That's the Spirit:Dr Romany Reagan's Partial Guide to Spiritualism.

"A fool sees not the same tree as a wise man sees" - William Blake.

Dr Romany Reagan's talk at this week's Greenwich Skeptics in the Pub, The Victorian Seance:From the Occult to the Gin Parlour, was a densely packed, if not complete - that'd be near impossible, history of the heyday of Spiritualism, how it rose, and how, for the most part, it fell. It took in a cast list of characters that stretched from William Blake to Emanuel Swedenborg to Aleister Crowley and it covered themes as seemingly disparate as drunkenness, Americanness, and female liberation.

Although, as Dr Reagan was keen to point out, those last three things are not as disparate as they may seem. She claimed she managed to cover all three in just one person. Which was a little unfair on herself, she wasn't drunk (though the red wine she was sipping did look good) and she'd obviously been able to hold it together long enough to receive a doctorate from Royal Holloway in "performing heritage with a focus on community engagement", curate a series of four audio walks for Abney Park cemetery, and to put this quite long presentation together.

One that took us, initially, back to a time of Thomas Edison and an age of great scientific discoveries. Discoveries that transformed lives by harnessing previously unseen energies like electricity. These things seemed almost magical and led to wild speculation of what might be possible. Once Charles Darwin had comprehensively disproved creationism, some felt the ideas of Spiritualism provided solace, filled, if you must, the God-shaped hole.

The basic tenet behind Spiritualism was that spirits of those who'd passed away could communicate with the dead via mediums. It differed from mesmerism because that was a theory that claimed there was an invisible nature force that allowed communication between all living things (human, animal, and even vegetable) whereas Spiritualism was about contact with the dead.

The most famous early practitioners of Spiritualism were the Fox sisters, Maggie and Kate, who lived in upstate New York. In 1848 (when they were both teenagers) they found they were able to make weird noises by clicking the joints of their feet and, for a prank, fooled their mum into thinking there was a ghost in the house.

This trick proved to be so effective, or the locals were so gullible, that soon visitors were coming to the house just to witness these siblings who, it soon became believed, could bring messages from the dead. Maggie and Kate's older sister, Leah, started to smell money and soon she was working her sisters for commercial gain and the concept of Spiritualism started to take hold as copyists sprung up in the states of New York and Massachusetts. 

Over in the UK, the US was still viewed, contests Dr Reagan, as an inferior copy of the mother country and its new craze of Spiritualism, therefore, could only be an inferior version of whatever belief was popular in Britain at the time. Women, too (in Dr Reagan's not particularly controversial view), were also viewed as inferior versions of men. As most of the Spiritualist mediums were female it meant the whole thing, to the British establishment at the time, reeked of inferiority. 

The idea began to be promoted that Spiritualism had fostered insanity in America (certainly women were being incarcerated in lunatic asylums) and there was a fear that this madness may cross the Atlantic and arrive in London. Instead, London saw the rise of an 'intellectual' Spiritualism inspired by Swedenborg take hold. One that harked back to the writings of William Blake and Rosicrucianism. 

Although both Blake's art and his poetry are so fantastical they could be open to a wide array of interpretations, the gist that the British Spiritualists took was that Blake, when he wasn't banging on about 'psychogeomancy' and 'mysticism', saw the world as a sensual place, a place experienced as much in the mind as in the body. He believed what happened in your mind WAS reality. He said "what seems to be - is" and that "a fool sees not the same tree as a wise man sees".

The philosopher and novelist Colin Wilson, in his studies of Blake, claimed that occultism, in general, regarded women as evil and even believed that women had had too much power over the last 1,800 years! The perceived faults of women were that they thought intuitively rather than logically and that they can't see long term. Men suffered by being unable to see short term. It's all Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus stuff and, frankly, it's bollocks.

The Marquis de Sade and Aleister Crowley rallied against the idea that the female need for security was, somehow, stifling male creativity. Not just creativity but the kind of rampant individualism that is doing so much to damage the social fabric now (it's probably no coincidence that the New Thought movement, which was followed by a young Donald Trump, should crop up). Whilst Spiritualism was, on one hand, all about social improvement this was completely undermined by its drive towards an individualism that thrived on the distrust of others.

There were further dualities at play and dichotomies unresolved within the Spiritualist world too. How did the misogynistic beliefs of Crowley and de Sade square with the campaigning for female rights? How could a movement that claimed to be about social improvement harbour so many drug and alcohol abusers?

