staff who embarked on this year's End-to-end Walk. this is the real story from a man who walked 26 miles with apacket of Camels.

The optimistically-named Royal Gazelles may not have won any major prizes for their efforts during the End-to-End Walk.

But taking a taxi to start the 26-mile long hike shows a certain amount of style, I feel -- even though I turned up nearly an hour late and failed to actually register.

And few walkers will have completed the gruelling endurance test loaded down with a rucksack containing three make-up bags, a complete change of ladies clothes, and probably a full-length mirror for all I know.

None of them mine, of course. My wife has her own ideas on doing things in style.

The day started badly -- a transport mix-up left me and the wife stranded in Paget.

And one thing was for sure. I wasn't about to walk to St. George's.

A convenient taxi solved the problem. But passing the main body of walkers at Longbird Bridge caused a little nervousness.

It may only have been my imagination, but I felt more than a few of the fainter hearts were already eyeing the luxury vehicle with the sort of glower once practised by PLO hijackers.

And I'd prepared so well. Following advice, I'd taken a light breakfast -- and they don't come much lighter than two cups of coffee and four cigarettes.

But it was a lonely start to the walk -- and panic soon set in when we started passing abandoned water stations.

But hey, as they say in the French Foreign Legion (a fine body of men noted for hiking through trackless wastes at the drop of a kepi) Marchez ou Morte -- March or Die.

We soon caught up with the stragglers. And manned water stations, although I wouldn't recommend waving away oranges from the distressingly healthy-looking volunteers -- they, of course, hadn't walked anywhere.

With hindsight, however, growling "stuff the oranges'' in favour of a quick drag on a Camel or two was probably less than generous.

I very much got the impression I was viewed as not quite in the spirit of the thing.

But the only reason I was there was because my colleagues -- noting my tendency to binge on chips, fries, coffee and cigarettes, mocked.

Telling tall tales of my childhood in Scots Highland glens where the nearest shop was a round trip of 30 miles over moor and massive mountain probably didn't help.

Nor did the fact that the closest I've ever been to a mountain was watching the Sound of Music.

They said I'd never do it -- and, it must be said, they were very nearly right.

But up till then, I had thought walks were something you cooked Chinese food in.

Somerset Bridge is definitely a bridge too far if you ask me. And the sight minutes later of Dockyard shimmering in the distance like a Gobi Desert oasis made my heart sink into my Timberlands, I can tell you.

But, with a brief stop-off in Sandys for my wife to go for a swim -- I forgot about the towel and the swimsuit -- the end was in sight.

And I finished in better shape than my jogging wife and with far fewer blisters than my big-mouthed, superfit, News Editor.

But do it again next year? Not a chance. I'll be the one with the tray of oranges at Collectors Hill and good luck to you all.