The battery of The Tank spluttered and coughed it’s last.

The AA man arrived, checked it’s pulse, then pronounced it well and truly dead.  He did, however, toss a few chicken bones and cast a few spells which allowed it’s temporary resurrection, enough to make it as far as my friend John’s garage near the canal bank in Falkirk.  FD and I abandoned the The Tank outside the workshop and headed off for a one hour amble along the final few hundred metres of the Forth and Clyde Canal, just before it outfalls into the River Carron near Grangemouth.

Today’s little leg stretch kicked off from where Quintus Lollius Urbicus, on behalf of his emperor Titus Aelius Hadrianus Antoninus Augustus Pius, began his futile attempts to keep the Scots out of Europe.  Little did he know that they were quite capable of doing that on their own without the help of the Romans, UEFA, or any other of sport’s governing bodies.  But let’s not dwell on the current state of Scottish football but rather let us wonder at the state of the closest car parking facility to the eastern terminus of that man-made wonder of the 2nd Century A.D – the Antonine Wall.  It’s a muck hole!

It was a sad looking exhibition.

Our reputation, built through hard (ahem) days on the Scottish mountains, was in danger of collapse.  As we stumbled out the car we took stock of our individual infirmities.

My legs were goosed, totally!  The right leg ached from bum to toe, the sciatic nerve plucking the various muscles like some demented harpist.  One mile?  Two miles?  I had no idea how far the legs would take me today.