Author: Joshua Geer

A review and interview with Simon J. Houlton about his debut novel, The Night Swimmer.

*This article was first published by the Hastings Independent on 17 January. You can find the original print here.

In The Night Swimmer, Simon J Houlton casts his debut novel into the restless dark and grit of the Hastings coastline, a place he knows not simply as a novel setting but also as home.

The book follows William “Bill” Eckersley, an unemployed would-be writer who drifts through life by day and swims alone in the black water by night, caught somewhere between breakdown and revelation. It tackles difficult themes from mental health and addiction to the quiet delusions that keep people afloat.

While these themes will land differently for different readers, what is unmistakable is Houlton’s intimate understanding of Hastings and the emotional terrain that shaped both author and story.

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A Hastings story by a Hastings writer

When I spoke with Houlton, it was immediately clear how deeply the town runs through his work. Born and raised on the West Hill and spending most of his life in and around the Old Town, his relationship with Hastings is lived-in, contradictory and honest.

“Hastings is the perfect setting for a novel like The Night Swimmer”, he told me. “Artsy, whimsical, and eccentric in one breath, dark and beset by all manner of social issues in the next.”

In the novel, this duality becomes the atmosphere Bill breathes: the charm and the struggle, the humour and the heaviness. Setting the book when the pier was still a burnt-out skeleton adds further bleakness to Bill’s nocturnal swims.

As Houlton says, Bill is “just an ordinary man with a dream he is struggling to achieve, much like the rest of us, doing whatever is necessary to get along in life”.

A life shaped by the town

Many of Houlton’s first experiences happened here: “First girlfriend, first wife, first job, first divorce, first mouthful of beer, first child.” He has worked in countless pubs across the Old Town and town centre and believes “people are shaped by the places they come from”.

That authenticity is one of the novel’s strongest qualities. His rendering of Hastings feels grounded and vividly remembered. Even now, living in Turkey, he says writing “keeps my memories of it alive”.

“The town shapes the stories I write, but it also shaped me long before I ever thought to write a book. Hastings and its people will always have a piece of my heart,” he says.

Writing between reality and imagination

Houlton describes his writing process as “haphazard at best”, full of bursts of hyperfocus followed by stretches of procrastination. The Night Swimmer was written in non-linear pieces, later stitched together.

His next Hastings-set novel is being written chronologically, “mostly because it is a dual timeline and I would prefer not to go insane.” This fractured approach mirrors Bill’s mental landscape, in which reality and imagination frequently blur.

The sea as mirror and refuge

For Houlton, the sea is not merely symbolic; it is woven into his own memory. “I miss the sea. The sound of it, the smell, the crunch of shingle underfoot.”

Writing about it comes naturally: “It is not something I have to invent, just something I need to describe as honestly as I can.”

In the novel, the sea becomes both refuge and threat. Bill’s night swims hold the book’s emotional core, those moments when he steps into the dark water “half wanting to vanish, half wanting to feel alive”. That tension between chaos and peace is central to the story.

I think many people who live in Hastings will resonate Houlton’s contemplative relationship with the sea. “Since I was young, the sea has always been my thinking place. Whatever problem you face in life, you can sit on the beach or the hill, stare across the Channel, and think. I often pity people who grow up without it.”

Final thoughts

The Night Swimmer is an ambitious, emotionally raw debut. It challenges the reader with its spiralling interiority, offering a vivid sense of place and a tender understanding of the weight carried by ordinary people. Hastings is not just a backdrop, it is the novel’s pulse, reminding the reader of its peculiar beauty.

Speaking with Houlton makes it clear that writing about Hastings, even while living in Turkey, is a beautiful act of remembering and staying connected to the town that shaped him.

By Joshua Geer.

To be brutally honest, cycling has always been a bit of a turn-off for me.
Maybe it was the Lycra. Maybe the saddle soreness. Maybe the gear costs that rival the GDP of small nations. I’ve always admired the idea of moving far under your own steam, but bikes? Somehow, they didn’t quite fit.

Yet, in hindsight, my aversion was likely misplaced. I’ve happily splurged on running, hiking, and camping kit. I love big days out and seeking out bigger horizons. The logic held: if I enjoy adventuring on foot, why not on two wheels?

Until now, my cycling CV consisted of some childhood mountain biking on family trips and a 6km round-trip commute through Bishopsgate’s tangle of red lights and London grit. So, I figured let’s combine cycling with camping and go “bikepacking”.

I roped in my friend Max, a kindred spirit, and we plotted a manageable route: London to Cambridge over two days, sticking mostly to off-road tracks and totting up to around 70 miles. We were joined by our friend Oli, a much stronger cyclist who hadn’t bikepacked before, but could probably knock out the whole journey before lunch.

We met in Springfield Park, Hackney. It was a drizzly but  mild Saturday. Standing on the park’s crest, we looked down across the Lea Valley, a sliver of wilderness threading north from the city guided by the River Lea – a green artery leading out of Londod.

