Went out for 2 sodden hours this afternoon. Luckily it wasn't too cold as it rained almost continuously with the occasional thunderclap to scare me. I ran through Watercress Farm, through the Tyntesfield estate and over to Lower Failand.
I ran up the hill that links Sandy Lane to Ferney Row - the area was deserted and I hadn't seen a soul since the lady with the dog on the cycle track. As I entered the trees I was aware of a movement to my right - to my surprise two pigs were rooting about under the trees. They must have escaped from a farm or smallholding but as I ran down the hill I couldn't see any pig-like accommodation or anywhere I could report their presence to. So, I left them there enjoying their freedom while it lasted.
Then, as I entered the golf course above Long Ashton a flock of Goldfinches flew off. They had been feeding on the Dandelion and Hawksbit seed heads and their presence on the ground resembled a hyperactive picnic. Lovely to see so many of this beautiful bird
Sunday 27 April 2014
Sunday 13 April 2014
Five lives
Odd how some days seem to feel so much longer than others - maybe the experiences are more intense, maybe more gets crammed in. Or maybe we shrug off the steady ticking of the clock every now and again and squeeze ourselves into the gaps between the seconds.
I had the very great pleasure of staying at Monckton Wyld hostel near Lyme Regis last weekend. A real live sustainable commune complete with working dairy, fading regal architecture and probably the world's smallest pub (a 6x4 garden shed). I stayed over on Friday night with the plan that on Saturday I would go for a run that would be steady and will turn into a walk just as soon as I was tired.
In the first life, I shrugged off last night's cider and wandered down to the kitchen to see about breakfast. Plenty of tea and an alarmingly large bowl of muesli; both containing the richest milk I have had for years. There was a yellow skin of cream on the top and tasted - yes, milk actually tastes of something other than white- rich and characterful. This would prove to be perfect preparation for a run, and the weather decided that it too would oblige, with a cool and jewelled morning. I cautiously circled my rucksack, and having decided I could delay no longer, lolloped up the track and out into the 21st century.
The next life began as I entered a field at the bottom of a lane. I climbed over a stile and into a field sodden with dew. Chaffinches bounced around the hedging, shouting and calling in competition with sparrows. The landowner had made some splendid signposts with large fingers pointing the way, which was a relief as it was quite difficult to navigate through countless small fields. On reflection it is a pleasure to see those small fields, as years of unsympathetic stewardship have lost us much of the hedge; that cultural marker harbouring species diversity like a rural ark.
Without much difficulty I traversed past a number of truly beautiful farm houses and cottages and climbed up the slope to a rather threatening main road that sat along the top of a hill intimidating anything or anyone who wanted to move across the countryside. Hedgehog-like I skipped over the road, painfully aware of traffic hurtling at me from both directions.
Once across the road I suddenly found myself bowling down through some dense woods - a muddy yet easy-to-follow path that flowed downhill to the sea. Birds set up a cacophony that bounced off the trees, and the damp conditions had generated moss that glowed and sparkled in the sunlight. Blackbirds were engaged in their spring scuffle with two males squabbling; fan tail down. I exited the woods and followed a stream that led into into the middle of Lyme Regis. Path turned to track which led to road and then transformed into alleyways skirting back gardens.
My third life started when running past a strange collection of tiny bungalows that clustered round the stream as if plotting with it. Little wooden constructions that presumably harboured retired couples, sat freshly painted and showed off their whimsical names. Deeper into the town and the buildings got bigger until suddenly I was spat out into a main street full of art, fossil and pastie shops. It was still only about nine so not many people were about; the sea rolled forward into the town with only the seagulls keeping an eye on it.
I stood and admired the slight choppiness of the sea as it pushed into the Cobb, and then wandered down to the extraordinary beach. I had no idea of the coast at Lyme Regis - I knew of course that there were fossils and therefore there must be shale but was very surprised to see a flat stratum sitting like a shelf where the beach should be. I nudged past the huge digger doing something percussive to a rock and down onto the pebbly part that stretched the whole way to Charmouth. Rocks chinked and scrunched underfoot and the calm curiousness of a misty morning filled the air like a gentle breath. There were quite a number of groups fossil hunting, all bashing away at various rocks with their hired hammers, and a few looked up puzzled as I crunched past. I reached Charmouth but it only offered me a closed gift shop so I ignored it and looked ahead at the green line of cliffs that strteched right on into my next life.
