In December 2018 I decided it would be more fun to run home for Christmas than to take the train. The plan was simple, 170 miles from London to Lincoln in six days, leaving on the 19th and arriving by the end of Christmas Eve, with a 15 litre backpack of bare essentials and whilst staying in a mix of hotels and friends’ spare rooms for the nights. Of all the journeys I’d taken on, it was the one I was least sure I could finish. Half marathons were one thing, but averaging 27 miles a day for six days in a row, in the middle of winter, was something else entirely.

It was muddy, painful, funny and, on day three, genuinely doubtful. After a first day through canal towpaths and countryside that ended with a protesting knee, there were cold mornings, a hat I’d forgotten, hobbling starts and a moment in a field of cows when I seriously considered jumping on a train. Pushing on instead turned out to be the best decision of the trip. Day four rewarded me with sunshine, rolling hills and enchanting woods, day five delivered a full day of rain, and day six began at 6am with the sun finally on its way and 29 miles to go.

I covered around 170 miles on foot, finishing aching in places I didn’t know could ache, but proud of what my body could do once I stopped giving it a choice. This is a story of a Christmas run, from the first muddy mile in London to a hot bath and a family waiting at the finish.