St Elizabeth had looked after me overnight. In fact, I’d slept for 10 hours. I was still feeling the effects of the second day’s hike, not just physically but mentally too. The thought of scrambling down dusty, slippery slopes like a dog with worms was still hanging over me.
Sleepy Sokołowsko was yawning to life as I started my final journey eastwards. Parents were walking their small kids to school, or at least the bus stop to take them to the nearest school. The sun shone brightly on this late-September morning. Autumn was approaching and leaves were beginning to fall. Soon, nature would enter hibernation and I, too, wanted to hide myself away from the outside world.
First though, I had to make it to Jedlina-Zdrój and my train that afternoon. A look at my map revealed more mountains, bigger than Ruprechtický špičák. There didn’t seem to be a way round them – or at least not one that didn’t involve a five-mile detour.
The route to the first self-imposed checkpoint of Andrzejówka was a slow and constant climb around the bases of Włostowa (2963ft), Kostrzyna (2972ft) and Waligóra (3071ft), all just a little bit smaller than Skiddaw in the Lake District. I was enjoying being amongst the trees as the sun shot blinding beams of light, illuminating the forest floor. However, the foreboding I felt at climbing more mountains, including the 2960ft Jeleniec was having more of an effect on my mood than I was expecting.
The sluggish stroll to Andrzejówka had taken as much time as the signs suggested, which concerned me as I’m normally quicker than those timings. I looked at my route and realised there would be at least another five hours of this. I rested a while at the Andrzejówka junction to prevent my rucksack causing more damage to my back. The sole couple camping in the large field emerged from their tent. A check of my map suggested an alternate route via the road. I’m not a fan of road walking but this looked mercifully downhill and flat, with just a few hills announcing the approach to my final destination. It was a few miles longer, but an hour or so quicker.
Once again, I had chosen… wisely. As I left Andrzejówka by the road, a fully kitted-out ski slope brought home the fact that this was serious hill country. A massive open-cast mine honed into view. Half a mountain had been cut out as melaphyre, a hardened form of volcanic lava, was salvaged to be used as aggregate in large construction projects across Poland. It says a lot about where my mind was that I momentarily wished they could’ve done this with the other mountains in my way. I was beginning to long for Lincolnshire, of all places.
As with Sokołowsko, the subdued settlement of Rybnica Leśna had few facilities except a remarkable bottle-top recycling bin. In the shape of a heart, a metal-and-wire structure collected plastic tops from locals and visitors alike. It was a really stylish way to address an increasingly problematic issue.
The road, appropriately called Turystyczna, was beautiful. Picture-perfect fieldscapes dotted with cows sheltered under the mountains. What previously had been daunting became spiriting. I realised there that I was a valley boy. I much preferred looking at mountains than being on top of them. It’s the same as towers. I don’t get the point in going up them just to look down and think “oh, isn’t it beautiful down there?” If it’s so beautiful, be there. The other thing I realised was that I could have loosened the straps on my rucksack days ago. Releasing the weight from my back freed me up in more ways than one. I was cantering down this delightful, winding road. Cute wooden homes peered out of forests or nestled next to the babbling brook, often wafting out plumes of smoke from chimneys.
My off-road turn came all too quickly, but at least I was brighter and ready for the final hills. Besides, this one was only 2400ft and I wasn’t going to the top. It symbolised the end of a gruelling adventure. I would devour it like John Mills’ Captain Anson devoured a beer at the end of Ice Cold in Alex. Speaking of beer, the endpoint of my walk was a brewery. It was as if I’d planned it.
I enjoyed the initial climbs, taking my time and looking back over the valley to the border mountains. Then came another descent. Another crazily steep descent with an unstable surface. Surely steps exist in this part of the world. Or slides. Slides would do. In lieu of one, I hitched my rucksack up to my shoulders, sat down and slid down, trying to keep control with my feet. I’m sure I could have run down, but I was concerned about either slipping or losing momentum due to the weight I was carrying. I was also impressed that my feet had held up so well. My new walking shoes had only had one previous outing but they were perfect. No blisters or unexpected aches.
Reaching a junction, I encountered another descent. Same again, sliding down on my bum. I reckoned I should probably change my shorts before going into the brewpub, but I didn’t know if I’d find somewhere suitable.
I was less than a mile from the pub and station. I began to hear rustling in the undergrowth and remembered the signs I had seen detailing the snakes that could be found in the area. At the bridge over the railway I realised that nothing now could harm me. Then I was stung. In my temporary bliss, I had let my arms swing free and a nettle had caught me right between the index and middle fingers. Ouch. But, if that was the only semblance of an injury, I was happy.
And I was happy. I had made it. Nearly 50 miles walked and more than 6000ft climbed in three and a half days. That was the height of Mount McKinley, the highest mountain in North America. No wonder it was tough.
I was greeted just outside the brewery by a field of llamas. Things were definitely looking up. Who can’t be cheered up by awesome alpacas?
The pub wasn’t open just yet, so I wandered around a bit. As had become tradition, a song would take advantage of my heightened emotions and floor me. This time it was Frank Turner’s Get Better as I wandered along the busiest road I had seen since Prague. Only my sunglasses kept my emotions hidden. I wasn’t aware of a lyric that summed up this hike and the past few weeks as well or as succinctly as: “I took a battering but I’ve got thicker skin and the best people I know are looking out for me.”
The brewpub was located in a courtyard building in front of Jedlinka Palace, a grand 17th-century mansion with a dark history. During World War Two, it was the headquarters of the Nazi Todt Organisation during the construction of the Reise Project – the details of which are unclear, but it was overseen in part by the infamous Albert Speer. An old Fokker was laid out on the grass in front of the brewery, a replica of the Red Baron’s plane.
Manfred von Richthofen was born on the outskirts of my next destination, Wrocław, and moved to nearby Świdnica. Thankfully, the pub seemed to be modern in its outlook, serving up craft beers brewed on site. Although it did take a while to get in as a coach party had turned up at the same time as me. They waited on the grass, so did I, before their leader went in and signalled they could go in. She saw me looking confused and came over to ask if I needed a lift anywhere as they had space on their bus. All I needed was confirmation that the pub was open, which she kindly provided and moved her group aside to allow me in to try some delicious beers and a hearty Polish sausage.
A yellow tram-like train appeared out of the woods as I stood on an otherwise empty Jedlina station. This unlikely salvation from wilderness would take me a bustling city as I concluded my hike and began the long journey home.
Black Tar Rivers 