Our bikepacking gear was cobbled together from Decathlon bargains, Facebook Marketplace finds and borrowed kit. Somehow, we looked surprisingly competent. Everything we needed strapped to frames and racks, we dropped down to the towpath and joined the river just south of Tottenham.

The ride out of London is industrial at first – old mills, canal locks and the stench of Walthamstow breweries still clinging to the brickwork. But soon enough, there’s that threshold moment where you duck under the M25 at Waltham Cross. It’s always a familiar feeling. Beyond the motorway, the world softens, trees thicken and sounds change.

The Lea Valley Park opened up like a rural superhighway, wide and green and gently pulsing northward. After 25km, we pulled into a country park café for tea and sausage rolls. One of the joys of cycling compared to running is you can eat what you want without the obvious gastric consequences.

A puncture struck Max’s rear wheel just before reaching the café. Oli and Max got to work while I supervised heroically from the café bench. Within minutes we were rolling again, spirits high, tyres pumped.

Then came Penny’s Hill. Modest in name, but a tad steep. I was missing a few low gears (and possibly a few fitness levels), so I crawled up it in low spirits and high heart rate.
But cresting the hill, I remembered from my childhood one of cycling’s top pleasures: the glorious, juvenile thrill of bombing downhill. I cannot name many joys that match it.

The River Lea slowly narrowed as we passed through a patchwork of bridges, locks, and bucolic lanes. The sunshine lured half of Hertfordshire to the riverside, and we encountered the inevitable pedestrian scowls. No amount of bell ringing or apologies can satisfy a canal-path cyclist hater. Still, we smiled and pedalled on.

We reached Ware by lunchtime — a handsome town — and stopped at a waterside inn. We devoured burgers, nachos, and beer under a summer haze, then raided the local Sainsbury’s for camping rations.

Leaving the river behind, we followed bridleways and gravel paths, some barely maintained, others crumbling into cracked fields from weeks of sun. The final 20km into Ardeley were hillier, slower, and wilder. Oli soared. Max followed. I brought up the rear.

By the time we rolled into Ardeley, our camp spot, I was surprised by how good I still felt. Longest cycle of my life and still a bit of gas in the tank. We set up camp in the woods and wandered into the village — a postcard-perfect slice of English pastoral charm. Every time I visit a place like this, I wonder why I don’t just move to a town like it. Then I spot the red trousers, and the notice boards plastered with Middle England Tory slogans, and I remember exactly why I don’t.

Thatched cottages leaned beside a 13th-century church and a pub straight from central casting. The Jolly Waggoner delivered perfect pints under its 18th-century creaking beams.

We returned to the woods and made dinner over firelight, talking into the night. There’s an honesty around a campfire that doesn’t exist elsewhere. I slept well. There was light drizzle on canvas (one of my favourite sounds) and the temperature was in the Goldilocks zone: just right.

In the morning, we packed early, ate oats by the embers, and caught a tailwind out of camp. The trails were gentle and the morning light beautiful. After a few hills we coasted through fields and hedgerows into the outskirts of Royston, where new developments sprawled out in dull boxes. Lunch was in a half-finished shopping precinct on a road to nowhere, but calories are calories.

We hit a few more trails and farmers’ paths. Some were blocked by landowners who had greased gates and blockaded fences, which required a bit of scrambling and swearing, but we found our way through. The final miles towards Cambridge smoothed out, giving us paved roads and gentle gradients.

And then, at last, into Grantchester, just outside Cambridge, up along the Cam. The pint we had there was victory. Nothing could go wrong now, just three easy miles of paved cycleway into Cambridge.

Justin, a friend, joined us for a pint and the final stretch. It was satisfying to know we had gone the whole way under our own steam.

At Cambridge Station, we took the obligatory photo. I know most people do this ride in a single day, but for me the real joy came from strapping what I needed to a bike and setting off, even for a short distance. It was enough to make me want more. Next time longer and further.

The train back to London took just 48 minutes. I was fined because the ticket app would not load my e-ticket, a final petty annoyance. But it only confirmed what I already knew. I would rather travel by bike.

Many nations wrestle with how to reconcile their past with the remnants that shape their present.

Some histories remain spectral, lingering in hidden scars, but Germany’s past manifests in colossal, inescapable forms of concrete, steel and stone, standing as silent yet deafening reminders of its Nazi past.

One such relic looms over the pristine coastline of Rügen, an island in northern Germany. Prora, a near-five-kilometre colossus, was born from the Nazi imagination. Today, what remains stretches three kilometres and exists in limbo between relic and reinvention.

Drawn by the island’s natural beauty, its endless beaches and dense forests, I have visited Rügen many times with friends. It is also the island where part of Goodbye to Berlin by Christopher Isherwood is set (one of my favourite books) and a connection that warrants its own exploration in writing.

