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.

I would be the first to admit our list of conquered hills for the months of April and […]

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.