It was the women who got the most shit over this, society being what it was (and, for the most part, still is). It was said that some of them "tipped bottles as often as they tipped tables" but some context is needed. In 1875, which went down at the time as "the most drunken year on record", being pissed out of your head on gin for most of the day was not uncommon. As it had been in London, if we're to believe Hogarth's Gin Lane, for well over a century.

While some Spiritualists railed against the use and abuse of alcohol (especially in the hands of delicate women), others, including the Fox sisters, took to it with, at first, gusto and then, latterly, with some shame. Young female Spiritualists who'd been on the sauce were said to be allowing unmarried men to fondle them and dance with them.

It all sounds like terrifically good fun but the drinking didn't stop when the fun stopped. Kate Fox died in 1892 aged 55 and her sister Maggie a year later aged sixty. Both of them deeply damaged by cocaine and alcohol abuse. Although their father had been an alcoholic there is also the suggestion that the stressful lives they led as public figures, forebears of a new movement, exacerbated the problem, as did the constant exposure to boozy seance parties.

In many ways it seems as if the Spiritualists were the rock stars of their day. They offered entertainment, salvation, and hope to their followers but themselves suffered lives of solitude, boredom, pressure - all things that would make drinking oneself into oblivion a tempting proposition. It's worth noting that most of the Spiritualists were of working class stock. Something that wasn't necessarily the case for those that promoted Spiritualist events. The rich knew where the money was.

Towards the end of her life, Maggie Fox denounced Spiritualism, saying it had been a fraud all along and that she felt guilty to have been one of its original perpetrators - though she couldn't know how far an innocent prank on her mother would go. The Spiritualists who had taken the baton on from her and ran with it said she couldn't be trusted. She was a mentally ill drug addict and therefore not dependable in the slightest.

As if to prove them right, she later retracted her denunciation. The motivation for this remains unknown but it didn't really matter. Spiritualism had moved far away from the Fox sisters clicking their joints and was now big business. They'd become a footnote in their own movement and they were both buried in pauper's graves in New York.

Within thirty years or so the game was up for most Spiritualists. So many mediums had been exposed as frauds that the public just weren't susceptible anymore. Of course, new fakes and phonies came along to fill the void. Eventually people like Derek Acorah and Uri Geller. These people, too, are constantly being debunked but like weeds in your garden, new strains keep reappearing. It seems the public don't mind a bit of woo if it makes them feel comfortable or if it reinforces what they already believe but that woo needs to be ever changing. 

Dr Reagan's talk didn't really draw any conclusions on why that is or even if that's a good or bad thing but it was, despite going over some ground that had been covered at previous Skeptics and Fortean events, an interesting and worthwhile hour of my time and the illustrations of phrenology heads and the coda in the Q&A about a 1990s seance in Clerkenwell's House of Detention (a place I'd love to visit) were very much in the spirit of the evening. An evening in which I neither drank spirits nor conversed with any.

Shirley Collins:Repent, Repent.

"So repent, repent sweet England for dreadful days draw near" - Shirley Collins.

A lot has happened since Shirley Collins played the Barbican back in February 2017. Both politically and personally. While that gig had the air of a celebration (I described it at the time as "a bit like an episode of This Is Your Life") with special guests, a fuller band, and all the pomp and circumstance the Barbican infers, last week at the Roundhouse saw a much more low-key performance. While it, perhaps, wasn't quite as memorable evening, it was, it's probably fair to say, a more honest, more folkier event.

Of course, there's always the possibility that my slightly lukewarm appraisal of this major talent and her fantastic songs is tempered by the fact that my evening was fueled by nothing more powerful than chocolate ice cream! Apart from the tasty halloumi burger and fries in the delightful Camden branch of Mildreds where I met my gig companions Mark and Dane beforehand.

It was the first time Shirley had appeared at the Roundhouse since a performance with Deep Purple and The Edgar Broughton Band fifty years ago, Shirley delighted in telling of the bemused faces of many of the heavy rock fans in the audience faced with Shirley, and her sister Dolly's, rendering of a selection of folk favourites.

