True Story (Warning: NSFW)

Hello and welcome to 50FootHead. The useful and serious stuff about walking LEJoG and mental health is that way ↑ →

…If you’re still here… this is my finest walking anecdote: gift-wrapped, perfectly formed and worthy of a page all to itself. Be warned: that ‘NSFW’ in the menu is not just a tease. The subject matter is absolutely NOT SUITABLE FOR WORK (or young children).

This story is 100% true, without any embellishment whatsoever. It has only ever been told verbally; this is the first time I have written it down. It always goes down well. Women in particular seem to like it. I hope it works on the page. Here we go…

HIGH PEAK TALE

This happened a week and a half after I was dismissed by The Firm – a beautiful June afternoon, on the cusp of astronomical summer. I was around 16½ stone at this time, some 3½ – 4 stone over my regular adult weight. Hence I resolved, while out of work, to get as much of this flab off as possible. Walking 3-4 times per week, for 4+ hours at a time, was the first stage. Most walks were uneventful. This one was an exception.

Readers may not be familiar with the High Peak Trail in Derbyshire (map available if you click the link). For the purposes of this story, all you need to know is this: I was around 6 miles from the northern trailhead, walking south east from Friden in the direction of Newhaven Crossing. This is the only time the trail crosses an A-road on the level, being the A5012 around half a mile south of Newhaven. The path is heavily used by walkers and cyclists and is more or less completely flat at this point. To help you visualise the scene, here’s a photograph of the trail at the point our tale begins.

This photo and the ones below were taken on a much cloudier September afternoon in 2018. And sadly it had been raining for quite a while before my last photo was taken. Do try and imagine a virtually cloudless sky and temperatures over 80 degrees Fahrenheit when picturing the actual scene.

In the middle distance, you should just about be able to discern a wooden gate between the large clump of trees to the right of the path and the smaller trees to the left. If I’m asked to tell this tale in person, it’s usually referred to as “the gate story”. Indeed the gate appears in all four photos on this page. It’s the silent witness I suppose, as I’m the only living witness…

I’m probably around 100-150 yards from the gate when the story begins. I am very fortunate to possess what they call 20/20 vision, and I couldn’t help but notice from this distance that there seemed to be some activity behind the gate. Not right behind it, otherwise I would have been able to identify the type of activity immediately. Just slightly to the left, obscured by the low wall forming the border of the footpath. I thought nothing of it initially – possibly a snacking cyclist or walker, perhaps a dry stone waller or conservation volunteer. But as I drew closer, within 50-100 yards, I noticed that the activity seemed… how can I put this…? Quite rhythmical.

Here we are around 50 yards from the gate, at the ‘crossing ahead’ sign, with the A5012 visible in the top left…

Now you can see from the above photo that anything taking place right behind the gate would be very clear to the human eye. What you perhaps don’t comprehend yet is that I won’t actually be walking through that broad gate which appears to span the width of the path. This is effectively just a fence, beyond which lies only a patch of grass. To its left is a slightly higher, lever-operated gate which I must pass through in order to reach Newhaven Crossing. Thus you will appreciate that I won’t be able to see what lies behind the real gate until I’m about to go through it.

But I can definitely see something, behind that low wall. And it is rhythmical. Most disturbingly, the rhythm is unbroken. It’s a definite up and down motion. My suspicions are aroused, although I still have faith that I could easily be mistaken. Perhaps it’s a painter with his brush. Maybe it’s an exuberant child. Or a cyclist has a flat tyre and is operating a bicycle pump. Yes, that last one – I like it. Comfortably the most likely explanation…

Now for the third photo, which displays the scene – in all its afternoon glory – as I come upon the aforementioned lever-operated gate.

To the right you can see the broad gate-cum-fence and the patch of grass. Directly ahead and prominent is the A5012. On the far (south) side of the road, next to the tree, you can see the corresponding gate and continuation of the trail. You will note the wide open space between me and the road, easily used as a lay-by. Most importantly of all, you can now see that low wall to the left of the gate, and observe that it is barely more than two feet high.

And finally, here’s the view from the other side of the gate (photo taken after the rain):

The wall is at least a foot higher on this side. If you did want to do anything surreptitious, you are far enough back from the A-road not to be seen by 50-60mph traffic. And a poor, innocent walker or cyclist coming from behind won’t clock you until they’re pretty much through the gate. I’m not condoning anything, just trying to get into the mindset.

So anyway, as I was saying… Whatever I was able to see earlier was due to distance, 20/20 vision, my 6-foot-3 height and the angle of approach in relation to the low wall. As I get closer to the gate, I can’t see anything over the far side of the wall. Maybe occasionally a human head is in view, but nothing more than that. All I have is that tiny suspicion in the back of my mind, and faith in the general decency of human beings competing with a vague sense of dread.

But there’s something else I haven’t mentioned, of course. I’ve been stressing one of the five senses above all others, have I not? And although the High Peak Trail is popular, on this Tuesday afternoon it’s very quiet. I come to within 5-10 yards – just a few seconds – of the gate and I can hear evidence of things not seen. What can only be described as rhythmic shuffling. I don’t hear any moaning, but then again I’m fairly sure that’s not a paintbrush or a bicycle pump being manipulated. It sounds… fleshier.

