Archie is happy, Boris has settled down into a fairly controlled gait and the sun is shining. The only problem is our location, or lack of it.
One field looks much like another and we are coming at the Downs from a direction we’ve never come from before. My mother grew up in Kingsclere and has lived there all her adult life. That’s over fifty years of riding, walking and driving in the area.
‘Why didn’t you bring a map?’ she asks me.
‘Because I knew I had you,’ I reply, staring at the photos I’ve taken of a map on my phone. The trouble is, we aren’t on the Wayfarer’s Walk any more and we’ve gone off the side of the map. I have no idea where we are.
‘Why don’t we ring Ian?’ says Alice. That’s my dad.
‘No!’ Mum and I respond in unison.
We don’t want to admit to him that we are lost and, anyway, we can’t tell him where to come and get us because we are lost. We can’t see the mast at Hannington, but I reckon if we turn left and head a bit further up to the brow of the next hill, we will get our bearings. There are no longer any footpath signs so we follow the wide verges of fields in the hope that we are more or less obeying the laws of the countryside.
Eventually we see signs we recognize for Cannon Heath Farm (our home downs are Cannon Heath Down, so we have to be close). We spot the mast in the distance and I can see the ghastly white fencing that Dad has put along the Downs to stop people straying on to the gallops. It’s not that he doesn’t want them to enjoy the space and the views, it’s to prevent them leaving the detritus of picnics in the middle of a stretch where a bunch of two-year-olds will gallop.
By now we are all quite tired and conversation is limited to where we are going and whether or not it’s time to ring Dad. I can see a man in a tractor having his sandwiches and an apple, so I decide the best policy is just to ask how we can get to where we’re going.
‘Oh, hello,’ he says when I appear at his cab door. ‘Where are you going to then?’
I explain that we have walked the Wayfarer’s Walk from Combe Gibbet, but we’ve had to divert for flooding and are a bit lost. He’s wearing a jacket that reads ‘SYDMONTON FARMS’, part of the estate owned by Andrew Lloyd Webber.
‘Oh, I know where you’re meant to be,’ says the man. ‘My wife did it last year. Lovely walk. You’re well off track, aren’t you?’
I look sheepish.
‘Never mind. Head for those three trees over there [he pointed half a mile in the distance] and you’ll be back on your downs. I’ll just ring the gamekeeper and tell him I’ve sent you that way.’
We couldn’t be more grateful. He is basically giving us permission to cut a corner and, when the gamekeeper comes rattling along in his four-wheel drive with his baby on the seat beside him, it is only to say hello and check we are all right. The kindness of strangers is what gets you through when you make mistakes in life.
In the distance I can see Dad’s blue Jimny. I look at my phone. Five missed calls. Mum looks at hers. Six missed calls. He’s a bit impatient, my father. Suddenly the car starts moving in the wrong direction. He’s heading home.
‘Quick, call him!’ Mum says, panic rising in her voice. She has come such a long way, but the thought of the final mile or two home is too much. We have gone so far off our route that all of us are running on empty. I call Dad and tell him to wait.
He is shaking his head as we approach the gate.
‘What are you doing coming from that direction?’ he asks, as Mac the lurcher sniffs around for something to kill, totally uninterested in us or Boris or Archie.
‘Oh, it’s a long story,’ I say, not wanting to admit we’d got lost. ‘We were forced into a diversion and it’s taken us this way. Lovely farmer said we could cut across and, in fact, we’ve all decided that we’ll do the last section from Ladle Hill to home another time, with the whole family. You can come, too, if you like. It’s only about seven miles and it’ll be lovely.’
As I am inventing my alternative plan, Archie takes a decision on behalf of us all and jumps into the car. He’s had enough. Alice and I cram into the back seat, where Archie lies between us and instantly falls asleep. Mum gets in the front with Boris, and Dad puts Mac in the boot, from where he hangs his head between us, not wanting to miss any of the action.
For the next three days I am convinced I have shin splints. I wake up in the middle of the night and in the morning I’m in agony. ‘I think I’ve fractured my leg,’ I say.