Well, a lot may have changed in two years - but in fifty it seems not so much. Because this gig was, of course, an evening's rendering of folk favourites. After Rattle of the Stovepipe's introductory set of old American tunes, spoon playing, and musicianship so proficient it belies the slightly befuddled expressions of the slightly elderly gentleman playing it, it was time for Shirley, her compere Pip Barnes, Ossian Brown and his hurdy-gurdy, Ian Kearey, Dave Arthur, and Steve Coooper (the latter two both members of the aforesaid Rattle of the Stovepipe) to take the stage...

...and it's that hurdy-gurdy that we first hear. Setting a mounrful tone that will last for the next hour or so on The Split Ash Tree, we're led through a set of tunes from Lodestar and elsewhere in Shirley's career but it's noticeable that, at eighty-three years of age, she's delegating occasional vocals to some of the guys in the band this time.

It's understandable, I'd probably rather be tucked up in bed with a cup of cocoa should I reach that age, but it does rather suggest her return to live music may not last much longer. That's a real pity because when Shirley does sing, as in the broken hearted Pretty Polly or the sparse Death and the Lady's tale of a "poor distressed maid", a "tombstone", and the "cold earthen clay", she's still in fine voice. In fact, any weakness in the voice proves, oddly, to be a strength. These are songs that have been lived and felt and, therefore, it needs a voice that has lived and felt to do them justice.

When Glen Redman comes on stage to do some very energetic, almost aggressive, morris dancing and Shirley blows him a little kiss, it's a sweet moment but, in some ways, it's a reminder that the Shirley Collins live experience has been downsized. At the Roundhouse we were treated to an entire morris (and a molly) team.

Last week's gig worked better during the occasions Shirley and the band stuck to the songs. Songs like Barbara Allen which are very much Shirley's meat and drink. Haunting reflections of love lost and, yes, lovers lost. Lost to war, lost to rivals, and, yes, lost to death. If there was a little something missing from this performance it didn't need to be covered up (and it rarely was - witness Shirley, at one point, forgetting her words and having a sweet laugh about it) but instead made a focal point. The Barbican gig may have been a great one, this was merely a very good one. That's enough sometimes.

Thanks to Mark for sorting the tickets for this gig and to him and Dane for the company. Was nice to bump into Rachel as well.

The Age of Consent:Myles Jackman's Fist of Fun.

"Age verification sucks but you can now watch fisting and watersports" - Myles Jackman.

Over the years I've heard (and said) quite a few alarming things at London Skeptics in the Pub but Myles Jackman's sign off to his talk, The Obscenity Lawyer:What's the Truth Behind Age Verification? was right up there. Luckily, it was very much in context with his excellent, enlightening, and humorous forty five minute speech. One that had my eyes watering in places. For a variety of different reasons.

Recent political developments meant the talk began with something of a proviso. Last Thursday, parliament voted to change the law on age verification for the Internet so instead of the talk now being just about age verification, Myles was going to extend it to include some background on obscenity law and how it works. I'd seen him talk about obscenity law before and knew that he was both incredibly knowledgeable about it and that his delivery came with a side order of dark humour. Which seems appropriate considering some of the subject matter.

Myles Jackman does not look like your typical lawyer. He looks more like a roadie for Grinderman with his Batman t-shirt, customised Doc Martens, and unkempt beard - and he peppers his delivery with smutty asides and swearing to highly amusing effect. Even when a pissed Polish guy in the audience asked him a question in Polish he batted him off with both charm and imperturbability.

He began the evening by explaining that criminal offences relating to obscenity come under two distinct categories. Possession and distribution. If you own some illegal pornography you're committing a possession offence and if you send it to anyone else you're committing a distribution offence. But what is obscenity? How is it defined?

It's been a grey area ever since the publication of Lady Chatterley's Lover in 1928 and it's not getting any clearer now. Obscenity is defined as something that is either depraved or corrupt. Images that, if seen, could actually corrupt the viewer or send them into a spiral of depravity. Which sounds like fun. But it proves to be something of a movable feast, very dependent on modern standards.

The old list (up until last week) of depraved, corrupt, obscene, and therefore illegal pornography included sexual acts with animals, realistic portrayals of rape, fisting, urine drinking, dismemberment or graphic mutilation, torture with 'instruments' (I don't think they mean forcing a flute up someone's bumhole), certain types of bondage, and hardcore sadomasochism.

Although, as Myles was quick to point out, it doesn't include CIA waterboarding or ISIS throwing LGBTQ+ people to their deaths from towers. Those things are more acceptable to share because they're just violence, rather than sexual violence. So even obviously faked violent sexual acts can get you into more trouble than actual deadly violence. In terms of sharing videos, at least.