The past few times I visited the island, I have found myself stepping away from the sand, drawn into the immense shadow and dark corners of Prora. When exploring it, I have wondered how this structure confronts its past and future.

Every visit begins the same way: entering from the north and walking south. The first sensation is one of scale due to Prora’s overwhelming, ungraspable length. The structure stretches into a vanishing point. To walk its full length takes the better part of an hour.

Then, there is its resilience. Decades of vandalism, war and neglect have left their marks, yet the building itself stands unbowed. Prora was built from reinforced concrete and was designed not to crumble.

Its stubborn existence is fitting. Constructed between 1936 and 1939 as part of the Kraft durch Freude (Strength Through Joy, or KdF) project, Prora was envisioned as a ‘utopian’ holiday resort. However, it was never completed nor used for leisure; instead, it stood as a monolithic propaganda tool.

Yet with each visit, I witness transformation. What was once an abandoned spectre is now a construction site. Scaffolding and machinery are breathing a new identity into Prora. Many of its empty shell blocks have been sold, with plans for them to be repurposed into high-end holiday homes. At certain points, past and future collide, with raw concrete giving way to smooth white facades.

Where redevelopment has taken root, exploration is cut off. No longer an abandoned relic for wanderers and the curious, but private property, closed to prying eyes. Understandably, developers do not want tourists peering through the windows of luxury apartments, nor is it very interesting.

Yet in the places still untouched, still open to the elements, Prora’s past can still be seen. Vandals have left their scars in the shape of smashed windows, graffiti and decay. But climbing through a hole in the fence or finding a climbable ledge, you can still peer inside and glimpse relics of its various reincarnations.

In addition to the Nazis, there are also marks of the Soviets. After World War II, the Soviet Army controlled Rügen and repurposed the unfinished complex as a military base and storage site. Even after reunification, a youth hostel operated within its walls. These layers of history remain, stitched into the fabric of what is left untouched.

The most intriguing structures are those that were originally meant to fulfil the distorted vision of the KdF, including the plans for a festival hall, cafés, theatres, concert venues, swimming pools and gymnasiums.

The natural world also asserts its claim. The surrounding forests, dense with pines, at times press in against the structure, while vines and shrubs creep through the cracks, reclaiming the past brick by brick. And beyond, the Baltic Sea, vast and unforgiving, crashes against the shore.

A museum, long present at the site, offers a formal explainer, speaking not only of Prora’s architecture but of the broader Nazi persecution. The exhibition expands beyond the concrete, using Prora as a lens to remind visitors of the atrocities that shaped its creation.

There is something unsettling about Prora. Its sheer scale and ideological weight represent the unresolved presence of a megastructure born of an evil regime.

But as time marches forward, Prora is assuming a new identity. Its history is being renovated, its brutalist past polished into something inhabitable.

Ironically, it is now fulfilling its original intention: a holiday resort. This realisation strikes as I relax on the beach at Binz, south of the complex. Sunbathers, families, tourists and people enjoying the space, reclaiming it in their own way. Perhaps this is the final transformation.  A place designed as a symbol of ideological control has been subsumed into ordinary life.

*The photos were taken on a visit to Rugen in April 2024. The camera used was a Minolta x-300 with a 50mm lens. The film is 35mm Kodak Gold 400.

Ask me to excavate my happiest childhood memories, and I’ll unearth the annual August holiday to Poole Harbour. For a decade, it was a ritual for our family: swapping the pebble beaches and arcades of Hastings for Dorset’s golden sands and quiet, green edges. We’d pile into a family car, an overcrowded microcosm of bickering and boredom, for a drive that (although only four hours) stretched time into a dimension only children know. Poole was always the promised land.

Fast-forward to this summer, and I found myself craving to relive those holidays. I’ve spent too many recent years overthinking holidays, chipping away at any sense of spontaneity. Although I worried Poole would not be as I remembered, nostalgia is persuasive. So, with my friend Max, I planned a walk around the harbour – as close to the water’s edge as geography would allow.

Poole Harbour is expansive, it’s the second largest natural harbour in the world in fact  and is dotted with islands and threaded by rivers. Its history is ancient, murky with Saxon skirmishes and smuggling tales. Modern Poole is equally layered, a juxtaposition of wealth, industry and nature. It was into this mosaic that Max and I ventured, setting out on a 40-mile trek.

We began west of the town centre, looping anticlockwise. The first stretch led through Lower Hamworthy and Upton, suburban areas but shaped by maritime muscle. Passing the Royal Marines Base, built during World War II, we noted the “No Photography” signs: a small, stern reminder of the harbour’s military legacy. Here was a place once pivotal to D-Day embarkations, its waters bustling with Allied forces.

But the suburban sprawl soon gave way to nature. Ham Common unfolded with sandy trails flanked by heather and gorse. The air was salty and the ground springy underfoot, senses from my childhood which I came for.

