I've been lucky—dementia hasn't directly touched my life yet. But I see it everywhere. Friends supporting parents who no longer recognise them. Colleagues quietly shouldering the weight of caring responsibilities. Communities transformed as this condition ripples outward, affecting not just those diagnosed but everyone who loves them. With odds like one in two, this isn't someone else's problem—it's all of ours.

Dementia UK's Admiral Nurses provide expert, compassionate advice and support to anyone affected by dementia, whenever it is needed. They're the people standing in the gap when families feel helpless and overwhelmed, when the rug's been pulled from under them.

Right, so let me explain my 2026 descent into madness: I'm training for 66km of the iconic Camino de Santiago through northern Spain in June 2026. From 10-14 June, I'll be trekking for three days through lush Galician landscapes, charming villages, and peaceful woodlands, following the world-famous Camino Frances from Palas de Rei to the historic city of Santiago de Compostela.

But first, I need to survive my training plan:

- Belvoir Challenge (26-ish miles of mud that'll have me looking like a walking bog monster)
- Gindleford Gallop (21 miles through the Peak District with 825 metres of ascent—that's basically climbing a small mountain whilst jogging)
- Ashby 20 (a "fast hill road race," which is an oxymoron if ever I heard one)
- Manchester Marathon (because 26.2 miles of tarmac sounded reasonable fun)
- Trent Valley Ultra (a casual 50km jaunt, because apparently I hate my feet)

Now, I should mention I love running. I genuinely do. But there's a fine line between "hobby" and "cry for help," and I've not just crossed it—I've pole-vaulted over it whilst wearing inappropriate footwear.

Picture this: a middle-aged woman who's voluntarily spending her weekends getting intimately acquainted with every gradient, puddle, and poorly-positioned tree root across the Midlands and beyond. My idea of a rest day is only running a parkrun. My knees have started filing formal complaints. My family think I've joined a cult.

But here's the thing—if I can drag my increasingly bewildered carcass through all this training and then 66km across Spain whilst questioning every life choice that led me there, you can definitely spare a few quid for Dementia UK.

- Your £4 could pay for the telephone costs of one family calling the Helpline for free to get the support they need.
- £10 could help 10 families find out more about dementia and how to get a diagnosis for a loved one through funding information and advice leaflets,
- £25 could pay for a carer to receive an hour of one-to-one support from a dementia specialist Admiral Nurse on the free Helpline.

And here's the brilliant bit: Access is going to match every penny I raise, so whatever you donate gets doubled. Your tenner becomes twenty quid for the charity. It's basically a BOGOF deal on doing good.

Think of it as sponsoring someone's midlife crisis for a good cause. You're basically funding therapeutic insanity.

Go on. It's cheaper than my physio bills. Claire Noonan