Jackman seems quite eager to talk about what he describes as his "two favourites" - fisting and water sports. He points out that the law accepts that both vaginal and anal fisting is legal (four fingers, apparently, isn't fisting - that's the rule of thumb) but representation of it, or distribution of images of it, is (or was) illegal. It's kind of the obverse of the old Doug Stanhope observation that prostitution is illegal in the USA except if somebody is filming it. You can pay people to have sex to make pornography but not for personal pleasure.

Now, fisting and pissing on each other have joined the old permitted list of acts like oral sex, wanking, anal sex, vaginal sex, and mild bondage. There's a general consensus among libertarians that if it's legal to do it, it should be legal to share images of it - providing there is consent from all parties and that they're old enough to consent. Which is covered in law anyway.

But, often, confusion arises. A man in North Wales, one of Myles Jackman's clients, was arrested for making a pornographic film of a tiger having sex with a woman. On closer inspection it became obvious that it was actually a man 'wearing' a tiger skin rug. Something that's certainly odd - but something that wouldn't look very much like a real tiger. 'Necrobabes' videos, too, have caused people problems - even though these were proven to be faked, and very obviously faked.

Now, some of these kinks are undoubtedly unpleasant ones to have (Myles Jackman urged everyone present not to, under any circumstances, Google BME Pain Olympics) but if it's just people acting (even acting dead) should they be illegal? What about Twink pornography? Twink is the gay equivalent of Barely Legal, youngish looking guys but ones that are actually above the age of consent.

Cartoon pornography can be illegal if it involves a child so, in theory, you could draw a stick man with his badly drawn willy out next to a smaller figure and get your collar felt. The way round it, Jackman claimed, was to say the smaller figure was Tyrone Lannister from Game of Thrones and not an actual child. Then you're in the clear.

After digressions into simulated rape porn, QUILFs, how the description "filthy, loathsome, and lewd" sounded like a great album title, and the news that most of Myles's clients work in IT (they tend to think they can hide their porn - they can't), we came to the news that now harm caused during the making of grot needs to be at ABH levels to be illegal. Needles and mild cutting are now fine and, a rectal surgeon had been to able to confirm to Myles, anal fisting is unlikely to cause long term harm (though he did add the caveat that a shotgun up the arse is dangerous).

As anyone who's looked at porn (most of you I expect) will know it's not difficult to get around current age verification. You just click on a box and you're in (if you'll pardon the expressions) but now, with the more liberal approach to more hardcore pornography, age verification is to be tightened up (again, pardon the expression). But that's not without problems. Lots of them.

In a world of multiple content providers, multiple ISPs, blocking orders, VPNs, and proxies it seems like it will be pretty easy, if you're determined enough, to get around any new age verification software. Look at the catastrophic shitshow that is Brexit and ask yourself if you really believe this Tory government will be able to put anything workable in place.

PornHub (a large internet porn provider, so I'm told) have estimated that between 20,000,000 and 25,000,000 UK citizens will sign up to their services within the first month of the law changes. That's a lot of wankers and a lot of wanking. Imagine all that energy being put to use elsewhere!

There are also concerns that age verification software on porn could be a taster for other online transgressions and perceived transgressions, so there are worries about personal liberties. Personal privacy too. Once the proposed age verification measures are in place (many of them outsourced, of course) this could act as a huge data mine. You may be annoyed that Facebook knows your voting intentions but PornHub and xHamster will have a very clear image of your sexual inclinations and proclivities.

The law has been passed and will be rubber stamped this month. It's expected to come into play in April but it's not even remotely fit for purpose, it's totally unworkable, and it will have an effect on freedom of speech - but it's unsure what that effect will be as yet.

It seems to me while we're concerned about the age of consent we must be careful not to forget that we live in, and always have (and always will), an age of context. In Australia, one of their plans to stop child porn being disseminated was using an algorithm that looked for small breasts. So, if small boobs (on grown women) were your thing you could be investigated as a potential paedophile.

Another amusing example of the grey areas regarding legality (and in the Q&A, Myles offered people the chance to play a little game called "Is my porn legal now? - one in which he proudly declared not only is his personal favourite porn legal but he had been responsible for legalising it) involved picking mushrooms in a Royal Park. That act is illegal so if a film featured a consensual couple fisting each other and then pissing on each other's faces that would be perfectly fine unless, in the background, someone was seen picking mushrooms in Hyde Park. That act would render it illegal pornography!

