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Nottinghamshire is one of those understated counties that you tend to pass through rather than being your end destination. It is somewhere you drive the length of on the A1 or M1, but can barely remember you have passed. Sandwiched between Yorkshire, Derbyshire, Lincolnshire and Leicestershire, it’s only really known for Nottingham, the River Trent, Shane Meadows, Sleaford Mods and Sherwood Forest.

There is a sketch of Alfie in the front of the West Yorkshire Moors book. He sits alertly on the summit of Dog Hill at a time when one of his ears pointed up and one down. His facial markings that would steadily soften over the years were sharp and tended to make him look slightly cross. His creamy chest and darker two-tone back always made him look like a particularly dapper gentleman in a suit (when we once got a bow tie on him it suited him to a tee).

On 19 March, King Charles III declared the England Coast Path, to which his name was appended in 2023, officially open. For those of us trying to complete the route it has been a long time coming. The first section of the path opened between Lulworth and Weymouth in June 2012, and my own relationship with this 2,700-mile route began in June 2014, when the first sections in the north opened.

Just ten minutes after driving off the ferry at Stromness I’m standing on top of Maeshowe looking at one of the most awe-inspiring prehistoric landscapes in the world. Caroline made the mistake of letting me choose what we’re doing this evening, so she’s sitting in the van reading while I’ve jumped over one gate and another barbed-wire fence to scale this twenty-four-foot high Neolithic burial chamber.

I read every word of the display, desperate to stay a little longer, before finally descending the fields towards the sea. The sheep have hunkered down in the lee of an old hedgeline and the wind buffets me violently at every step while sporadic raindrops sting my face. Down by the shore the waves crash into the grey alum-scarred cliffs and the sea is a whorling mass of white surf as far as I can see (which is not that far, nearby Sandsend reduced to a grey smudge).

I have long wanted to spend more time in Ilfracombe. It’s geography begs you to visit, sandwiched between a series of sharp hills and a jagged shoreline, with an unlikely harbour sheltering amid the layers of serrated Devonian slate. However, when I park up and head out for the night, I find its pubs disappoint greatly and I end up in the Wetherspoons whose architecture dominates part of the town as much as the nearby Landmark Theatre. But really all I want to do is wander down to the harbour and hear the clang of shackles in the wind and fishermen gathering in the dark on the harbour arm. Their chatter rises into the outstretched arms of Verity, a 66-ft statue that tower above them on the quay.