I haven’t been to Peterborough proper in eons. Apart from one trip to an out‑of‑town retail park about eight years ago, and I have no idea what I was doing in a shopping centre, it is usually the sort of place I avoid. It is also the sort of nightmare experience I like to cut from my memory.

I reckon it must have been back in the seventies when I last visited. I was there as part of the Colchester team in the East Anglian Colleges Knockout Cup. We went on to lose to, of all teams, King’s Lynn in the final, and I had no idea I would move there eventually.

We played at Norwich after beating Cambridge in the semi‑final. An earlier round saw us playing Peterborough away; it may even have been the quarter‑final, I don’t recall. I do remember that the changing rooms were awful, as they often were in those days.

Walking around the town in the few hours beforehand didn’t fill me with admiration. Ever since then I have had no desire to return. With the above in mind, I have always wondered why Peterborough United Football Club are known as The Posh.

I could see nothing posh about the town whatsoever. I, as is my want, have now found out why. It stems from the manager of another local club wanting to start a new team in the town.

The manager of Fletton United advertised for posh players for a new posh team. Now, I cannot find any formal reference to this, but within the building industry fletton bricks are often referred to as commons.

Given that we were slap bang in the middle of the historic brickmaking industry, I assume it was his own way of trying to be funny, so Posh was formed as an antonym to Commons. If this is it, I like it very much.

Roll on to a balmy day in mid‑June 2026. We had earmarked Ferry Meadows as Jane’s “F” in her assault on the parkrun alphabeteer summit. Not sure how many she has to go; I think she is over halfway.

For those unfamiliar with this obsession, shared by thousands of parkrunners, the object of the game is to accumulate events beginning with each letter of the alphabet. Some are harder than others, basically the letters with high points scores in Scrabble.

“Z,” “Q,” “J” and “F” are among them. You will not find a “Z” in the UK, the closest one being in the Netherlands. How appropriate; I sense a ferry trip coming on. There is not an “X” anywhere in the world… yet.

All you have to do is find a field with plenty of parking, set up a coffee hut and call it something like Xenon. It should shine a light on it. X‑ray, participants might see right through you, or xerochilia, appropriate if there are no trees to offer shade.

Honestly, sit back and watch the pounds roll in: £5 for parking, £5 for a coffee, £8 for a bacon roll, so on and so forth. Good luck. I only require one reward for this piece of financial advice: free parking and a complimentary coffee and bacon sandwich when I rock up.

FERRY MEADOWS, NATURE AND A NEW VI GUIDE

Boy, what a most pleasant surprise. This part of Peterborough is, indeed, very posh now. These old, redundant quarries were transformed from an industrial blight into a glorious park‑scape, officially opened in 1978, struggling to be matched by any in the kingdom.

Ferry Meadows Country Park in Nene Park now provides leisure and recreation to the residents of the town, following the extraction of gravel for the construction of its new network of roads. It is a regenerated delight.

Paths are generously wide, allowing plenty of space for jolly joggers, cheery cyclists and wobbly walkers. There are a couple of attractive eateries, at least one providing alcoholic libation, all with glorious outdoor seating.

The pits have now been filled with water and provide endless sailing, kayaking and paddle‑boarding. You could even hire a pedalo or, if it was up your street, try open‑water swimming; don’t worry, it’s not compulsory.

I am not the religious type, but if anyone told me this is what Heaven is like, I’d believe them. Truly wonderful. Biodiversity is not ignored. I saw… hold on a mo, that is bunkum, of course Jane spotted damselflies, dragonflies and a newly planted wildflower meadow.

Fishing permits could be purchased, and bridges crossed brooks, streams and the River Nene. What’s not to like? To cap it all, apart from the play area, there is a narrow‑gauge railway offering hours of fun to pretend engine drivers, young and old.

It was a fresh event to us. I was in possession of a recently minted VI Guide, all shiny and new, only stepped off the production line in the last few weeks, my fourteenth in all. What is more, not expensive to fill up either.

Even though she brought her mother, father and two children along for moral support, they only cost us three coffees, except for the second son, who wanted chocolate cake. Good boy, can’t argue with that. Knows what he wants and he is going to have it.

Her name, by the way, nearly forgot, is Tracy Linger, a former Pontins Bluecoat. I believe the Bluecoat is the same as a Butlins Redcoat, except, obviously, it is blue and not red. I will look it up before I leave you this week.

My mother would never allow us to go to Butlins or Pontins, wrong side of the tracks and all that sort of thing. Dad did smuggle us into Butlins at Clacton once, on the understanding we never told a soul. Maternal Grandma Ham would have been appalled.

I must admit, I didn’t like it. When I went on the helter‑skelter there were a bunch of Clacton oiks waiting halfway down the slide, out of view of the ride‑attendant, who demanded sweets with menaces. You’re welcome to them, Mr Farage.