‘That’s quite dramatic,’ says Alice. ‘Here, rub some of this on it and you’ll be fine.’
She hands me some Deep Heat. It isn’t quite the level of sympathy I’m expecting, but it is all I’m going to get. Two days later, I feel fine again.
‘My fracture has healed itself,’ I confirm.
‘Gosh,’ says Alice. ‘You are a medical miracle. And so brave.’
12
It was barely a quarter of a mile, probably only eight hundred steps. But it was one of the most important walks of my life.
I was wearing a white tracksuit bearing a sticker with the number 053. In my hand was a gold, conical torch about two feet in length. I was unbelievably nervous, my hands sweating and my legs juddering. I was just one of the eight thousand people chosen to carry the Olympic flame and I was going to do it down a section of the high street in my home town of Newbury.
Newbury – the place where Dad did his Christmas shopping in one mad dash in Camp Hopson on Christmas Eve, weaving in and out of the people on the pavements as if he was dodging tackles in a high-paced game of rugby, with Andrew and I trying to keep up. Newbury – where I passed my driving test, where I went to the doctor, where I won an amateur race on Song of Sixpence in 1990 and appeared on television for the very first time, red-faced and out of breath.
On 11 July 2012 the high street was packed with children in school uniform, people with cameras and casual onlookers caught up in the moment. The crowds were five and six deep and among them were my parents, my sister-in-law, Anna Lisa, my nephews, Jonno and Toby, and Alice. Dad hadn’t really wanted to come – he thought it would be difficult to park – but my mother had eventually talked him into it.
I had been nominated to carry the torch by my bank manager at Lloyds, which was one of the supporting sponsors for the torch relay. I have no idea whether it was a reward for not being overdrawn or not bouncing a cheque, but it was a wonderful act of kindness. If it was intended to ensure I bank with them for infinity, it’s worked.
I left early in the morning to go to the meeting point, which I thought was in Newbury but in fact was the village hall in Thatcham, so, half an hour later than everyone else, I walked into a large room where everyone was having a briefing. There were about thirty of us and we had to introduce ourselves to the group. Everyone else was being rewarded for raising huge amounts of money for charity or being a pillar of the community or had been nominated by their co-workers. I tried to think of a good story or a solid reason why I should carry the Olympic torch, but I’m not a very good liar so I just told the truth.
‘I was nominated by Brendan, my bank manager,’ I said.
They all laughed. I think they thought I was joking.
Aaron, one of the enthusiastic, healthy-looking young things working full time on the torch relay, told us what would happen. He made sure we appreciated the honour we had been given.
‘Remember that, when you’re carrying the torch,’ he said, ‘you’re the only person in the world in charge of the Olympic Flame.’
Aaron explained how the lighting process would work – essentially, they would do it all for us and there was no need to worry, as it would absolutely, definitely work and we would not be left holding an empty torch, knowing that the Olympic Flame had become extinguished in our hands. This was a relief.
I met Emma, a sixteen-year-old who has raised thousands for research into the rare kidney disease from which she suffers, and Reg, a former RAF navigator who has also worked tirelessly for charity. Emma would
pass the flame to me, and I would hand it on to Reg. When the torches touched and the flame went from one to the other (with a lot of help from Aaron’s team), it was known as ‘the Kiss’.
I went into a room to get changed out of my jeans and into my tracksuit and found two men with a bunch of toy cars. I thought it a bit strange until they explained that they used the toy trucks and cars to show us how the convoy would work. I had missed that bit because I’d arrived late, so they gave me the benefit of a personal demonstration. Eventually I asked them to leave so that I could change into my special Olympic torch-bearing tracksuit.
The tracksuit fitted (always a relief) but I instantly regretted my choice of shoes. Everyone else was wearing smart white trainers. The woman I met when I came out of the changing room told me she’d bought hers especially for the occasion. She looked at my scruffy brown trainers with frayed laces from ten years of wear and I think I saw pity in her eyes. I had gone for comfort in the mistaken belief that I would have to walk or run a long way. I should’ve favoured style.
