Fundraiser, supporter and The Telegraph Motoring Journalist Alex Robbins has spent the last three weeks walking to Anglesey. In his latest article, he explains more about his three week walk to Race of Remembrance.

As the last few notes of The Last Post fade away, I stare at the Tarmac, my head bowed. All is silent, save for the distant rumble of waves crashing against the cliffs at the side of the circuit. I am surrounded by servicemen of all stripes, on some of whom the marks of war are all too clear to see.

I am acutely aware that the stresses and strains of 277 miles of walking to raise money to support these people are as nought compared with the hardship they have endured, and continue to endure, as a result of their service in the defence of our freedoms.

For some, this is the first time they have been able to face attending a Remembrance service, so strong are the emotions such things evoke. For all of them, this remarkable event is one in which they take immense pride.

The Race of Remembrance has been my destination for the past three weeks. It is, both literally and metaphorically, a pool of light and cheer amid the foreboding surroundings of Anglesey in November.

A place where amazing people come together to do extraordinary things; the Subaru BRZ, being raced here operated by hand controls by four paraplegic ex-servicemen, having been built up by them from a crash-damaged hulk, is just one example.

It is to complete the race, surviving 12 hours of hard competition with 54 other cars, by being attended to by yet more beneficiaries of Mission Motorsport – the charity that’s made all this happen.

It’s an amazing organisation, whose primary objective is to use motorsport as a tool to bring together people who have found themselves in the unenviable position of having to rebuild their lives having been medically discharged from the Armed Forces.

Not only to help with practical concerns – forging a new career, for example – but also to put them in touch with others who have been in the same position, to help them to come to terms with what has happened. In short, to bring hope where a life has been shattered.

That’s why I’ve spent the last three weeks walking to Anglesey, in an effort to raise as much money as I could.

The final stretch, along the North Wales coast, should have been the easiest. Physically, it was. But mentally, it was the most challenging – a combination of the distance from home and the time spent away from it. There were, shall we say, a few wobbly moments.

For all that, this last section of the walk has been the most dramatically beautiful, following the Wales Coast Path through Colwyn Bay and stunning Conwy, then between mountains and the sea through the wild marshes west of Llanfairfechan.

Crossing the Menai Bridge to Anglesey was a high point and the island has proven bewitching, its spectacular views back to Eryri and dramatic changes of weather offering an arresting backdrop to my final couple of days.

Arriving at the Anglesey Circuit brought a wash of emotions. Mostly, relief at not having to walk again the next day. My work wasn’t yet done when I came through the gate, though; I was given a lap timer and set out to complete a lap of the track before I could finally cross the line.

Marshals and mechanics very kindly lined the pit wall to see me arrive; they even broke out the chequered flag as I crossed the line. My lap time, in case you’re wondering, was 42 minutes and 57 seconds.

My legs, as you would imagine, were stiff and probably will be for the next few days. But careful preparation meant blisters were kept at bay throughout, while I was fortunate not to experience any serious injuries along the way.

More of a challenge has been the mental battle. Those moments when, six miles into a 12-mile day, it’s felt like the path ahead was too long to surmount, when I’ve had to hack my way through undergrowth where footpaths should have been, or when delays and detours have lengthened my day and I’ve found myself scrabbling through woodlands in the dark, wishing I was anywhere but there.

Relief and elation – then a moment to reflect on the achievement Credit: Jay Williams

So I had been expecting to feel elation and emotion upon crossing the line. Instead, I was still concentrating on getting to the end, then getting off the track in time for the afternoon’s qualifying session to begin. But immediately afterwards, in the paddock, I sat down and suddenly experienced a wave of light-headedness and nausea.

This, I now realise, was a manifestation of the realisation that the job was done; my body finally letting down its guard after three weeks of pushing on through. It took, ooh, at least three cups of tea to start feeling right again.

And now, two days later, here I am, surrounded by these extraordinary people, all of whom have given up their weekend to come to this distant corner of the British Isles to take part in this remarkable event. One so beloved of the motorsport community that more than 200 marshals take part – twice the number that are required by law.

That should give you an idea of the amazing sense of warmth, joy and community that exists here. Close racing, backed by a camaraderie quite unlike any other. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’ll be back. Next time, though, I might not walk it.

You can read the story of the rest of Alex’s walk below and donate to Alex’s Fundraiser here: justgiving.com/page/alexwalks.

Alex serialized his walk in the Telegraph:

Day 1:

I was expecting a lump in my throat as I left Mission Motorsport’s HQ. The charity’s team had seen me off with tea and home-made cake and my parents had come along to lend moral support.

But as it turned out, I felt excited. This thing I’ve spent the last 18 months thinking about, training for and organising was finally happening.

And beneath a the surprisingly warm autumn sun, as the first few miles through the Oxfordshire countryside passed gently under my feet, I was enjoying myself.

But the ground soon started to get boggy - a foreshadowing of events to come.

I’ve got good boots, but making way with my feet slipping around was still tricky. And picking my way across ploughed fields where the footpaths on the map were indistinguishable, tougher still.

One field I trudged through felt like marshland. But my Hoka hiking boots did the job of keeping the water out.

Unfortunately, what they couldn’t contend with was the shin-deep flood that surrounded a farmer’s gate about a mile from the end.

A detour would have added three or four miles. There was no alternative - I’d have to plunge through it. The muddy water spilled over the tops of my boots as I fought with the gate. On the other side, I sat down and poured out as much as I could.

The rest of the first day had something of a squelch to it, but I arrived at my digs for the night without further event. I set my boots beneath the heater in the vain hope they might dry before the second day.

I had a feeling I’d get wet feet before the end of this trip - I just didn’t expect them so soon!

