For a moment, while nursing my sore feet, I felt the urge to head up there. I wanted to see where the world's most famous bandit supposedly "lived." But in the life of a nomad, curiosity is always weighed against logistics. A detour to Sherwood would cost me at least two days: one day to get there and another to double back and rejoin my planned route toward the coast. I’m not saying I won’t do it—I’m a sucker for a good legend—but for now, my priority is simple: rest.
The 33-Mile Push
I arrived in Nottingham on Thursday around 9:00 PM. I had set out from Leicester at 1:00 PM, which means I covered a distance of roughly 33 miles (about 53 km) in a single, brutal, and yet strangely beautiful stretch. All of this, of course, with my "faithful" backpack—the only thing that truly belongs to me in this world, and the thing I love and hate in equal measure depending on the incline of the road.
This isn't my first time traversing the UK on foot, but it was the first time Google Maps actually did me a favor. Usually, the algorithm is obsessed with efficiency, trying to shave off seconds by dragging me along A-roads where I’m forced to inhale diesel fumes and dodge cars that treat the hard shoulder as a suggestion.
This time, however, something clicked. The route Google picked was a masterpiece of hidden paths and backroads. For the first time in a long while, I wasn't fighting traffic. I was just walking.
The Sun and the Steam
The first leg of the journey took me through Loughborough. It’s a pleasant enough town, and for a second, I considered calling it a day there. But I hit the 15-mile mark much faster than I anticipated. My legs felt strong, the rhythm was right, and more importantly, the weather was spectacular.
For the first time this year, the British sky stopped crying. The clouds parted, and I actually found myself stripping down to a T-shirt. I even managed to catch a bit of a tan—or at least a "nomad’s burn."
While passing through the outskirts of Loughborough, I saw something that felt like a glitch in the Matrix: a steam locomotive. I haven't seen a working steam engine in over twenty years. In an age of high-speed rail and silent electric cars, seeing that iron beast huffing black smoke into the clear blue sky was a jarring, beautiful reminder of a world that used to move at a human pace. It felt like a good omen.
The Scent of the Countryside
The real transformation happened when I crossed the border into Nottinghamshire. The landscape opened up. I found myself walking past vast fields carpeted in bright yellow flowers—likely rapeseed—stretching out toward the horizon.
And then there was the smell. The smell of the countryside.
I know that for some of you, "countryside smell" is just a polite way of saying "the stench of manure and rotting silage." But to me? It’s the smell of freedom. It’s a scent that instantly clears my head and reminds me why I’m doing this. It’s the smell of being away from the grey concrete of the cities, away from the bus stations, and away from the "Instagrammable" version of travel. It’s raw, it’s earthy, and it’s honest. Every time I hit a patch of that heavy, farmyard air, my mood improves. It tells me I’m actually making progress.
Current Status: Wetherspoons
Right now, I am stationed in a local Wetherspoons. I’ve traded the scent of the fields for the scent of floor polish and cheap burgers, and I’m perfectly okay with that. I’m currently testing an American IPA called Volt. It’s crisp, it’s got a decent hop kick, and at 4.5%, it’s exactly what I need to numb the dull ache in my calves.
I’ll spend the next few hours here, using the Wi-Fi to push this update to the CMS and maybe doing a bit of "urban exploration" later this evening. Nottingham is a city with deep bones—caves, castles, and history buried under the pavement.
If any of you are planning to visit this part of the world and want to do the tourist thing properly (instead of sleeping in a tent and drinking IPA in a pub corner), I recommend checking out Visit Nottinghamshire. They’ll tell you where the statues are; I’ll tell you where the best benches to rest on are.
I’m still here for now, recharging my batteries—both the literal and the metaphorical ones. The road north toward the coast is calling, but for this afternoon, the only thing I’m conquering is this pint.
Cheers from the land of outlaws.
Kamil
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