It's a fascinating area and it must be a fascinating, if often disturbing, job that Myles does. Luckily he was able to share stories with us without breaching any laws. I learnt, I laughed, and, somewhat oddly, I listened to Prefab Sprout's When Love Breaks Down before Myles took the stage. Another great evening from London Skeptics in the Pub.

The London LOOP. Part XIII:Enfield Lock to Chigwell (Chilly in Chingford, Chilly in Chigwell).

Penne arrabbiata! Peroni! Merlot! Strawberry cheesecake! These are not the usual ingredients that make up a stage of the London LOOP, but as we keep discovering the London LOOP can be a slippery beast. Both underfoot and to pin down. It adheres not to long established TADS protocols so if we want to finish a leg in an Italian, Mexican, or vegetarian restaurant rather than a curry house, that's perfectly acceptable. If a trifle unorthodox.

Enfield had been proving itself to be a particularly sticky destination, in many ways a north London counterpart to our seeming inability to escape Croydon many months and miles back. Pam, Neil, Bee, Eamon, and myself had made an aborted attempt in January that saw us give up half way round and settle in a pub for Neil's birthday drinks before having a curry in Chingford's Spice Station and heading back home.

The Uxbridge contingent had been unable to join us on our second attempt but Shep (who miraculously, or perhaps he had some foresight it would be abandoned) was back on the case. Pam and I just missed him in Seven Sisters and with half an hour before our next train to Turkey Street we repaired to a jovial, local Colombian coffee shop for hot chocolate and vanilla latte as South American sounds blasted out the radio and heat blasted out of some kind of industrial device.

It set us up nicely for the Overground to Turkey Street, where we met with Shep, took a walk along the Turkey Brook (seeing old fishy friends, pegged out rubber gloves, and a pub boasting that it served "REGULARS ONLY") into Enfield proper. Breakfast was taken in the Best Cafe and, unlike last month, I gave the mashed potato a swerve.

I love mashed potato but it's not really a breakfast food. Instead I had scrambled egg on toast with plenty of ketchup and a big mug of tea. Pam had some tasty looking mushrooms and Shep got to work on his old favourite, bubble'n'squeak. It was cheap, cheerful, and it set us up for what had the potential of a challenging walk ahead of us. Luckily the snow, for the most part, had not settled and the temperature had risen a few degrees making it a surprisingly pleasant day.

Enfield is not a place to wax lyrical about. Grotty pubs, shops flogging mobility scooters, a ridiculous number of discarded keys, and, sadly, a ridiculous amount of discarded litter. It's a crying shame that people seem to have so little respect for their own environment and that they're happy to live surrounded by rubbish. Polystyrene boxes, lager cans, shopping trolleys, and spent laughing gas canisters are your constant companion as you walk a metalled path alongside Turkey Brook.

It has the potential to be quite a picturesque spot with its gentle waterfalls and expanses of green fields, yet the litterbugs have ruined it. For aesthetes like us at least. The ducks and assorted other waterfowl (of which we saw a lot, even an Aylesbury) didn't seem so bothered. They weren't even impressed by the fact somebody had incorporated an old sink unit into their back fence.

Enfield Lock is where stage XII proper starts. A pretty little lock keeper's cottage looks out to the Lea Navigation as the Lea (or Lee) breaks into various different streams, rejoins itself, breaks up again, and rejoins again. The Lee/Lea is even more confusing than the London LOOP.

It was around this point, in January, we kept getting lost - but this time we were forewarned and after crossing several bridges and stopping to admire some coots, moorhens, Canada geese, and a graffiti cock, we passed the Swan and Pike Pool, and reached the top of vast King George's Reservoir and carried on through some fields into an area they call Sewardstone. Sharp and Saunder's trusty tome informed us that the William Girling Reservoir, the next one down from King George's, was once home to as many as 30,000 gulls.

Remnants of the week's snow were still lying on Sewardstone Green (described as 'an outlying parcel of Epping Forest') and it was tricky to ascertain which direction needed to be taken. It was even trickier to ascertain what purpose the above solitary stile served. It wasn't tricky, however, to either admire the sunlit uplands of the hill, the views over the reservoirs, or the picture postcard perfect weatherboarded farmstead Carrolls Farm. I think I could probably live there.

