500 Miles

The tide was out down at the river today, and the sun had baked the sand of the riverbed to a reasonable firmness during the morning, so it was a fantastic chance to go wandering along its course. Judging from the imprints in the sand that stretched for miles along the waterside, I wasn't the only one who'd had that idea, although by the looks of it, my fellow walker was adventurously going barefoot.

It put me in mind of one of my favourite pieces of romantic hyperbole, dreamed up by those bespectacled Scottish warblers The Proclaimers. Among the many things that they proclaimed in their heyday was that they would walk 500 miles and then 500 more, just to be the man who'd walk a thousand miles to fall down at your door. As ill-fated chat-up lines go, this one's a corker.

There are so many reasons why this is not a sensible thing to say. Firstly, by setting the limit of your love at a concrete thousand miles, you're leaving yourself wide open to other suitors coming in and upping the ante. Like being outbid on eBay with seconds to go, how do you cope with someone else elbowing in and declaring to the girl you fancy that they'd happily walk, say, 1,173 miles for her? There are no limits in a game like this. It could end up in a round-the-world race with hundreds of participants. At least if you give her chocolates, the worst you've got to contend with is the Milk Tray bloke parachuting in to pip you at the post.

Secondly, depending on how capricious your intended is, you have to accept that there's every chance she could turn round and say the dreaded words: "go on then." This is why I only ever make promises to the opposite sex that I can be at least 70% sure of delivering on (such as "I'd go to the kitchen and make a cup of tea for you.")

See, that's when you really have problems. Because as straightforward as walking five hundred miles and then five hundred more may seem during a romantic meal, or after a few pints down the pub, believe me, the sober reality of it will hit home very quickly when you're trudging across meadow and motorway, day and night, with little in the way of food or shelter. You won't be doing much singing when that happens, I can tell you. Even relentless cursing will begin to pall after the third or fourth time you've collapsed from dehydration.

Still, I suppose it'll all be worth it when you finally hit that golden four-figure number, and fall down at her door. Obviously you won't be much to look at, what with the advanced emaciation, feet blistered to ruin, various parasites setting up shop in and around your person, and delirious jabberings about sun-cream. But on the other hand, she'd presumably be guilt-tripped into at least making you a sandwich.

So, I have to wonder about these footprints that I encountered today. I admit it's a fairly small chance, but it's nonetheless possible that it was indeed one of the Proclaimers staggering down this sandy path just before my good self this afternoon. Given the distance we are from Edinburgh, he'd be a fair way through his epic trek, but with a very, very, very long way to go. And perhaps with just enough breath in his body to periodically mutter: "Ah shouldnae ha' written tha' fuckin' song."