As the crow flies, from the bolt-hole to the boundary of the park is a little over a mile – or exactly 1.1 miles, as I’d measured with a ruler on the Ordnance Survey map.  To dissuade night-time vandals, the entire periphery of the park is surrounded by a barrier, either a ten-foot stone-built wall or metal railings topped with spikes, with the exits limited to six formal crossing points.  I head for the closest of the exits a little over 1.2 miles away.

Many times as a child I’d seen Sebastian Coe, the legendary middle-distance athlete, training on these very hills.  In his autobiography, he didn’t forget his adopted home city of Sheffield, and he referred to the isolation of his training sessions through the numerous parks of the city and then on to the Peak District beyond.  It is of course this very isolation that I now crave, and I suppose I try to tap into the fortitude and determination he showed to become Olympic champion in order to reach my own goal, albeit one far less honourable than his.

Continuing up through the woods, within a few minutes I reach a fork in the path; to the left are the cricket fields and the duck ponds beyond, but I take the branch to the right, leading me past a couple of bowling greens, a pitch-and-putt golf course, and then four tennis courts.  A popular area with dog-walkers, I’ve walked the path hundreds of times as a teenager with my own dog, and even now, some twenty years on, I can still remember some of the distinctive features of the massive oak and horse chestnut trees that line the route.  Other than a couple more dog-walkers, the area is quiet and I continue without incident, apart from a Jack Russell developing a friendly but, for me, unwanted attachment to my right leg.

As I stride past the tennis courts, deserted of even the most enthusiastic of players at this early hour, I can just see the park gates and immediately beyond them the headlights of the early-morning traffic on Meadowhead Road, a main access road into the city centre from the suburbs.  Continuing on, I gradually begin to make out the form of a stationary car, pale-coloured and maybe a Ford Focus, partially obscured by the massive stone gateposts of the park entrance.  As I move closer I can see a fluorescent yellow stripe down the side with dark-coloured lettering above it.  My anxiety levels escalate as I try to make out whether it’s a police car, possibly forming some kind of cordon?  Confident that I’ve not been spotted by the occupants, whoever they are, I contemplate turning and retracing my steps.  But whispering to myself, stay calm Julian, stay calm, I continue, knowing that if I’m going to make it to the Kinder Scout bolt-hole I’ll have to take risks, and in any case I need to know what’s out there and waiting for me.  Now within fifty metres of the car, I can see figures in the front seats, both of them wearing dark uniforms.  My heart is pounding and beads of cold sweat are running down my chest as my sympathetic nervous system – the flight and fight response – goes into overdrive.  I will myself to relax and take slow, deep, calming breaths as I walk towards the car.  Now just twenty metres away, my nervousness partially eases as the lettering becomes apparent – "Park Patrol" – and in smaller print underneath it: "Sheffield City Council Works Department”.  I suspect the “parkies”, as we called them as kids, are more interested in renegade dog-owners not clearing up after their canine buddies than fugitives wanted for murder.  With my head up, I confidently stride past the car.  To my relief the parkies never look up as they drink steaming coffee from a thermos flask.  I puff out my cheeks and let out a slow deep breath as I exit the park and then cross Meadowhead Road.

Having left Graves Park, and with a little over a mile covered, I feel my journey has started in earnest as I begin walking through the neighbouring residential area.  In my planning I’d always thought that the next few miles would be the most risky, since I follow a busy A-road passing through the built-up areas of Norton and then Lowedges.  If I can only reach Holmsfield, a semi-rural village on the outskirts of town, I’m sure there’s less chance of being recognised, and with walking clothes and rucksack on my back I’ll fit in with the ramblers heading for the picturesque footpaths that criss-cross the area.

I maintain a steady pace, knowing that I’ve a long day of walking ahead.  In my original contingency planning I’d considered catching a bus or even using a car, possibly a rental, stashed at a convenient point for me to pick up if required.  But all these alternatives had greater risks and the potential for leaving some sort of paper trail or forensic evidence leading back to me.  It was imperative that I kept my contingency plan as simple as possible, and walking via the numerous remote footpaths, although slower, seemed on balance to present less risk of capture.

Apart from my neck injury I’m generally in good physical shape, and I’m confident that if it’s down to fitness alone I won’t have a problem.  But I know that luck and perhaps a chance encounter will play a big part in whether I’m spotted.  With the rush hour approaching, the traffic is getting heavier – but perhaps surprisingly, despite my underlying apprehension and the pain in my neck, I’m actually beginning to enjoy the walk and have the sense of satisfaction that I’m taking matters into my own hands.  Periodically I think of my boys, and then picture Musgrove’s sly face, and I know I have to make it to Kinder Scout.  I simply can’t let my sons down.

An hour after leaving the bolt-hole I’ve covered a little over three miles.  I’m satisfied with my progress and, so far at least, I’ve received nothing more than cursory glances from the occasional passing motorist.  There are few other pedestrians, and thankfully they appear concentrated on their day ahead rather than on me.  Rounding a bend in the busy main road, I see a small shopping precinct with a Chinese takeaway, off licence, fruit shop and newsagent’s.  As I approach the newsagent’s, a man in his twenties, dangling a cigarette from the corner of his mouth, is hauling a stack of magazines from the pavement and into the shop.  A few seconds later he returns to the street carrying an advertising board for the local morning paper.  He rips off the front page of yesterday’s paper, and standing on it to avoid the wind carrying it away, he replaces it with today’s edition. I glance down and read the banner headline: “Local Man Wanted for Murder”. Below is a half-page photograph, partially obscured by the man’s foot but immediately recognisable as that of my university ID card.  My recent optimism dissipates in an instant and my emotions swing from one extreme to the other in a matter of seconds.  I’m not sure why it bothers me so much.  It certainly comes as no great surprise; I know from the radio bulletins that the story has had massive local publicity.  Perhaps it’s simply the fact of seeing it in black and white, as well as my photo plastered up for everyone to see, that reinforces the reality of my situation.

With despondency setting in I continue on, heading towards the outskirts of town.  In the near distance the sky is becoming increasingly overcast and the daylight that’s only just arrived appears to be regressing prematurely, almost reflecting my mood.  The weather forecast had suggested the strong probability of rain, and it’s no surprise that within minutes a fine drizzle begins to fall and is quickly replaced by a torrential downpour as the skies dramatically open up.  I’m grateful for my waterproof jacket and stop briefly to put on the accompanying rainproof over-trousers.  The rain continues unabated for the next thirty minutes as the skies become even darker and the cars switch on their full headlights.  After a further few minutes the sound of the rain pounding the pavement is superseded by the occasional thunderclap, at first in the distance but progressively closer.  Then, without warning and instantly blinding, a brilliant flash of light hits the ground no more than five metres away, and then almost immediately the pavement underfoot begins to vibrate.  Stunned, it takes a few seconds for me to realise that it’s a lightning bolt, a little too close for comfort.  As I struggle to gather my thoughts, a second lightning flash hits, refuting the claim that lightning doesn’t strike the same spot twice.  Suspecting there’s a good chance I could be toasted by a further bolt, I sprint over to an empty bus shelter fifty metres or so down the road.