We pushed onward, following a series of country lanes that got progressively quieter. When we had fully left civilisation behind, we stopped for lunch beneath the dappled shade of a tree.

The highlight of the day was reaching Morden Bog, a sprawling heathland dotted with Scots pines. The bog hummed with life, its reeds shifting hypnotically in the breeze, making an incredible whooshing sound.

By late afternoon, we reached Wareham. Here, nostalgia struck hard. The Roman town was where I had kayaked with my father as a child. The River Frome was inviting on this warm summers day, and we dipped our feet in its cool waters. Sitting there, Max and I spoke little; the moment didn’t need words.

Our campsite that night lay south of Stoborough. It was a modest affair: the site, mostly filled with families, buzzed with life. A group of campers stood out—what my family would have called “all the gear, no idea” types—their shiny new Range Rovers and mansion-like tents complete with TVs and hairdryers. Scattered around were also campervans, relics of the ‘80s and ‘90s, manned by retirees who sat silently in camp chairs, staring into the distance like statues. They watched us intently as we set up, their eyes following our every move, judging our efficiency and methods with an almost imperceptible tilt of their heads. As a child, I’d found their stillness baffling; now, I understood its quiet appeal.

After pitching up, we cooked a dinner as simple as our lunch and had an early night.

Day two began early. The weather was kind: warm but not stifling. We plunged straight into the Arne Nature Reserve, a sanctuary of heath and woodland that seemed endless. Here, the harbour came back into focus, its water glinting through the trees. The sand underfoot softened our steps which forged a path between sharp yet beautiful gorse. Within this, we encountered a few bogs, one of which forced us to improvise—piling sticks to create makeshift bridges.

Later, we crossed the private road which harshly cut through the nature reserve, leading to Wytch Farm oil field, a jarring industrial presence amid natural beauty. The sight of towering trucks and oil rigs evoked the American Midwest, furthered by wild horses—an interesting cinematic intrusion into Dorset’s pastoral rhythm.

Further along, we hit Goathorn Plantation whose pine trees offered some shaded respite from the sun. We rested against an old gate, not a soul in sight, the quiet broken only by the rustling of needles in the wind. Walking through this was a final hour of stillness before re-emerging into the chaos of Studland. The contrast was sharp. Studland’s beaches swarmed with families, their parasols and coolers a far cry from the solitude we’d enjoyed. We joined the fray briefly, wading into the harbour shallows opposite Brownsea Island. The water was cool, the view familiar. Brownsea—with its scouts and rare red squirrels—loomed large in my childhood memories. It felt fitting to see it again from the same vantage.

The Sandbanks Ferry carried us across the harbour’s mouth. This chain ferry is a lifeline, connecting Studland to the glitz of Sandbanks, where wealth flaunts itself in the form of glass-fronted mansions and Bentleys. Walking through this enclave of excess felt surreal, a reminder of how far Poole’s pendulum swings.

Our journey concluded as we got back in Poole town. The path home wound past modest family outings—crabbing, kayaking, laughter spilling into the air. It was very pleasing to see families enjoying exactly what I had 20 years before. We ended the day with pizza and conversation at a quiet pub and inn where we found rooms to sleep. The owner critiqued our pool-playing skills but seemed charmed by our story. She was keen to hear about our walk, and it was nice to meet an engaging stranger—a refreshing change from London.

Reflecting on the walk, it made me want to make more effort to revisit places. Like many, I generally always want to try new things or visit unfamiliar places, but revisiting can be just as profound.

Witnessing how elements of Poole’s landscape had changed while still feeling largely constant evoked reflection and comfort. Revisiting sites of happy childhood memories, if you’re lucky enough to have them, can invite a sense of youth back into adults and it was heartening to see others enjoying it in the same way. Or perhaps that’s simply the nostalgia talking…

*The photos were taken on the Minolta x-300 with a 50mm lens. The film used was Ilford ISO400 35mm.

Read by Joshua Geer on 16.09.2024 at the funeral of Ronald Louis George Geer, 6th December 1930 – 12 August 2024.

I want to thank you all for gathering here to celebrate and remember the life of a remarkable man, my Grandad Ron.

By the time I entered his life, he was already approaching his seventies, yet his spirit was vibrant, having lived a life rich with experience. Some of my fondest memories are wrapped in the tales he told about his life before I knew him. Through these stories, I’ve come to understand the incredible journey that shaped the man we all came to love and admire.

Many of you here today were woven into those stories, and it is in your presence that we honour his life.

Born in 1930, Ron entered a world almost unimaginable to us now—the roaring twenties were drawing to a close, King George V was on the throne, and the internet was still more than half a century away. Raised by his parents, Emily and Reginald, a police officer, Ron’s early years were spent at Priory Road School.

True to the Geer spirit, he had a deep yearning for the outdoors, which led him to an apprenticeship at James Bro Builders.

