This one’s a little bit different. I submitted it as part of my portfolio for my MA Travel & Nature Writing and thought you might enjoy a little jaunt around the vineyards of the Médoc with me.

There’s a Roswell alien next to me tying the laces on his trainers. Behind him, Captain Kirk is struggling to connect his phone to the GPS. Welcome to the sci-fi channel? No. Welcome to the sci-fi edition of the Marathon du Médoc, the toughest fancy-dress party in the world.

It’s said that the best way to discover a place is on foot. Well, what about on foot, with 18,000 sweaty, huffing and puffing people, most of them dressed as aliens or Star Trek characters or worse in mankinis? That’s how I like to do it.

The starting gun fires and the mass of bodies lurches its way out of the town centre and into the hot, dusty land of the grapevines. They will rarely leave our side for the next 26.2 miles. In mid-September, the purple-red baubles hang heavy, waiting for the day they will be harvested and become some of the most in-demand wines in the world. People are stopping to relieve themselves in the middle of the rows. Next year’s vintage may have an unexpected aroma.

I meet a fellow walker. She’s a drug addiction counsellor from Philadelphia, who travels around the world with friends, taking part in marathon events, looking to experience a place differently, rather than being concerned with the competition. She is glad to meet another walker and we chat away the first few miles. Her life sounds like a movie or an HBO series with gritty opening credits. After a while she slows to take pictures. I must keep moving. The cut-off time is six hours thirty minutes, and my previous best is six hours fifty-two minutes. This is going to be tough.

Famous names go past, Mouton-Rothschild, Lafite-Rothschild, Montrose. Prestigious buildings hide their liquid treasure. The angel’s share hangs in the air as you walk by. Or it might be coming from the pores of the runner next to me.

The rain starts at the halfway point. Not just drizzle or spitting. Full-on bone-stripping, deep puddle-making, muddy-torrent-creating, rain. And it doesn’t stop for two hours. My head is down, water cascades over the peak of my cap. I see nothing but grey and the odd soggy Yoda or waterlogged Chewbacca.

I’m nearly there, and then they catch me. The sweep-up truck is on my heels. My legs protest, my right hip starts its jiggly thing, my feet spray arches of water with each step. Vineyards start to turn into small villages, streets with a sprinkling of houses. Small villages become larger, with squares, cafes and a Tabac on the corner. At one village a man with Spock ears and Enterprise livery is puking purple into a fountain. What a waste of wine.

And then there it is. Pauillac. Not the grandest of French towns. Cracked concrete, weather-worn posters hanging from crumbling buildings, frayed grass verges. The wealth from wine is kept for the grand châteaux that encircle this neglected strip on the banks of the Gironde estuary.

The finish line is an odd thing. It shakes the tiredness from your legs and suddenly you’re a potential rival to Usain Bolt. One foot after another I pound towards the end. Crowds cheering either side – the best cheers are reserved for those at the end, compensation, and sympathy for being out there longer than anyone else.

Along with a medal, I receive a bottle of wine (what else) and a cup allowing me to get a free beer. This is not a race for the health-conscious runner. The beer soothes away the painful edges as I sit watching people hobble and wince towards the few bars and restaurants that are grateful for the end of season business.

Pauillac is not a town for tourists. Its purpose is to make money from the grapes that cover this expensive piece of land jutting out from the west of Bordeaux proper. Tomorrow I will return for the recovery walk and lunch. There will be more wine, more people to meet and more vineyards to explore.

This is how I like to discover a place. The Marathon du Médoc allows you to see parts of a privileged world that are kept hidden from the typical tourist. I’d love to go back. I’m just not sure my legs will carry me there.

Find out more about the Marathon du Médoc.