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take away and wear in, so that when I came back a month later to start the commissioning course my feet would already be blistered and raw. As a girl I would never reject a new pair of shoes, but these were not the latest Christian Louboutin killer heels and I’ve never been less excited to receive new footwear. Big, heavy, clumpy, Doc Martenesque boots. No fine styling and flattering cut. No soft Italian leather. We were shown like four-year-olds how to lace them up (there is a specific technique to reduce pressure and injury) and sent home to break them in.
    This Sandhurst visit also gave me my first exposure to marching. An experience that ended in naive catastrophe.
    While at Sandhurst all recruits are required to march. Everywhere. At all times. Arms are to be out straight, swinging shoulder high, legs should mark a good pace, as no ambling or bumbling are permitted. Cadets are marched around the Academy in orderly rank and file as a squad with a shouty sergeant at the back barking commands.
    Left, right, left, right, left, right.
    Arms and legs ticking like a metronome. Heels drilling forcefully into the ground, which for me literally happened as I discovered, in a wobbly, scratchy totter, that you cannot march in high heels.
    There was a lot of City girl in me that was going to need transforming into soldier.
    The visit concluded with a question and answer session about what to expect at Sandhurst, including lots of helpful little tips like‘bring lots of sports bras’ and featured my favourite question of all time: ‘Can I bring my horse?’
    The answer to which was an even more surprising ‘Yes’.
     
    Along with new boots I had also been given an extensive and detailed packing list, so as my days numbered I began to assemble the items on it, plundering supermarket aisles for cleaning products. It soon became apparent that Sandhurst was going to involve a fair amount of scrubbing and polishing. The longest section of the list came under the heading ‘Cleaning Kit’ and included an exhaustive catalogue of items: Flash, Cif, J-Cloths, Brillo pads, furniture polish, dusters, glass cleaner, Duraglit, Brasso, a Selvyt Silver cleaning cloth, brushes, cloths, black shoe polish (plain and parade gloss), brown shoe polish, tan shoe polish, an ironing board and a good quality steam iron. I began to think that employment as a cleaner at Sandhurst was probably one of the easiest jobs in Surrey, with the cadets doing all the work for you. While the hairnets, hairpins, grips, plain slides, black elastics, strong hair spray and hair wax on the specific females’ packing list didn’t fill me with joy either.
    As the weeks ticked down the new military boots I had been issued remained in their box, laced according to the specific instruction. But I had to get them on and break them in, so Deborah and I packed our warm clothes, Gortex, a thermos flask and a map and headed west to the Brecon Beacons in South Wales, which, when suggested over a couple of drinks in the pub, seemed like a good idea.
    Deborah and I have been good friends since university, where she was a member of the mountaineering society. Each term she used to disappear off on weekend expeditions to the Lake District or Snowdonia to get piss-wet through, sleeping in a tent, while I preferred the warmth and comforts of the university’s indoor swimming pool, my own bed, four walls and a roof over my head. But Debs loved it; she was an outdoor enthusiast and knew what she was doing when it came to mountains and harsh conditions. I didn’t. During our summer holidays she had spent weeks in the Arctic sampling ice cores and lichen, while I sought the beaches of Thailand. Deborah had trekked in the jungles of South America, the Alps and Himalayas, while I preferred to bob about in a boat instead. And she had all the gear too: down jacket, gaiters, Scarpa boots, GPS. She was the perfect companion for a boot-breaking mission to Brecon. But Brecon is a formidable