At 18, Ron enlisted in the army. Initially contemplating a role with the Royal Signals but wary of a potential posting to Durban, he chose the Airborne Parachute Regiment, only to later discover the posting would have been Durham.

This decision took him to Egypt, Cyprus, and into the Korean War. Those experiences were undoubtedly challenging, yet his army scrapbooks also reveal the good times and playful moments with friends. Facing life’s most painful moments early on, he developed a profound sense of duty and a stoicism that defined him throughout his life.

Returning home in 1954, Ron joined the fire service and soon met my lovely Nan Violet, marrying her in 1956. In 1968, they welcomed a baby, my dad Graham, and returned not long after to Priory Road, just a stone’s throw from where Ron had gone to school. Ron and Violet’s union was a beautiful testament to eternal love, marked by 68 years of shared adventures, and the lessons they instilled in Graham, Caroline, Matt, and me.

Together, they explored the Lake District, where one memorable day, after climbing Haystacks, Ron realised he had forgotten to put film in his camera. Naturally, determined to capture the moment, they climbed the mountain again the next day. Their travels also took them to snowy slopes in Switzerland, Austria, and France.

As we reflect on Ron’s remarkable life, it’s impossible not to be struck by the profound qualities that defined him. His resilience, dedication, and unwavering commitment to serving others were evident in every aspect of his life.

It’s often the small, everyday moments that we will miss the most. I remember how my Dad would enjoy a cup of speciality coffee with Ron, and the walks we all took together to admire the view from the west hill. These simple but cherished moments were filled with warmth and connection.

With this was a willingness to give his time and attention. I remember with a smile how he would attentively listen to me play “Three Blind Mice” on the recorder, just as earnestly as he enjoyed my brother Matthew’s expertly delivered piano renditions of his favourite music by Ella Fitzgerald and Glen Miller. It’s a testament to his kindness and dedication, giving equal attention to both performances with a patience and enthusiasm that made us all feel valued and cherished.

These acts of service were a constant throughout his life, whether it was helping my mum sweep car parks in one of her first jobs or joining in our family football games, playing along with me, my brother, and Dad. Even at 80, he was a better goalkeeper than me. His willingness to lend a hand, no matter the task, was a constant in our lives right up into his nineties.

Such kindness and humility were evident in everything he did. To him, it was always about how you acted, not your status or background. This resilience, playful spirit, and humility have left an enduring legacy that will continue to guide and inspire us. Ron’s example of selfless service and genuine warmth will always be a part of who we are and how we strive to live our own lives.

In closing, I want to express my deepest gratitude to my wonderful Grandad. A life of 93 years, marked by unwavering strength and boundless kindness, is a remarkable legacy. His 63 years of marriage to Nan Violet, filled with enduring love, and his compassionate nature that touched everyone around him are testaments to a life well-lived. Grandad Ron exemplified the very qualities I aspire to embody—a life of humility, service, and generosity. He leaves me with a great sense of stoicism and calmness, which as I walk the path of life is the ideal I strive to reach. Thank you, Grandad, for inspiring us all and for leaving behind a legacy that will guide and uplift us forever.

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Thank you for taking the time to read my tribute to my Grandad Ron. More tributes can be found here.

Written by Joshua Geer. Edited by Genevieve Redgrave.

Humans are obsessed with getting to the highest points of places, regardless of whether it is the best place to be. Take, for instance, the thousands of tourists who every year flock to climb Wales’s tallest mountain, Snowdon, despite there being arguably more beautiful and quieter peaks nearby.

A desire to be the highest and seek out the good view that normally comes with it, conjoins humans happy to part with £32 to go up London’s tallest skyscraper and those willing to spend upwards of £60,000 to climb (and queue) up Mount Everest.

I, like the rest of them, am a sucker for such heights – particularly when I find myself in a new place.

Last summer, while on holiday on the Italian island of Ischia with my girlfriend Esme, I was drawn to the highest point of the island, Mount Epomeo. What I found there was something I never could have expected.

Nestled in the northern reaches of the Gulf of Naples, Ischia provided a serene respite from the bustling chaos of nearby Naples, just 19 miles away. Famed for its local wine, hot springs and luscious hilly landscape, Esme and I enjoyed its simple tranquillity.

Known as Pithecusae to the Greeks and Aenaria to the Romans, Ischia boasts a rich history as a vital trade hub, a retreat for Roman elites, and a pirate fortress. Having spent two days lounging in a beach club next to the island’s stunning Aragonese Castle, I felt the pull to explore more of the island, drawn by that innate human instinct to conquer the highest point.

However, getting to the base of  Epomeo was more challenging than the hotel receptionist had promised. She claimed it was easy on the bus, and her charm made her very believable. But the bus that was supposed to take me to the town of Fontana, the starting point for my hike, was nowhere to be found.

