It hadn’t been a great start to the excursion, but at least I had seen some activity in the woods. On the way out I had slipped trying to negotiate a ditch. It was like someone had whacked me with a plank of wood on my ankle.

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My hand went to the mobile phone. Hang on. Let’s just assess what’s going on here. I could move my toes and slightly move my ankle. It can’t be broken. Perhaps a pulled muscle or at the worst damaged ligaments. It must be. I crawled out of the ditch and into the field. The exertion caused my breath to form a stream of white vapour from my mouth as the temperature dropped.

Well, if ever there was anyone more prepared for this, it was me. I had a sleeping bag, bivi bag, food, water (no I didn’t - I’d poured it away to walk out, stupid!) knife, firesteel, whistle, light-stick, kitchen sink and good clothing. I would survive.

OK. Before we call the cavalry, let’s try and stand up. I pushed myself up hopping on the good leg. And the other leg? I gingerly placed it on the deck. Yes, that hurt. A lot. A shooting pain went up the back of my leg. I would need a walking stick; but to cut one, I would have to go back into the woods. I don’t think so.

Some semblance of logic and rational thought returned. If this was a calf muscle injury, I wouldn’t be able to extend and flex the foot but I might be able to bear some weight with the foot angled out at 90 degrees. Well, that was less painful. I was kind of mobile. All I had to do now was walk, I mean limp, the half mile across the field, negotiate another ditch, follow a tarmac road for 200 yards and I would reach the car. No problems.

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I had my first aid kit of course, but to strap up the leg would be a waste of time and effort. The high legged surplus army boots seemed to be doing a reasonable job of supporting the bottom of the leg.

I followed a deer trail at the edge of the field and bizarrely, I scolded myself for walking on the tracks, but I had no option other than a deeply rutted, muddy field. I counted my steps and kept the head torch firmly pinned to the area in front of me as I shuffled Quasimodo style toward the road.

I’ve been injured before and have had to persevere to get medical attention. A kind of survival instinct takes over and the adrenaline rushes to the parts of the body where it’s needed, which of course, is exactly what it’s designed to do. There’s a sense of euphoria and you actually feel good, which in turn provides you with some extra determination to drive you onwards to your goal despite the pain.

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I had no option but to crawl on hands and knees to get across the   other ditch. I wasn’t going to risk further injury by another slip. The tarmac of the road was bliss! The smooth surface provided fewer jolts and I began to reflect on what happened.

What had I done wrong? I was walking slowly and carefully. I always preach slowing down in the woods and I follow my own advice. Ironically, about this time two weeks ago, I was walking through a wood, barefoot, blindfolded with one ear bunged up! I had a torch on. I had high-leg boots on and not my tracking boots, which probably saved me from a more serious injury. I would have had to negotiate the ditch wherever I exited the woods. It was very slippery underfoot. A momentary lapse of concentration? I had slipped and fallen. Well, that was about it. I should have stayed in the woods was the only chastisement I could administer to myself.

At last the car. I slung the kit in the back and started her up. Now this would be interesting. My injured left foot just couldn’t depress the clutch. Another series of shooting pains reminded me that actually, my left foot was useless. It was only a five minute journey home. Mrs P wasn’t there but the cavalry, in the form of my mate who lived close by, could still be called.

I’d got this far, so I wasn’t going to give up now. I used my right foot on the clutch and slowly got old Doris moving. You can change gear without the clutch at the right revs, but I decided to stay in first gear. It was only a mile and a half. Luckily, there’s very little traffic around our country lanes, and it wasn’t long before I landed outside the front door with a judder and a screech as a heavy right foot descended on the brake, stalling the car in the process.

Once inside the house, I quickly disrobed and took off my socks. Immediately I saw the problem. Right foot Achilles tendon - present and correct; left foot Achilles tendon - Absent Without Leave. It appeared I’d ruptured my Achilles heel. Nice one!

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This was confirmed 3 hours later at the hospital, (thanks Paul, for waiting about for me) where, amongst other things, an appointment was made to attend the fracture clinic next week.

At least we made it back to the pub for last orders. Perhaps not such a disaster after all.

So, what am I going to do for the next six to eight weeks? Ever the optimist… I’ve got a few cunning plans!

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Please send all flowers, get well soon cards, grapes, port wine and brandy to this address …

Thanks for the visit,

Pablo.