Escaping life, one laugh (and one hill) at a time
Sometimes you just need to drive far enough that your responsibilities can’t find you. So we packed up Wilko the van, loaded with snacks, half a plan, and the kind of optimism that usually ends in sore legs and a good story.
🎤 Friday Night: The Bingo Incident
The weekend kicked off with Charity Bingo Night — a wholesome evening for a good cause, hosted by yours truly. I was the caller: the voice of fate, the bringer of balls, and (apparently) chaos.
Everything was going beautifully until my mouth staged a full rebellion.
Instead of the classic “One fat lady, number eight,” out came:
“One fat bastard!”
The hall erupted. Chairs shook. People howled. Mascara ran.
I bent double over the mic, wheezing like an asthmatic accordion. Somewhere between tears and hysteria, I managed to finish the night, raising a triumphant £920 for Sense — and possibly securing a lifelong ban from respectable bingo halls.
We loaded the prizes, the cash tin, and what was left of my dignity into Wilko. The open road called. So did the lay-by where we’d be parking up for the night, ready for Parkrun in the morning.
Because nothing says “elite athlete” like sleeping in a van full of raffle prizes and residual shame.
🏃♂️ Saturday: Parkrun & Pasty Recovery
Dawn cracked over the lay-by, bringing with it that unique mix of condensation, enthusiasm, and regret. Paula sprang out of bed like a gazelle. I unfolded myself like an ancient deckchair.
Parkrun went… fine-ish. Paula cruised through the course powered by smugness and endorphins. I shuffled behind, thighs still traumatised from Wednesday’s circuits. I crossed the finish line in a “respectable time” — meaning I didn’t need CPR and no one lapped me twice.
Hot chocolate at the café was glorious. Several locals came over to congratulate us — though mostly to relive “One Fat Bastard.” Fame at last. Not quite the kind I’d imagined.
🏖️ Sea Glass & Attenborough Vibes
We drove to Port Isaac for sea glass hunting — the kind of wholesome activity that balances out bingo-based humiliation. The tide was perfect. The sun sparkled. We transformed into self-proclaimed David Attenboroughs of the beach.
We found colourful fragments — future jewellery, or mantelpiece dust magnets. Either way, it felt like treasure.
🏰 Saturday Evening: Tintagel Tales
By evening, we rolled into Tintagel — home of King Arthur, ancient legends, and the best value car park in Cornwall: £6 for the night. Bargain.
Blinds down. Seats spun. Weekend mode: activated.
We wandered through shops full of “handcrafted by elves” trinkets. I resisted temptation until Paula spotted a hairy, multicoloured football with googly eyes. Naturally, we bought it for Elodie — our young bingo assistant and future heir to the Fat Bastard throne.
Dinner at The Cornishman pub: bangers and mash under strict gravy rations. Bellies full, spirits high, and grand plans for a “nice easy 5-mile run” the next morning.
In Cornwall, easy means vertical.
🐾 Sunday: The Run, The Views & The Seals
Golden light spilled over the cliffs. Shoes laced. Flasks filled. We set off from Wilko through Tintagel Main Street, legs already protesting.
The route — roughly 4 miles of road, hill, and coast — began with a climb into the old graveyard. We said good morning to those “laying in,” then broke out onto the coastal path.
The world unfolded in colour — rugged cliffs, swirling sea, and air that clears your soul and sinuses. We ran (never jogged) along cliff tops, through stone breaks, over bridges, and into kissing gates — Paula’s favourite part: she gets a kiss, I get a breather.
We stopped often — partly for photos, partly for lungs — and scanned the waves.
And there they were: two seals, bobbing in the shallows, watching us like curious sentinels.
The world went quiet. Magic, pure and simple.
Eventually, we carried on. Legs burning. Knees muttering. But with the sea roaring beside us and Wilko waiting at the end, I couldn’t help but smile.
We crested the final hill. Wilko came into view. We picked up the pace for a triumphant finish. Because we never jog.
We run.
🥔 Epilogue: Back to Life (Reluctantly)
One catastrophic bingo call. One coastal “stroll” that nearly killed me. Two new seal friends. And the eternal debate over whether mashed potatoes should come with an ocean of gravy.
Just another escapade in Wilko — part comedy, part chaos, and all heart.