After trudging several miles in the sweltering heat, I decided to hitchhike. Thankfully, an elderly gentleman in a Fiat soon pulled over. Despite the language barrier, he gestured that he was headed in the right direction and graciously offered me a lift. His driving style was at odds with his slightly docile personality. Maybe his fast and furious driving was one of the few things that kept him young. The narrow roads, hairpin turns, and steep drops made for a nerve-wracking ride, but the breathtaking views managed to distract me from my fears.

When I arrived in Fontana, proud to have not soiled myself, I picked up a Fanta from a shop – mainly because a Fanta in Fontana sounded catchy – and started following the signs to Mt. Epomeo. After navigating a steep tarmac road, I veered left onto beaten tracks. The path was quiet and deserted, and I passed an abandoned Vespa outside a spooky cave that looked like the ghost set of an Italian mafia film.

I emerged onto a wider track where a fruit seller was parked with his old truck, hoping to catch tourists in need of refreshment on the two-mile trek from Fontana. I think I was his first punter based on the warm welcome he gave me. The going was steep but manageable. I bought a peach with the spare euros in my pocket; it was delicious and hit the spot.

The next section was a small path and it was littered with lizards, small to large, catching the morning sun. Thankfully, the lizards were timid and quickly scurried away with each step I took.

Nearing the top, I encountered the surprise: a bizarre sign claiming the summit of the mountain was a portal to Middle Earth. It listed this location along with others around the world, such as Kentucky’s Mammoth Cave and the Nuclear Bomb test site, as places where one could enter the land of advanced races. As wacky as it all seemed, the sign did say: “whether the myth is true or not is irrelevant”. This resonated with me despite being a sceptic of astrology, alternate medicine and all things mystical.

And as any good portal to Middle Earth should have, there was naturally a cafe at the top. I enjoyed a lemonade, which tasted extra good in the heat, before scrambling up to the pinnacle. I suppose it makes sense to have a refreshment before going to Middle Earth, I thought.

The final stretch to the top was a rocky outpost atop a chapel built into the rocks. Emerging at the peak, the views were absolutely spectacular. As the top was situated in the middle of the island, I could see its entire edge and the beautiful blue coast below. Maybe I did find Middle Earth. It was tranquil, I felt calm, and I was in a position where I could see it all. From that vantage point, the entire island lay at my feet.

The metaphor of Middle Earth felt fitting: a hidden world accessed only by those willing to venture to the heights.

As I descended back into the woods, the day became hotter, the clarity of the summit fading into the shadows of the trees. The descent was a return to the ordinary, but the memory of that peak lingered. I managed to thankfully find that bus on the way back.

Back on the beach with Esme, I cherished the experience. Laying there, now enjoying the warmth of the sun, it made me think that often the journey to the top is worth it. The highest point often leads to somewhere special. And looking at a great view can give clarity; a Middle Earth of our own making.

On June 24th 2023, David Watkins and I ran 107 kilometres around Victoria Park to raise awareness for the 107 people who take their own lives every week in England and Wales. Below are some reflections in which I have answered a few common questions about the project and considered what’s next. Header photo by David Watkins.

Why 107 kilometres?

The most common question Dave and I encountered in the lead-up to our run was, “Why are you running 107 kilometres?” The question often had two meanings.

Firstly, it was asked with bewilderment. Why would someone want to run around East London’s Victoria Park 26.5 times? Secondly, people questioned why 107 kilometres. The distance is not a widely recognised race distance, nor does it appeal to the desire to run a distance that is a multiple of ten.

It was on this second question that Dave and I were able to have the most fruitful and enlightening conversations. Explaining that the run symbolised the fact that every week, according to 2019 data, 107 people take their own lives in England and Wales was just as much of a shock to us as to those we spoke with.

But for the support networks and charities that deal with mental health crises every day, this figure is no surprise.

“One of the challenges is finding enough volunteers for our services,” explains an employee at the charity Shout, a 24/7 text support service for anyone struggling to cope.

It was on this basis that Dave and I decided to both raise money for Shout and also raise awareness about these suicide rates.

What sparked the idea for the run?

I had the idea about two years before the run. Mental health and suicide prevention are two things close to my heart, and I felt an urge to do something about them. To marry that urge with running, something that has greatly helped me and others through the highs and lows of life, just made sense.

Therefore, the idea to symbolise the scale of the UK’s mental health crisis through an ultra-marathon was born.

But it was partnering with Dave that gave me the impetus to grow the idea into a fundraising project, resulting in brand partnerships and raising thousands of pounds for Shout. I often think that if we hadn’t thankfully bumped into each other at our local run club, Your Friendly Runners, the idea would have stayed an idea.

We also decided to undertake the run only around Victoria Park, in order to make it more mentally challenging and so as many people as possible could get involved. There is also something to be said about running the 107 kilometres on paths well-trodden by people running, exercising and playing, often trying to find some sense of inner peace.

How did you prepare for the physical and mental challenge of running 107 kilometres?

