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Poland, December 2003

In Poland it’s the custom to set an extra place at Christmas for ‘The Unknown Guest’. It’s early morning on Christmas Eve when I find out how true this is. I’ve run through a snowstorm and gale that’s just eased back when I see a diminutive figure rushing after me, whipping up a whirlwind of snow. Following her is a little girl with snowflakes in her curls sticking out from her woolly hat and a small dog with wagging tail, chugging through the snow like a miniature snowplough, his legs too short to leap over the drifts.

‘Nesoey Sisiat!’ she shouts. ‘Happy Christmas!’ Unlike most people in this area, she speaks perfect English. Dorota, daughter Kasia, aged eight, and their sweet little dog Eny lead me to their home a short distance away in Budry. I follow them with pleasure but it’s like a force of absolute will. They apparently feel they have to spoil me. They haven’t even known I’m coming, but spotted me in the distance.

‘Nobody should be alone at Christmas,’ says Dorota.

The building is a tall ex-communist warren of small apartments. The exterior is grey, brutally functional, like the communist buildings surviving in Germany, Albania and Romania which I saw on a previous journey. But inside it’s very different: Polish candles of hope and for the spirit of Christmas are on the shelves and tables. There’s the smell of warm baking. Sweet-smelling fir branches, bells and tinsel decorate the living room for the festive season; sprigs of fir hang over bookshelves filled with books in Polish and English. They even have The Pickwick Papers and Oliver Twist.

They want me to stay for Christmas Day. Christmas is traditionally a closed circle yet a stranger like me is given such affection and welcome. ‘A stranger is never a stranger,’ she says. ‘A stranger is family.’ I feel so moved yet I also need to be back on the road.

So they deluge me with a Christmas Eve I’ll never forget, putting music on and feeding me with carp her friends caught. It’s deliciously baked and, I learn, the traditional Christmas meal in this part of Poland. We also eat Moczka, a sweet pudding tasting of poppy seeds, nuts and fruit. Dorota has a computer and sends the first message to the website that James has had for a while. I also write an email to James and Eve. I couldn’t have asked for a lovelier Christmas gift. Before I leave, Kasia ties tinsel to my backpack, ‘To bring you happiness and luck,’ she says. They heap me with delicious food before hugging me and saying goodbye.

There is a party after all, because the magpies and starlings are fascinated by Kasia’s tinsel and keep appearing, looking for a chance to steal it. The cake-crumbs make the sparrows and finches even more eager to follow my trail than usual, as the fare is so fancy. They’re still Clive’s ‘little feathered hooligans’.

It’s 30km to the next town, Goldup, the only big place in this area. I’ve made good progress and find myself running through the hustle and bustle and last-minute shoppers. I’m concerned about my budget as always, and don’t feel like staying in a hotel at Christmas anyway. I run on until I reach beautiful woods and camp in a wide clearing.

I sleep soundly, waking early on Christmas Day. It’s a cold morning, −21°C, but the air is fresh and clear. I’m warmly dressed and a pale band of gold around the edge of the sky leads me on. I get up and run. For some reason, I feel must keep going, keep running on this special day, though I don’t know why…

I haven’t got far when a car draws up and a middle-aged couple get out. They stop especially to talk, looking downcast. They speak French which I can speak, saying something about having been looking and searching for a sign. They hug me, seeming overwhelmed to see me. They want to give me their email address. After they drive off I see they have written in my book: ‘Our son Guillamine took his life on 30 October 2003 to join his great father in the sky. You have appeared to us as a marvellous star and a message of love. You have given us hope.’

It’s hard to write about this. I cry and cry, which is something I never do. I don’t really know why they have said I’ve given them hope. If so, I’m so glad. I cheer up at the thought of action and decide to run for Guillamine through Christmas, to think about this man whom I haven’t met and can never meet, and about his parents Christian and Elizbieta. I do believe thinking about someone can help. Thoughts and prayers are powerful messengers. These two have touched my life and given me more courage. The to-ing and fro-ing between feeling my family are with me and the loneliness that cuts like a knife has gone. Perhaps because it makes me realise I have so much.

Next day I reach Dubeniniki and meet a wonderful lady called Bozenna. ‘You must come home for a meal,’ she greets me, ‘but first we go to church.’ The huge church is packed, people standing shoulder to shoulder. The singing is powerful and stirring, every voice from the thronged masses joining in. There are guitars and children singing and the christening of a three-week-old baby at the end of it all.

It has been my policy not to cross a border late at night, because I’d be in a new country and not sure how to handle everything. I sleep this side of the Lithuanian border beneath trees all bowed and broken under the weight of the snow. One tree is creaking, but I can’t tell which one and I’m so tired I don’t move. I hope it won’t fall on me, and that everything is all right.