I went to the loo three or four more times before we were finally called into our white minibus with ‘Moment to Shine’ written on the side of it. I took photos of everyone else and of the array of twenty-four torches in their special holders. There were people on the streets of Thatcham and all along the A4, the crowds building up as we got towards Newbury. After weeks of rain we had a gap in the weather and the sun was shining. It seemed like a miracle, and it meant that everyone waiting had a smile on their face.
We cheered as fourteen-year-old Tom got off for the first leg, and wished him luck. The clapping and hollering got louder per person but quieter in total as each person disembarked. I was glad I wouldn’t be the final one left on board. I’m not sure I could’ve taken the pressure.
Emma got off the minibus looking calm and controlled. She is a very together young woman. I was a wreck, and I knew it was my turn next. I stood up to take my torch from Aaron. I looked out of the window at the crowds, their faces full of expectation and excitement. My legs went wobbly. I took the torch in my hands and felt its latticed sides, grateful that the thousands of little holes meant it wasn’t a slippery surface and that it shouldn’t fall out of my sweaty hands. It was heavier than I expected but I couldn’t tell if that was the torch or the weakness of my own muscles.
‘Are you OK?’ asked Aaron.
I nodded back, incapable of speech. I kept looking at all those people and thinking how special this was. It was a moment I wanted to last for ever and yet couldn’t wait to get over and done with. I stumbled down the stairs of the minibus and, in the crowd, as I recovered myself, I saw Uncle Toby with my cousin Camilla, who had driven up from London to bring him. I had no idea he would be there and it was pure luck that the bus had stopped right opposite where he was standing.
Uncle Toby had a stroke a few years ago and he is nearly blind, but he has always made an effort to be there for important occasions and he doesn’t let lack of sight stop him. He was at Towcester when AP McCoy (whose first job in the UK was riding for him) rode his record 4,000th winner, and he wanted to be in Newbury when I carried the Olympic torch. I let him hold it, and he leaned over to whisper in my ear.
‘Well done, girl,’ he said. ‘I’m very proud of you.’
Well, that set me off. The schoolchildren around him wanted to hold the torch, so everyone got a go and as many photos as we could manage. I crossed the road to try to find Alice, and finally saw her. My nephews had made their way to the front with Anna Lisa, and my parents weren’t far behind. Jonno held the torch and couldn’t understand why it wasn’t lit yet. I explained that the flame would pass to me like a relay baton. I looked at my father, and his bottom lip was wobbling. My mother smiled as she said, ‘For God’s sake, don’t get over-emotional. Try to pull yourself together.’
The crowds started to clap as they saw the Olympic Flame coming down the high street, grey-tracksuited runners on either side of Emma, a yellow-and-white car behind and then a big bus. It looked very different to the toy trucks on the table.
Emma was nearing the end of her leg and, as she came jogging towards me, I tried to control the tears and grinned as wide as I could. We met in the middle of the high street and I put my torch out to hers. Someone fiddled with buttons and suddenly her flame had gone out and mine was lit. It was like magic, but with less sleight of hand. I held the torch up high and the crowd roared.
I walked at first – until one of the grey-shirted guardians of the flame whispered, ‘It looks better if you run …’
The 350 metres went in a flash. Beaming faces, people shouting, children waving, three people wearing Royal Family masks hanging out of a window above Boots. It was overwhelming. I passed the flame on to Reg and stared at my torch, now empty of fire and its wires clipped so that it can never be lit again. People sent me photographs after the event that showed the crowds, and in every one all I can see are smiling faces.
I have no idea what I said afterwards to Radio Berkshire, or how I got home. It seems like a precious dream.