Other than doing a few extra-long runs, my week-to-week training did not change dramatically, having run the 100-kilometre distance a handful of times before. People often suggested I should run multiple laps of Victoria Park to prepare for the monotony of the challenge. But having lived near the park for nearly seven years, I was already bored of its paved outer track, something that an extra 26.5 laps would not change much.

One way I prepared for the event, in a new way, was by thinking about nutrition. The nutritionist, Georgie Murphy, kindly offered to help Dave and me learn about how we should fuel our training to ensure the best performance. This certainly paid off, and on the day of the event, despite humid conditions, I felt well-fueled throughout.

All of this preparation was made easier by Your Friendly Runners and the running apparel company, Soar Running, who continually supported us with the training and events in the lead-up.

Did you encounter any unexpected difficulties or setbacks?

There were two major challenges that stood out, one mental and the other physical.

Unexpectedly, the day before the run, I was overcome with anxiety. My primal instincts were asking me the age-old question of fight or flight. “You are not capable of doing this,” “You are going to let people down,” and “What if no one cares?” were just a few of the fearful thoughts rattling around my brain in the hours before the run.

Thankfully, when I set off on the run, such fears and anxieties slowly dripped away.

The other challenge came at 85 kilometres, roughly nine hours into the run, when my toenail decided to detach from my big toe due to a blister that had been slowly forming throughout the day. Having not experienced major blisters on big runs before, I was surprised by this occurrence.

I briefly stopped and tried to patch myself up, but the damage was done. When I tried to run, the pain was unbelievable, and I realised that my run had come to an end. After coming to terms with this, I got on a bike next to Dave as he amazingly continued for the next 20 kilometres. We hobbled the final 2 kilometres together.

What’s next?

Neither of us are under the illusion that running around a park all day will solve the mental health crisis in the UK. But we do hope to have made a small contribution to the services that help those in crisis and raised awareness of the scale of the mental health challenge faced in the UK.

Because of this, we are motivated to continue this project, especially as suicide rates are not falling. The Office for National Statistics showed that in 2022, there were 5,642 suicides. This equates to over 108 individuals tragically taking their lives each week, an increase from the 2019 figures.

As such, Dave and I will relaunch the project this year with the hope of raising more money and raising more awareness.

Written by Joshua Geer. Edited by Jack Hanson and Genevieve Redgrave.

I have two homes: Hastings and London. The latter I chose, the former I didn’t. My fondness for both is equal.

Linking these places of my heart by foot has always been a desire. Whenever I make the journey by car or train, I often wonder what it would be like to traverse the mix of unkempt nature and neat suburbia which lingers in between.

So, when my dad asked if I wanted to watch Hastings United play at home one afternoon at the end of January, it seemed like a good excuse to finally make the pilgrimage down south. I asked one of my oldest friends to join me. Max grew up in the nearby town of Stonegate, and I was certain he would make good company.

Aside from being one of my best friends, he is also brilliantly available.

The original plan was to set off from our homes in Hackney to go ‘door to door’ or ‘H to H’. However, with the route from Hackney totalling over 65 miles (roughly three days of walking) and with only a day and a half to do the walk, we decided to start our trek from Orpington, the very edge of London. This cut the route down to 43 miles.

We arrived in Orpington just before 0900, having travelled against the morning commute. With nearly 30 miles ahead of us that day, we quickly escaped the station, cutting between BMW saloons and Range Rovers who angrily beeped at us for jaywalking. Cars continued to aggravate us for the next few miles as we marched down the A224, but thankfully, we soon veered off down a footpath across a golf course and into open fields.

As the pollution of cars drifted away, optimism fell upon us. The bright sun made this mild January day feel surprisingly warm. Away from the stresses of the city, we revelled in the fact that all we had to do was walk.

Finding ourselves stuck in a thorn bush outside a Ministry of Defence research laboratory quickly brought our optimism back down to earth. I feared we had become softened by the city. To escape the brambles, we diverted from the path to sneak through a back garden. We were thankful they were not the proud owners of an XL Bully but instead a small yappy Chihuahua. 

After crossing the unofficial London boundary of the M25, we made our way up a long steep hill to Sevenoaks. This is where the fifteenth-century country estate Knowle House resides. Just 25 minutes from London by train, we were truly in red trouser territory now.

We left the bustling high street and skirted along the edges of Knowle’s grounds, where we sought directions from an elderly couple on a power walk. Armed with carbon walking poles and streamlined sports glasses, the pair would not have looked out of place at Everest base camp. However, they were thankfully not ‘all the gear and no idea’ and promptly pointed us in the correct direction.

To reduce mileage, we had to walk some hefty road sections. One of these stretches was between Sevenoaks and Tonbridge, where we were forced onto a sliver of pavement. We became increasingly irritated by the lorries, which whistled by inches from our heads. At the very least, if one did plough into our backs, we’d be roadkill before we knew what had hit us.