Day 5:

You left me last time with wet boots, praying for drier days. Sadly, the next day was the very opposite. Once I descended to the Thames flood plain, surface water sat atop saturated fields.

Eventually, I came across one flood so deep that, even with my improvised wading solution (i.e. bin bags), water still came in over the top.

The only way round was a huge detour, so I pushed through the water, then sat for half an hour vainly trying to dry my socks and boots in the sun.

The prospect of 10 miles left to go with sopping wet boots didn’t fill me with joy, while my heart sank further when I found the next field was also underwater. I re-routed – but that footpath, too, was inundated. In the end I had no choice other than to retreat to the roads, which I followed to Burford.

Spirit undimmed, Alex makes the best he can of the heavy going

The next morning, it was raining hard when I set out, with Storm Ashley was in full force as I crossed the hills between Taynton and Little Rissington airfield.

Luckily I was fully waterproofed, but my still-damp boots (despite having left them on the radiator all night) didn’t get much of a chance to dry off.

The weather soon cleared, though, leaving soaring views of the Gloucestershire countryside as I wound my way towards Stow-on-the-Wold, where I met up with my support crew. John, a friend and former colleague, was waiting in a Volkswagen Grand California camper, ready to supply me with fresh clothes and take away those I’d been carrying for the past three days.

The next day’s hike to Chipping Campden was relatively trouble-free. While there were plenty of hills to keep me busy, I was pleased the high ground meant no more flooding.

Today, the going was flatter en route to Bidford-on-Avon. I was joined by Jonathan Marks, who helps organise the National Transition Event, a festival of motorsport and employment held by Mission Motorsport at Silverstone, where service leavers can talk to prospective employers about what might come next. The company was appreciated -- as were the sandwiches and sausage rolls Jonathan brought.

Tomorrow I’ll head to Redditch, and then on to Halesowen and Wolverhampton after that. I’ll be hoping and praying for no more flooding…

Day 10:

I’d say it’s hard to believe it’s 10 days since I left Wantage, but it isn’t. It feels a lifetime ago – so many towns and villages have been and gone since then.

I’ve now covered 124 miles. Tomorrow will be the half-way mark of my walk, both in terms of time and distance – I’ll arrive in Market Drayton in the evening and there will be fewer days ahead than behind.

At Halesowen I joined the canal network and shortly afterwards I walked the Netherton Tunnel, a 1.7-mile canal tunnel that requires a head torch as it’s pitch black inside. I found it’s also quite drippy, with large puddles you have to be careful to navigate your way around. But it’s a fascinating bit of Industrial Revolution engineering and a joy to be able to experience it in such an intimate way.

The Netherton Tunnel near Dudley is 1.7 miles in length - and rather damp

Past the warehouses of Wolverhampton, the canals became prettier; I struck out north-west along the Shropshire Union and passed countless brightly coloured narrowboats, sitting on mirror-still water reflecting the golden and yellow autumn leaves above. Walking here has been a joy, with the towpaths flat and usually well-kept and waterfowl to spot.

There will be more of the same over the next couple of days as I head north, before I leave the canal network at Nantwich to head towards Chester.

How are the legs holding up? Pretty well, all things considered, although today I had the first signs of complaint, with a niggling twinge in my right ankle; that willrequire taping to add some support. I’m also keeping an eye on my left knee, which has occasionally complained when coming down off a stile. Here’s hoping neither issue gets worse as I head into the second half of my walk.

You can help support Alex’s cause by donating to his Just Giving fundraiser

Autumn is a magical time to be walking portions of Britain’s canal network

Day 16:

Helo o Gymru! That’s “Hello from Wales”, if you hadn’t worked it out already. It was something of a milestone event to cross the Welsh border a few days ago, as doing so meant I could truthfully say that I’d walked all the way to Wales.

It had been quite a long few days slogging along the Shropshire Union Canal. I enjoyed it at first, but towards the end the towpaths grew boggy and, frankly, there are only so many canal boats, bridges and ducks you can take before you start to feel as though you aren’t going anywhere.

But I left the canal just north of Nantwich and peeled off toward Tattenhall. Unfortunately, the days to come were to be the hardest of the walk so far.

My first stop across the border was Penyffordd, my route taking me south of Chester. Unfortunately, it seems many of the footpaths in this area are poorly maintained; each time I had to fight through to a bramble-encrusted stile or beat my way along an overgrown footpath sapped energy and added time.

Flatter countryside near Tattenhall, Cheshire - but the going was surprisingly tough

Scratched and bruised, I made it to the Welsh border just west of the village of Dodleston, where things improved. The sun set over Flintshire’s hills as I looked back over the flat plain I’d just walked across, which gave a distinct sense of satisfaction.

The following day, I left Penyffordd in good time but the going was tough early on, with boggy, churned-up fields full of skittish cows that made the going slow once again.

This was to be a 15-mile day and as I hauled myself up and down the hills of the Wat’s Dyke Way, I wasn’t making as much progress as I’d have liked.

Eventually, as I descended from the last hill into Holywell, the sun sank below the horizon and I had to blunder my way through the last patch of woodland with only a head torch to guide me – not easy, since the path was on a steep slope.

The walk across the hills from Holywell to Rhuddlan was easier, though. The hills felt more forgiving; though their peaks were higher, the inclines were less sharp and I was afforded incredible views of the Dee Estuary.

Tantalising glimpse of the North Wales coast

Then, rounding one corner, a surprise – my first view of the North Wales coast. That’s where I’ll be walking tomorrow.

In the planning of this event, I always thought that if I could get to the coast, I’d make it all the way. This now feels like the home stretch – the final push for Anglesey.

Read The Telegraph Article Here

Donate to Alex’s Fundriasier Here