RUNNING, GUIDING AND A LEGENDARY BLUECOAT

An interesting backstory here. Tracy, who numbers Kettering and Holkham among her main events, once went to Hunstanton on the same day that I was there with the most regular of my VI Guides, Nik Bryan, not so shiny and new anymore, none intended.

She was so blown away by Nik’s highly amusing talk of what the role of a VI Guide is, she went home and immediately signed up for the course. Nik and I often say that runners wishing to take on the role of a guide runner should approach us after each event.

Many do come up for a word or two, but this is the first time I have actually known someone carry out the threat and sign on the dotted line. Well done, Tracy. Another one of these infernal hosts charges participants to use the car park.

This is despite the fact that we were to later purchase over £20 worth of coffee and cake from its café. Volunteers, to be fair, are allowed to park for free. At least that’s a step in the right direction.

Following the Run Director’s briefing, I took hold of the loudspeaker and let the nearly 600 runners, walkers and Jeffers know what they would expect from us and what we would expect from them in return. It can be difficult as we run side by side.

We are tethered together, taking up more room than solo artists. Then it was time. I think I had allayed Tracy’s anxieties, trying to reassure her that, honestly, nothing could go wrong. Of course, that is tommyrot; many things can go wrong.

But she needed me to be confident. Not that I wasn’t; I have done it many times before with a myriad of guides, all with their own preferences. It was fairly difficult getting going, and we probably started too far back, so walking and slow jogging was required.

Once we got into our stride, though, we settled into a good rhythm, passing many others as we progressed our way through the field. Communication is key for a pair running together like we were, and her instructions were clear, concise and on point.

Within the first few metres I felt at ease in her care. It was obvious that, on this occasion, there was, most definitely, nothing that could go wrong. It is a wonderfully picturesque course, shrubs in bloom, trees in summer leaf and birds serenading the runners.

Communing with nature is just what parkrun is about. All of my working senses were spoiled rotten by this environment, although taste would have to wait until the café at the end. Many man‑made features complement the biological.

We traversed three lakes: Lynch, Overton and Gunwade. Then we crossed a humpback bridge that reminded me very much of my dear old grandma, sharing her name and, maybe, her temperament, Ham Bridge. She would have got the hump had she known I went to a holiday camp.

One slightly restricting part is the section where runners are going in both directions, much like a contraflow, and, on the whole, traffic going either way remained extremely courteous. I was overjoyed to hear runners giving Tracy plaudits as we passed.

People often shout out congratulations to me, but it is not about me; it is the guide who has the hardest job. It is an enormous sacrifice for them to make, allowing me to do something I love. My bit is easy. All I have to do is put one foot in front of the other.

Whilst the weather was ramping up to be some of the hottest June conditions on record, we were blessed, in the main, as the sun managed to stay behind light clouds for the duration. In the end, we completed it in a respectable 33 minutes or so.

I am pretty sure that we both felt we had something left in the tank. Perhaps next time the majority of runners can stay away. Robert, you must remember, it isn’t just about you. Bluecoats were busy little bees around the Pontins holiday camps of yesteryear.

Not sure there is such a thing any longer. They were up with the lark, providing jolly faces to families who, in my mind, must have felt as if they were incarcerated in German prisoner‑of‑war camps. I recall early images of both and, in my opinion, they looked similar.

They would organise games for children and, indeed, for some adults who hadn’t yet grown up. Then, in the evenings, they would take to the stage and entertain the throngs of holidaymakers who, I am sure in some cases, had enjoyed too much sun, sand and sherry.

One thing I did discover, from Bill Bryson, so I am not sure of its veracity, is the competitions they held among themselves. They could earn points for various types of interaction with guests and other members of staff.

It looks like the most points earned for one transaction was twenty, but I am not going to divulge that here. You will have to drop me a private message to find out, and only then will I need to be assured of your trustworthiness if I am to share that secret.

I did look up the difference between Redcoat and Bluecoat. I found a definition for Redcoat stating it referred to a soldier of the British Army in years gone by. Bluecoats, on the other hand, meant customer‑serving staff at Pontins.

They were seen as being on the frontline, a barrier keeping management and guests at arm’s length. So, army Redcoats and legendary Bluecoats both served on the frontline. I wonder if many thought of the military analogy when performing their duties.

Holiday camp entertainer is worth having on anyone’s résumé, but no CV is complete without VI Guide listed as an achievement. Tracy, you are a legend. Thank you.

White Cane Ratings* ©

Car Park: good; not free - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
Welcome and Briefing: excellent; exceptionally friendly and enthusiastic - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (5)
Atmosphere: very good - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Course: very good; tarmac paths – 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Marshalling: very good; concise - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)

*These ratings are how the event suits this particular blind person and are my opinion only; they are not scientific. Whatever happens no-one must be put off by me. The best way to learn about something is try it for yourself.