"You've made an impressive start, boys," said my dad as he watched the three of us peer cluelessly at a map. My parents had met us that morning at Kemble in the Cotswolds, off the 7:48 from Paddington, and were walking us to the start of what we'd optimistically billed our "epic adventure". And Dad clearly thought a morale booster was in order. "Let's get this straight. You three are planning to run seven marathons in seven days…" pause… "along the length of the Thames…" longer pause… "and you're lost before you've got to the start." No pause, but plenty of guffawing – from him anyway.
He had a point. What on earth were we doing? Three middle-aged plodders carrying tiny rucksacks were about to set out on a 184-mile run along the Thames Path from the source of Britain's most historic river to London. This wasn't a midlife crisis – it was a midlife catastrophe.
We struck out down another lane, scrambled over a railway track and finally spotted the old headstone under an ash tree that marks the official source. "We've made it," we chorused. "The start of the mighty Thames…" A few bored cows looked up and watched as we high-fived like hyped-up Dr Livingstones.
Alan said he had a couple of confessions to make before we got started. First, he'd forgotten to bring his water. Tom and I swapped looks of disbelief. Had Ranulph Fiennes ever forgotten his water? Second, he'd tried to modify his rucksack the night before and had accidentally cut off a strap…
We'd often joked as we prepared for our run that we were weekend ramblers who'd strayed on to a path up Everest. But with 184 miles to go, no water and a broken rucksack, the analogy seemed alarmingly true.
We posed for a few photos, and then Mum had the honour of saying: "On your marks, GO!" We waved and jogged off on our long journey to follow the Thames to the sea…
A mile later, with a mere 183 miles still to go, we came to a stile. I clambered over, lost my balance and fell into neck-high nettles, twisting my ankle as I went. I'd fallen at the first hurdle, literally. The others looked stunned. Could our epic adventure be over already? I pulled myself to my feet, smiled unconvincingly, and limped on in worried silence – Alan thinking about his broken rucksack, me about my throbbing ankle… and Tom about his choice of teammates.
It had come as a surprise to us that there was no water at the source of the Thames, just a shallow indentation. But after a couple of miles we reached a tiny wooden bridge which spanned the first stirrings of the newborn stream. We paused for another photo – and debated whether if we dropped a yellow duck into the flowing water it would beat us to London.
On we went and, shortly after passing the first of the pretty Keynes villages, came across the Thames in earnest. From a trickle it seemed to have grown quickly into an unruly toddler – and the infant river was now having a tantrum. It had burst its little banks and flooded the surrounding fields.
We forged on, wading across watery meadows that looked more like paddy fields. Suddenly Alan disappeared. He'd lost sight of the channel and fallen in. Muddy, soaked and shivering, we started to wonder if our decision to run all week in the same kit might have been a little optimistic.
As the Thames unfurled, we found ourselves mesmerised by it. Hypnotised by the ceaselessly changing scenery. Now and again we'd stop – for an energy bar, some water, for Alan to retie his rucksack. But we'd also stop for the flash of a kingfisher or to watch a leggy hare bounce across a field. We'd halt for a diving swan or a soundless heron, a moored boat, a pretty pub… We did a lot of stopping.
The end of our first long day brought us to Lechlade, the head of the navigable Thames. We crossed the ancient Ha'penny Bridge and found our hotel. We'd opted for a cheap family room to keep our costs down, though that was before Tom and I realised Alan liked to sleep in a sarong.
There are 45 LOCKS on the Thames. The first, at St John's, boasts a statue of Old Father Thames, commissioned in 1854 for Crystal Palace. "Most people think he's Neptune," said the cheerful lock-keeper. The last lock is at Teddington.
Each succeeding lock we reached had a story to tell, from Rushey near Tadpole Bridge where Errol Flynn and Douglas Fairbanks used to holiday, to the ghoulishly named Sandford Lasher, which has claimed so many lives, and the beautiful Godstow, which inspired Lewis Carroll in his adventures.
We decided we'd better stop at all the locks. Soon it seemed only right to stop at all the bridges, too. There is much dispute about how many bridges actually cross the river. Estimates hover around the 130 mark. The oldest is at Radcot and dates from the 13th century – three perfect arches of Taynton stone. There was a battle there in 1387, and it played a pivotal role in the War of the Roses in 1455. Same bridge, same river, 800 years of history. If we hadn't been sweating we'd have had goosebumps.
