time he says he’s never going to do it again but then his doctor friend Tim rings and he always ends up saying “great idea - count me in.”

The walkers compete in teams of three and have to carry rucksacks equipped with everything from blister plasters, maps and sleeping bags to head torches and reflective armbands. My husband takes a flask of strong black coffee, flapjacks and hot cheese and tomato rolls (wrapped in tin foil to keep them warm). A couple of hours in, he can’t face any of it and has to force himself to eat.

They set off on Saturday morning and the rot always sets in as dusk falls. One year my husband felt so sick he had to quit halfway. The next, one of his team-mates fell ill. Another time he trudged on through wind and rain, unable to speak or map-read, and fainted on the kitchen floor when he got home.

So, the big question in our house is – will he sign up or will he flee the country? Somehow I suspect the latter…

Advent calendars - and the last day of NaBloPoMo

On the last day of November every year I hang a faded purple velvet advent calendar in the kitchen and fill the 24 pockets with sweets. My daughter’s at university now and at 17 my son thinks advent calendars are babyish, but tough, I’m still doing it. And he’ll happily gobble up the sweets before he leaves for school every morning.

I’m not particularly keen on tradition most of the year but Christmas is different. At Christmas, tradition rules. I love searching out the decorations (I buy a new one each year so they now amount to an eccentric medley of hearts, stars, papier maché baubles, twinkling lights and tin snowmen), putting the tree up in time for my daughter’s birthday on the 13th and playing carols at top volume as I wrap presents. I never write lists and with 24 days to go my office floor is already a tangled mess of presents, wrapping paper and parcels that I ordered on-line but can’t for the life of me remember who for.

But in amongst the chaos, today feels extra special. Why? Because it's the last day of National Blog Posting Month – or NaBloPoMo for short.

The first NaBloPoMo took place in 2006 when an American blogger called M. Kennedy decided there should be a blogging equivalent of National Novel Writing Month. The idea took off in a flash and is now held without fail every November.

I'm not sure how I got involved but all I can say is that it seemed like a good idea at the time. The main thing I’ve discovered from the experience is that blogging every day is an awful lot harder than it looks. But from blogging boot camp to the mums who wear pyjamas at the school gate, I’ve somehow managed it - and made lots of NaBloPoMo friends along the way.

PS. This Saturday should have been the day my husband and two friends set off on the annual Tour de Trigs challenge, a gruelling 24-hour orienteering hike through the wilds of the Oxfordshire, Warwickshire and Northamptonshire countryside. For 46 years it’s been held every December – when the days are short, the temperatures are freezing and the fields are at their muddiest. But sadly we’ve just heard the event has run its course and won’t be taking place any more. A look of bewilderment crossed my husband’s face when he heard the news. “I don’t know whether to be sad or relieved,” he said.

PPS. If you’re still looking for an advent calendar this Caroline Gardner one (above) is the prettiest I’ve seen. My son isn’t impressed because it doesn’t have chocolates inside but I'd rather have it than a Top Gear one any day.

The joys of walking - and the Tour de Trigs

Oh dear. It’s that time of year again. With the leaves already turning brown (very early this year) and our teenage son grumbling about going back to school, my husband’s begun training for the Tour de Trigs. If you haven’t heard of this extraordinary event, it’s a gruelling 24-hour orienteering hike through the wilds of Oxfordshire, Warwickshire and Northamptonshire. Just to make it extra-challenging, it’s held every December – when the days are short, the temperatures are freezing and the fields are at their boggiest. Entrants compete in teams of three and it’s so tough that most years only a third complete the top-secret 50-mile route.

My husband’s done five Tours de Trigs already and until a few weeks ago swore he wouldn’t attempt a sixth. But time is a great healer and a year’s long enough to forget what it’s like. When his GP friend Tim rang to suggest their team might stand a chance of winning a prize this year, I couldn’t believe my husband’s jaunty response. “Great idea,” he shot back.

Three months ahead of the event, I can predict exactly what will happen. On the morning of December 3, the intrepid trio will start the big day in high spirits. After a slap-up breakfast and quick kit-check, blister plasters, head torches and maps will be flung into rucksacks amid jokes about the horror that lies ahead.

Nonetheless, they’ll stick to their guns. As long as they keep eating high-energy bars and drinking strong black coffee, the walk is mostly fine till nightfall. Then the rot sets in. One year my husband felt so sick he had to quit halfway. Another year he trudged on through wind and rain, unable to speak or map-read. At one point he got in such a muddle that just like the Grand Old Duke of York he repeatedly led the team up and down the same hill. It still gives him a funny turn when we drive past the village of Brailes en route to the Cotswolds.

If previous years are anything to go by, the morning after the night before a weary-looking walker will stumble up our garden path. His face will be bright red, pummelled for hours on end by the elements, he’ll be covered in mud from head to toe and he’ll be barefoot because his feet are in agony. As he staggers through the front door, dropping his rucksack, first-aid kit, fluorescent armbands and great clods of earth everywhere, there’ll be just one thing on his mind.

“I’m never doing it again,” he’ll splutter. “Never. Ever. Do you hear me? Never.”