For the first time in weeks the sun made itself known this morning as I headed out, climbing up through the plantation to Failand and into Tyntesfield. The air was as crisp and invasive as the first plunge into the sea, and birds were taking full advantage of the brightness by sending trilling messages through the clarity. The ground was thick with slimy wet mud as a result of recent rain, causing running to be a precarious and messy business - after the first path I abandoned any hope of keeping my feet dry.
I climbed through the Plantation; shady areas and verges hanging onto frost like a dusting of rime, and water sitting everywhere with tiny draining rivulets rolling downward. I was soon warm after the climb and the winter sun also made a contribution to pushing the chill away. The main road was empty: a benefit of going out relatively early on a Sunday, and I then slithered through the stile into the Tyntesfield estate. As I crested the hill and started the roll downwards I was aware of a hazy mist sitting toward the bottom of the field. It looked like smoke but smelled like wet and greyness. Through the mist, across the road and into the woods with the most heart-warming view of the valley across to Backwell. Sun picked out glints of glass on building and cars, and the whole scene felt like it belonged to warmer times. As if to add to the aura of well-being the church at Backwell was pealing out its message in the distance, bringing a traditional English note to the countryside symphony.
The plan had been to get to Nailsea then cut across by the railway station in order to climb the hill at Backwell, curving round home, but my foot felt weak and tired from yesterday's run and as I dropped down to Watercress Farm my enthusiasm for the original route got mired in the mud. However, I gave myself the opportunity to consider that this was my training run to make the most of - if I cut home at this point that would be it, no more running for the rest of the day.
Down on the moor it was really claggy - I slipped and slithered along with boots of clay pulling at my hamstrings. The fields were striated with long thin puddles that matched the ploughed furrows, with grass plantlets almost floating in the liquid soil. The ditches were all full - one large rhyne had a sizeable flow and was eating away at its own bank, gurgling with satisfaction. I stopped and watched the water for a while, wondering what it is about moving water that brings us such pleasure.
I have been reading Robert Macfarlane's book 'The Old Ways'; a beautiful evocation of the pleasure of travelling across the countryside. (In fact, I think he says exactly what I want to say, which is a bit demotivating. Why struggle to define something what someone has already done it better than you ever will?). In it he mentions the Arabic word 'sarha' which means to let the cows out to pasture so they can wander about freely. This isn't a way I travel when I run; I plan my routes carefully according to the available time and my energy levels. However, I was forced into random running after the moor, as I had planned to run along the bottom of Nailsea until I hit Station road - I reached the houses, and after a while of following the line of development the path just stopped.
I guess in the past paths and tracks were created as a means of getting from one place to another and so they always linked through to the next significant point. Modern developers don't seem to see this function, so so are quite happy to let a sizeable groomed path just stop within sight of the next road. I headed into the housing estate and turned into cul-de-sac after cul-de-sac trying to find some way through to the road, to no avail. Who invented the cul-d-sac? A road that doesn't go anywhere! A piece of oxymoronic planning that dragged me further up the hill than I wanted which then forced me to run down the road and back to the route that was virtually visible all the way along. I then headed off along the bridleway, only to find the same problem.
A bridge and a dog walker led me to think the path had crossed into the field, and as a result I found myself slopping around the edge of a large field, painfully aware that there seemed to be no way out of the field other than the one I had come in through, which of course would necessitate greeting the dog walker again. The more we develop and improve things the further we are from an efficient route. A couple of months ago I was forced by roadworks to take a detour through a housing estate and spent twenty minutes driving round cursing developers who make leaving the area a challenge; every few minutes passing where I had already been, sometimes from the other direction. I am reminded of department stores who hide the stairs so you are forced to travel around the whole shop, possibly buying something to sustain you in your quest to exit.
Anyway, having found an exit at the end of the field, I alighted on Backwell Common Lane with some relief. It wasn't where I wanted to be but at least I had escaped the labyrinth of progress. The sun was really bright by now, although not offering any warmth, but the contrast with the last fortnight was wonderful. The faux Spring had affected others as well - some domestic geese were revelling in a temporary pond of floodwater, and flapping their wings with all the excitement of a dog being let out after a night of rain.
My foot was quite tired by now so I recalibrated my run to head back to Watercress Farm then up over Gatcombe. Straight back to the mud and rhynes, with streams winding like snakes, and the only evidence of human travelling being sharp imprints of my own shoes from earlier - like the Plaster of Paris casts we made as kids. A female blackbird perched on a hedge pulled her head back into her chubby body as I ran past.
Watercress Farm both benefits and debits from being a confluence of a lot of paths, most of which pass through the grounds of the complex - subsequently I often find myself being a voyeur at family breakfasts as I pass through. This morning I caught out a man putting his dog outside, stripped to the waist and clearly not expecting a muddied runner squelching past. Even the dog was confused.
Off to Cambridge Batch and down to the area that normally has a concrete bridge spanning a stream, Last week Heidi and I had to step carefully through the spate with water streaming a good foot above the bridge; we just stood in the water and laughed. This week the water was even deeper and with quite a force - I had to inch across with the water pulling at my legs.
Up above Gatcombe and down to Long Ashton, stopping at the puddles by the park to wash my shoes off - 12.5 country miles and sun induced blinking.