After Lechlade, the river embarks on its most tranquil and remote section. We ran bend after bend without seeing a soul. At Newbridge we stopped at the glorious Rose Revived for a couple of pints of orange juice and lemonade. The drink became a daily ritual for us.
We were so lucky with the weather. It was cool and bright for the whole week, and as we were running eastwards, each afternoon the sun would settle on our shoulders and send our shadows dancing ahead of us, luring us on. The prevailing wind was behind us, too, and it often felt as if a gentle hand was at our backs.
The path along these untroubled stretches was so narrow we had to run in single file, swapping the lead at each gate, stile or bridge. And as we ran on, the days stretched ahead of us, like the river, and with each step we left our mundane cares behind, notions of time and distance lost in the eddies of our unchecked banter.
Eventually Swinford and the bridge that marked the end of another day's running came into view. We stayed at a chintzy B&B. The only other guests were an American couple revisiting old haunts. "It's Runnymede and Stonehenge for us," they said. "What about Oxford?" asked Tom. "Oxford? No! We aren't going to bother."
We did bother and caught a bus into the city that evening for our nightly fix of shandy and lasagne.
The next morning we ran past the vast flatness of Port Meadow. The grazing land has never been ploughed and looks the same as it would have done when William the Conqueror presented it to the city 1,000 years ago. Churches, spires, boathouses... it felt as if the river was growing up before our eyes.
We stopped for lunch in the historic town of Abingdon before pressing on for Wallingford, passing Day's Lock at Little Wittenham, where the Pooh Sticks world championships are held. We lay in the grass in the autumn sun and dropped imaginary twigs off the bridge. We couldn't summon the energy to look for any real sticks.
Our third night was spent at Alan's parents'. They live at Streatley, which straddles the river with Goring – where George Michael lives. But that was hardly worth a mention the evening we were there, as the gossip was all about a flasher who'd been airing his wares the night before on Wallingford bridge, wearing nothing but a blue sweatshirt. "Has George got a blue sweatshirt?" I wanted to know. Alan looked at me. "No, but you do," he said suspiciously.
Next up it was Whitchurch and then Pangbourne, where an exhausted Jerome K Jerome ended his Three Men in a Boat adventure and where Kenneth Grahame of Wind in the Willows fame retired. Polished launches slipped silently past us while narrow boats chugged alongside, matching our speed and filling the air with woodsmoke. We skipped past Reading before coming round a bend to Shiplake. "Shitlake we called it when I was young," said Alan. We stopped and watched schoolboys learning to row. One had to sit it out. "I failed my capsize test," he explained mournfully.
The river enacted its next great costume change. Grand houses rolled out their immaculate lawns, like green baize. "Champagne tonight," yelled Alan as we approached Henley. It was tempting, but Tom and I didn't want to jinx our nightly shandy ritual.
From Henley the footpath changed to match its upmarket surroundings, and now rather than a tufted trail we were on smooth walkways. To our twisted ankles and strained calves it felt like running on velvet. The path took us past Hurley, Medmenham Abbey and Marlow. Bourne End led into Cookham, Cliveden, Maidenhead, Bray and Boveney. With Windsor slowly coming into view, we passed the Athens bathing site where boys from Eton used to swim. School rules advised undressed boys to jump in the water if a boat containing ladies passed by. It felt like we were running through history.
The next day, from Henley to Windsor was, at 24 miles, our shortest, but ironically it was also the day I found hardest. My swollen ankle flared up and I had to limp home, every step a misery. I worried that it was as far as I was going to get. But a visit to the pharmacy, a triple round of shandies and a night with my foot in an ice bucket soon cheered me up. The next morning we pressed on through Surrey's commuter-belt towns to finish at Mortlake, on the very edge of London.
The seventh and final day saw us follow the river as it sliced the capital in two. Friends and family turned up to prod us along the last sore miles. On we went, taking in the sights: the full-beamed Thames swirling next to us past the Eye, Tower Bridge, Greenwich, the warehouses and massive working wharves. It was hard to believe it was the same river we'd met as a trickle a week earlier.
At long last the Thames Barrier appeared, strung across the river like little Dutch churches. Eyes bright with tears, we gripped hands and ran the final yards together towards our cheering families and left the unflagging Thames, our constant companion, to run on into the sea.
Essentials
For all details of transport, accommodation and route maps, go to nationaltrail.co.uk/thamespath. The runners were generously supported by the investment firm Brewin Dolphin in celebration of its 250th anniversary (brewin.co.uk)