I once read a review of The Empire Strikes Back (in Empire magazine I think) which described the couple of seconds’ gap between Darth Vader saying to Luke Skywalker “No.” and “I…” as a moment where the previously inconceivable became totally, horrifically inevitable. Much the same could be said of the two or three seconds between me pulling the lever and closing the gate behind me. As I reached out to open the bridle gate, I still believed my suspicions were probably misplaced. But then I closed it and glanced to the left…

There sat, or lay, a youngish man, maybe 30-35. Rugged, well built, from what I saw. He was in a work uniform. Well I say that, he was half out of it. I’m sure he’d removed his jacket for starters. Fair enough, it was a hot afternoon. But his trousers were down around his ankles. His underpants weren’t far behind them. He was, presumably, on a break. Now I can quite understand why he wanted to grab some R&R on such a warm afternoon. But where you and I might just have a bottle of water or an ice lolly, our chap had got his lad out.

I’m not remotely prudish. God knows I might even have felt horny once or twice or dozens of times on sunny afternoons. And there must be hundreds if not thousands of couples who’ve enjoyed some outdoor shenanigans in their time. Many of them in public places. It’s just… well, I’ve never seen or even imagined a bloke deciding he urgently needs a wank in broad daylight in the middle of Derbyshire.

For that, readers, is what was happening. One-man afternoon delight. He was shaking hands with the governor of love. Enjoying the company of Mrs Palmer and her five lovely daughters. Choking the chicken. Beating his meat. Jacking off. [Professor voice] Manually stimulating the genitals with the ultimate aim of reaching orgasm. Presumably. Full marks to those of you who guessed as soon as I said “quite rhythmical”, but I guarantee nothing can prepare you for the reality of such a moment. His lad – his erection, let’s be clinical rather than euphemistic – was pointing straight up at the blue sky. I really don’t have any comparative experience of these things, but it seemed from that one quick glance to the left that he was more than adequately endowed. Naturally, I did not stick around for long enough to know whether he succeeded in making Cyclops cry.

Because I just put my head down and didn’t look back, I honestly don’t know to this day whether he had any reaction to this walker v wanker interface. I don’t know whether he carried on blissfully unaware, or tried to cover himself up, or did a Mark and Lard style stop…. carry on, or what. I feel sure he must have heard the gate and known I was there, but then again I suppose it’s possible he had headphones on and his eyes closed. Honestly, if you’re aware of the protocol for alfresco wanking, do enlighten me. At least he must have taken (even more) relief from my not making a fuss.

Again, questions of protocol spring to mind. I know it’s very British not to intervene, but are there people out there whose morals would have been so outraged that they would have admonished the guy? Or reported him for gross indecency? Did he spend several days or weeks afterwards nervous about a knock on the door from the Derbyshire constabulary? And – god forbid – what if I had been a mother with two small children to think about? How do you explain that one to them?

Also, I don’t know how far in he was, so to speak. Had he only just been overwhelmed by the urge? I figure he must have been at it for at least the 2 minutes in between me spotting the rhythmic movements and going through the gate, so it’s possible he was approaching the Billy Mill Roundabout or nearing the vinegar strokes. I am therefore relieved that this encounter was not as sticky as it might have been.

There was no-one else present at the scene, by the way. No-one turning him on. He could have had a magazine with him, I suppose, but my photographic memory of the trauma only recalls his physical appearance and phallic pride.

Money shot

Actually, that’s not strictly true. Although there was no-one else on the ground, there was a large white van parked in the open space/lay-by between the gate and the road crossing. I would have been able to see the van for a while, but in my immediate rush to get away from Hand Solo, I didn’t link him with the vehicle. Of course, now it made sense that this was his company van, and he’d parked up here after being overwhelmed by his native masculine urges.

But that isn’t the full story either. The van was parked in such a way as to obscure Mr Solo from oncoming traffic and, as a last line of defence, there was “Chewbacca” in the passenger seat. Yes, the shameless shuffler had evidently asked his obliging workmate to keep lookout. And there his co-pilot and accomplice sat, facing the road – a monkey who had avoided a spanking while his organ grinder… ground his organ.

The only other thing I registered before staring determinedly ahead at the crossing was the name of the company. And here, ladies and gentlemen, is the long-delayed climax. In black lettering on the white van (and I read it twice just to be sure), the name of their company was…

RT Mycock & Sons.

Oh yes.

No. Honestly.

I couldn’t make this up. I would not dare make this up.

Enjoy the rest of the site. I’m not sure any of my walks are worth getting tumescent over. But I hope that in some way the content arouses your less carnal passions.

Picture of Jim Norton as Bishop Brennan, suitably dazed and asking himself whether what he experienced really happened… a still from my DVD copy of Father Ted, series 3, episode 6 (‘Kicking Bishop Brennan Up The Arse’).

(Yes, of course the reference to a bishop taking a bashing is deliberate)