Here I am folks, sniffing out a field of barley and wondering how they ever manage to turn it into beer. I’ve tried a lick, but there’s no kick. September’s arrived and the panic’s setting in. It’s easy to say ‘192 miles’ (well it is if you have the right kind of vocal chords, which I don’t) but it’s another to slog away at it for a fortnight, day after day, mile after mile. Of course, I’m expected to do more. She persists in confusing dog years with dog miles, telling people “Oh Molly will be doing far more than any of us.” I don’t know if she’s winding me up or not, but if she thinks I’m going to do 192 x 7 miles

The money side of things is going well. She has a target of £8000, which seems a lot to me just to provide clean water for a village. Why can’t they train their people to just put a bowl of it down for them every day? Easy. Anyway, she tells me that the fund already stands at around £6000, thanks in part to three generous donations from Roberttown Pop Choir, John Cotton’s, and St Martin’s Church Brighouse. And that’s before we get our boots on. Not that I have been offered any such protection for my feet – even though I’ve got more than anyone else, and statistically a far greater chance of getting a blister. If I have to be rescued, I just hope there’s one of those fit looking St Bernard’s on the case. More when we hit the road.

Molly