Arriving in Tonbridge around 1300, we searched for lunch. Tonbridge is a sprawling blob of houses that make up the breadth of English society. In the space of a couple of miles, you can walk from the streets of upper-middle-class commuters to areas of deep poverty. This is harshly represented by Iceland and Waitrose, which share a carpark in the town centre. Not fancying a frozen lunch, we opted for Waitrose and ate outside the town’s thirteenth-century castle ruins, basking in the sun.

Continuing on the walk, it was not long before the cacophony of the school rush hit us like a wave- shrieking children, honking cars and the frantic energy of parents on a mission. Around three miles from Frant station, darkness fell with surprising swiftness, and with ten miles of shadowy woods looming ahead, a tactical retreat seemed the wisest course. We cheated and hopped on the train at Frant, shaving off a few miles by disembarking at Stonegate. 

Back on foot, we had a final three-mile stretch to Burwash through fields lit only by one bike torch between us and a full moon. A few steps into the first field, the night exploded in a chorus of angry barks from a nearby farm. We quickened our pace, praying the fences held firm against whatever furry guardians lurked within. In the next field, we continued to be spooked. Our torch illuminated pairs of eyes that blinked back at us. Sheep, we assumed, but nervous laughter betrayed our ease. Eventually, the welcoming glow of Burwash appeared.

After a short walk down its sleepy eighteenth-century high street, we stumbled upon our accommodation, The Bear Inn Motel. The air inside the inn was thick with the aroma of wood smoke and ale, a comforting warmth against the crisp night. The interior was an odd mix of old-fashioned charm and budget updates, a bit rough around the edges, but in the flickering glow of the fireplace, it was undeniably cosy.

A fresh-faced barkeep, still in his teens, led us to our accommodation out back. The motel-style room, a miniature echo of American roadside motels, was undeniably a bit shabby. The peeling wallpaper whispered tales of forgotten guests and budget constraints, the kind of setting that wouldn’t be out of place in a horror flick. But after a 30-mile trek, the threat of fictional slashers paled in comparison to the very real need for a hot shower and a soft bed.

Suitably refreshed, we emerged back into the inn, which was buzzing with the energy of locals enjoying pints and playing darts. During the day, we had fantasised about regaling the patrons with tales of our walk. But awkwardness and exhaustion conspired to keep us quiet and by 2200, our eyelids were drooping, and we retreated to our room.

I was woken up the next morning by the sun rudely bleeding through the cheap motel curtains, but all I could think about was how much my feet hurt. Three huge blisters were punishing me for wearing ill-fitting shoes. We both bandaged up our feet and started hobbling. Thankfully, the crisp morning air quickly washed away the pain. Fields and woods unfurled before us, making the first hour of walking surprisingly easy.

Today’s 13 miles was the hilliest stretch of our entire journey. From Burwash onwards, the route would rise and fall the entire way. However, the path was more gentle, consisting of paved lanes that meandered through charming villages. Yesterday’s sprawling suburbs were replaced by quaint cottages, and it became clear we’d crossed into rural England. Lycra-clad cyclists whizzed past, their weekend warrior enthusiasm a contrast to stoic toffs on horses.

The relentless hills chipped away at our energy, which was amplified by a lack of coffee. Finally, a familiar sight emerged: Battle Abbey. Aside from being the site of the Battle of Hastings almost 1000 years ago, it was home to a much more exciting event – my first ever job. Memories of tending gardens, guiding tourists and the haughty glares of the private school students who considered me beneath them flooded back. This has caused a chip on my shoulder, which I realised had softened with time but never quite vanished.

Reaching Battle was a full-circle moment, particularly because I realised we had completed the reverse trip of what William the Conqueror had done following his victory at Hastings. We refuelled in the familiar comfort of Costa Coffee and got on with the final few miles. This final stretch was the only part I had walked before, often as a teenager escaping work. Conversation flowed, and we happily grimaced through every step, revelling in shared accomplishment. One thought resonated strongly: the incredible ‘cost-to-adventure’ ratio. Spending next to nothing, we were experiencing an excellent adventure. A helpful reminder of what can be found on our own doorsteps.

Seeing the Hastings sign about an hour later brought smiles to our faces. Dad and his friend welcomed us, and soon we were lost in the roar of the afternoon football match. During the game, a wave of nostalgia came over me as the children mirrored my childhood memories and the familiar faces of my parents’ generation jeered amongst the crowd.

To the casual observer, our arrival was just another Saturday afternoon. No trumpets, no red carpets, just a quiet satisfaction that resonated deep within. The game itself, with Hastings United cruising to a 2-0 win against Hashtag United, was a fitting end to our walk.

The train journey back was a more frustrating exercise than the walk itself, thanks to a two-hour delay. But even that couldn’t dampen my spirits. A walk with a mate, blisters and all, had been an adventure that far surpassed the £20 train ride. And that, as they say, is priceless.