The weather looked as if rain was a certainty, so on with the trusty OMM jacket, and out I set, resigned to the fact that I would be wet before I returned.
Up across the golf course - not a golf player to be seen. No-one in Ashton Court either except a few hardy mountain bikers and another runner ahead who I couldn't catch before he turned off. The wind was squalling in all directions adding extra challenge to the mud which threatened to make me slip up. At the rugby club across Beggar Bush Lane the only greeting I received was from the elderly horse in his blanket; I normally stop to say hello to him but the rain was starting to drive sideways so I kept moving.
Down the hill towards Abbot's Pool and the rain came at me in icy blasts forcing my hood up and making me pick my way very carefully down the path. I climbed up the steep slippery slope at Abbot's pool and ran through the woods on paths that thread like tracery; the ground soft with a damp mulch of pine needles. Thoughts of how Karin might be feeling kept seeping through and pushing me down to the mud; the rain tipping my face downward. A number of trees had fallen in the previous week's storms forcing me to meander in convoluted pathways. One old fallen tree was dressed in vivid green moss that pushed out of the rotten wood and brought life to the chill wetness.
I reached Sandy Lane and ran along it for some way. Huge puddles dominated the track, with abrasive sandstone rocks forcing me to pick carefully between obstacles. It was oddly sheltered from the wind - despite being high up, the hill must somehow push the wind up higher so I was able to pick my way up the field without being whipped by the wind and rain.
Ferney Row is always wet, even in the summer. Today it was exceptionally wet with ankle deep watery mud providing a challenge to maintain some sort of pace. I splashed and slithered through and over to the stream that was unsurprisingly large and fast moving, and then aimed for the hill that leads up to the field with the view of Avonmouth. Reduced to a walk by the conditions the mire sucked all the energy out of the run. A woodpecker was thrumming, the sound flowing through the woods.
I entered the lane that leads to Lower Failand and headed towards the main road. To my great surprise someone had erected a pink banner over the footpath post, with printed tendrils and fabric Ipomea flowers stuck on. It was stunningly beautiful and fluttered energetically in contrast to the heavy wet woods. My breath was drawn out of me and I was filled with the vertiginous sadness of beauty.
Unsure whether to be melancholic or ecstatic I rollercoasted along the road until lightened by a man in a car who stopped to tell me that he was driving carefully as he didn't want to splash me. Into the field behind Failand village hall where the horses are kept; a sodden blanket sitting heavily in a wheelbarrow. By now I was filthy and soaked, but maintaining a steady uprightness across the fields and over to the gate with the stupid finger-chopping catch.
I entered the golf course and right on the edge of the hill that drops down to Long Ashton I stopped, stunned by the sudden and piercing bird song of a good number of Long-Tailed Tits. Normally they peep away at each other like fishwives as they move through hedges and trees but this time they were in full spate with their startling songs resembling choirboys soaring through the cathedral roof. There was a bench there, but I resisted temptation and when the Tits had moved on echoing into the distance I continued to pick my way down the hill home.
Rounding the corner I was pleased to see the bedroom curtains drawn back - obviously Karin felt well enough to sit up and welcome the world in. A rather childish splashing in the huge puddle outside Tony's house removed some of the brown and restored some of the blue to my shoes and in I padded, better than when I had started. My hands were warm with running and outside, and I used them to stroke outdoors warmth into Karin's face.