Later that day I took the torch to Kingsclere Primary School, where thirty years before I had been reprimanded for fighting in the playground. The children all wanted to touch it and we spent an hour having photos taken of them holding it. It had a magic quality, that torch, and the relay connected people to the idea of the Olympics long before the athletes arrived in this country. It made us all feel included, as if we were part of this great big team that would deliver a sporting spectacular. It embodied the essence of teamwork, the result of years of planning and the cooperation of people in towns and villages up and down the land. And I got to be a part of that relay thanks to Brendan the bank manager. Funny how life works.
That short walk with the Olympic torch started the most significant adventure of my working life, but the build-up to the Games didn’t all go smoothly.
I hosted a ceremony to unveil a massive Countdown Clock in Trafalgar Square. There was dry ice, and Olympic rowers pulled a rope which moved a screen to reveal the clock counting down to the hour of the opening ceremony. I interviewed the London mayor, Boris Johnson, and Jess Ennis, heptathlete star and gold-medal favourite. The crowd whooped.
Twenty-four hours later, the clock stopped.
There was a comedy called Twenty Twelve on the BBC in the weeks before the Olympic Games started. It satirized the planning behind the Games, and the script included a similar scenario about a countdown clock. I messaged Hugh Bonneville, who played the lead role of the ‘Head of Deliverance’, saying, ‘You are acting out my life.’
Then it started raining, and it didn’t stop for weeks. Perhaps because of the rain, the Hammersmith Flyover, which provides the main route from Heathrow Airport into Central London, developed a fracture and was closed for repair work. The security firm G4S admitted that they didn’t have the staff to cover the venues, so the army had to be drafted in. Then, at one of the first events, staged early to get the football tournament off and running, the North Korean women’s team walked off the pitch and refused to play after their images were shown on the big screen next to the South Korean flag.
We all started to get nervous. Would the nay-sayers be proved right? Could London 2012 be a complete farce?
Finally, the day of the opening ceremony arrived. I had been to one of the rehearsals two days before, when we were urged to ‘Save the Secret’ by not revealing any of the details on social media. We saw the trees and grass disappear and, in their place, appearing from underground came the chimneys and wheels of the Industrial Revolution, we heard Emeli Sandé sing ‘Abide With Me’, we saw nurses and children bouncing on beds, but most of the key elements, such as Bradley Wiggins tolling the bell or Rowan Atkinson playing the repeated note of the Chariots of Fire theme or the Queen jumping out of a helicopter, were kept completely secret.
I was back in the stadium for the real thing, standing at the bottom interviewing Suffragettes and factory workers, talking to members of the public,
who were being allowed to stand on the infield of the athletics track, trying to give an idea on TV of what it was like to be in the midst of it all. And how would I sum up that opening ceremony? It was brave, it was beautiful and it was bonkers. When the green and pleasant land transformed into the Industrial Revolution, it was as if a wand had been waved.
London 2012 had begun.
From that moment, we were in a bubble – a miraculous, uplifting bubble. There are times when I wish I could tap back into that stream of pride and confidence. London was the centre of the world and we were showing our very best face.
I was determined to enjoy every second. I hadn’t realized until London 2012 that there is a difference between covering an event and immersing yourself in it. That you can be professional and capable, if a little distant, or you can dive right in and not just see the event but feel it. It’s a bit like the way I think about Cornwall. If you can transmit that, make it travel down the line into people’s sitting rooms, then they’d feel as if they were sitting right there in the stadium with you.
There is a thing actors call ‘breaking the fourth wall’. It refers to a performer on stage breaking off script and talking to the audience. That’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to reach through the screen and pull people right into the action. It might work, or it might make me look like an idiot – that was a risk I was prepared to take, because one of the tricks to live presenting is not being afraid. You can’t always know the answers, you certainly don’t know what’s going to happen next and you have to react as a human being, not as a polished performer.
In many ways, the pressure was off me at the Olympics. I wasn’t one of the main studio presenters; after covering the swimming I would be on familiar territory doing the dressage and showjumping at Greenwich, and covering historic events like the first Olympic boxing medals awarded to women. I had presented a series on Radio 4 called The History of British Sport, so I had a bit of background knowledge.
Walking Home Page 22