It was now time for a loop around Gilwell Park, the world centre of the scouting movement. When we passed through in January there were hundreds of kids camping, dodgems, and music blaring. It was pretty much empty this time. We managed to take a wrong turn somewhere along the line which meant plenty of checking the book and lots of GPS phone usage.

It worked though. We got back on track soon enough and after diagonally cutting through a field we chanced upon one large horse and one little pony stood as if in a queue. They made for a bizarre, if cute, sight. The houses tucked down this unpaved road were pretty impressively sized too. A real architectural mish-mash. One looked like it belonged in an Edward Hopper painting, another could have come from the brush of Grant Wood. My (possibly incorrect) speculation was that there are a lot of rich self-made builders who live in Chingford and they've all built their own houses. Some have better taste than others.

Soon we reached another 'outlying parcel' of Epping Forest (Epping Forest is another tricky area to pin down precisely), saw an Italian dog muzzle (or a musket as I called it) hung on a fingerpost, spotted yet more spent laughing gas canisters, and cut diagonally towards The Royal Forest pub (where our January walk had ended).

Doubling up as a Premier Inn, it was as soulless as you'd imagine. They had no real ale on tap so Shep asked if they had any bottles. They didn't. His request for crisps was equally unproductive and he was informed they'd not had a delivery in two months. I had a lager while Shep bemoaned the "ditzy barmaid with a Biro in her hair" who'd try to put lemonade in Pam's gin'n'tonic!

It was not the sort of venue to make a 'two pint mistake' in (even if, only last month, we made a four pint mistake in there) so we chatted amiably and headed off out of the back door into the mud for a quick peek at the 16c Queen Elizabeth's Hunting Lodge (that's it at the top of the blog) perched atop Chingford Plain.

Revision informs me it's a rare example of a 'standing' and was used to view the hunts that were once held in the forest below. The upper floors would have been completely open and rumour has it Elizabeth I used to ride her horse right up to the top. With The Royal Forest pub and the nearby Butler's Retreat, it completed a pleasant architectural set piece but not one we'd be able to spend much time admiring as we now reached the county of Essex.

Essex hospitality is clearly second to none and they'd already put the wine on ice for us. We yomped up a long slow hill and passed the Warren Wood pub (which looked like it would have made a much more satisfactory pit stop than The Royal Forest) before arriving, for the first time in my life, in the pleasant looking Buckhurst Hill.

Scenes of textbook suburbia became our constant companion for the rest of the walk with the rather notable exception of a brief interlude as we passed through Roding Valley Recreation Ground. A pretty pond basked in the late afternoon sun as geese and ducks sunned themselves and little windmills span.

After the pond we crossed the Roding itself on a cute little bridge (remarking that we must walk the Roding some time) which brought us out near a car park and a very busy David Lloyd sports centre. From there we would follow the B170 into Chigwell, crossing the M11, and, what would prove to be the day's penultimate destination,

The King William IV pub was full of the well dressed people of Essex (and one noisy little bugger with a crappy looking remote control car - what's the appeal of that?) and I wondered if they'd even serve us as we were pretty muddy by this point.

There was no problem whatsoever, the staff were very friendly and if the pub felt a bit like a chain hotel bar that wasn't much of a concern once we'd imbibed a couple of beers and put the world to right. The nearest Indian restaurant was a good mile or so away so we decided to go Italian, in the Papillon Chigwell.

Pam and I had penne arrabbiata and shared a bottle of Merlot while Shep went for pizza and a beer. It was so good a strawberry cheesecake appeared as dessert before Shep and I got some (illegal) tube beers in and we all had a jolly good game of Heads Up with a nice Korean girl and her friends on the train. It hadn't been the most spectacular walk we'd ever done but I think it's safe to say we all had a lovely day out and it's definitely safe to say I was somewhat trolleyed by close of play.

We only have two more stages to walk now and in three weeks we'll walk from Chigwell to Harold Wood and then, finally, set the date for the last stage which will take us back to the Thames and, ultimately, Purfleet. My joke that to celebrate I'd treat myself to a night in the Purfleet Travelodge with a local hooker backfired when Shep revealed the nearest Travelodge to Purfleet is actually in Thurrock, roughly nine miles away. One hundred and fifty miles will be more than enough!