This life traced the boundary between horizontal green and vertical tan as the coastal path inched as close as possible to the cliff; sometimes disappearing when sections of the coast were dragged down by the sea. The path was closed in a number of places but I took heart from the footprints of what seemed to be another runner and skipped under the barriers. The wave-like undulations of the path dragged at my legs but the increasing sun and a promise of water and a fruit bar kept the momentum.
Foolishly, two runners decided to hover just ahead of me like a target. I silently crept closer to them and they kept throwing furtive glances back to see if I had gained. Nothing worse than being the prey. However, they angled off to a road and left me to my own pace and no-one to chase; probably a good thing since the horizon was starting to fill with the outline of Golden Cap. A plunge down toward the coastline and into the blackthorn-filled valley; warblers singing and chasing through the trees. I went through the gate, climbed up through the trees and out into the grassy open stretching upward. The climb was really steep and forced the path into a zigzag. Nibbled grass sat like a velvet blanket with just a few strands of bramble inchig across. Feeling pretty good I stepped up the steepness; offering a greeting to a couple sat on a bench with a flask of tea. Through another gate and finally crawling onto the top of Golden Cap.
A rather ancient walker wandered up to me and informed me that Golden Cap had been an ancient hill fort, but at that time the ridge had extended another mile into the sea. I politely epressed astonishment and made a mental note to check its history out later - not yet achieved.
Nothing wrong with retracing your steps when the route is new - the return journey is fresh and unexplored. I was starting to feel tiredness in my legs during the zig-zag descent, with some detours around brambles to avoid closed sections of cliff path., but warmth in the sun and an optimistic view created by entering the second half of the run gave me energry. I cruised down to Charmouth with its car park full of detritus thrown up by the winter storms and headed inland on the hunt for food. A mango juice drink and packet of nuts and I was ready to attack the sapping shingle of the beach.
Returning to Lyme I entered a new existence, as couples leaned on the sea walls and watched me gingerly picking my way over the slippery rocks, past children and dogs, dads with rucksacks and mums guiding the hair out of their eyes. Off the beach and up the hill in search of a decent pasty. I found it in a shop that also offered tea, so clutching both treats I went and sat on the beach with couples eating fish and chips and failing to push buggies across the drifted angle of stones.
A check of the map suggested heading back over the hill toward Charmouth to meet the Monarch's Way (how funny that it passes our house 100 miles away), which would then lead me to Monkton Wyld. I hadn't anticipated a detour due to the erosion of the cliff, which at one point dragged me up a really steep path through some woods only to force me to double back when I reached the top: so frustrating.
I was reminded of the weather we have had this year by a soggy path that had been churned by horses, and it was possible to see how the water is slowly seeping down to the sea leaving new patches of firm soil. I was then routed along the main road, across the golf course, with golfers clearly appreciating the bright weather, and down to an unpleasant main road and roundabout from which I was supposed to pick up the path. This was a disturbing example of how busy roads charge straight over ancient routes; the path was all but lost with a new route that disappeared on one side of the road, and started again in a layby on the other. Any sense of the history and evolution of lines of communication is ignored in the new mantra of expedient travel. Mind you, I used the road myself, so am not really in a position to be self-righteous.
Luckily, before long the noise of traffic was replaced by more birdsong, and I was travelling through into a world of long grass and dandelions, sheep and bees.
The new and last existence brought the day full circle as I climbed over stiles and into water meadows with only passing crows for company. My tired legs were boosted by the sight of wild daffodils in a field - they sat squat in the grass and from the distance offered a yellow sheen. I haven't seen so many for a long time and it made me wonder if this was evidence of an ancient field that had suffered less than others. Something else to research when I got home.
One last climb up a lane to the hostel. The lane was well below the fields on either side and the banks offered ample evidence of its extreme age. Surely no other country can offer byways that are a window to the past in such an intense and earthy way.
Another rubbish video - difficult to film while runnin. However, I am sure you can see the flowers; what other country can offer this?
One last bend round the church and into the hostel - 25 miles in 6 hours including stops for pasties and numerous photos. Legs tired but nicely so with plenty of energy to make a cup of tea and sit in the garden for a while.
I had the very great pleasure of staying at Monckton Wyld hostel near Lyme Regis last weekend. A real live sustainable commune complete with working dairy, fading regal architecture and probably the world's smallest pub (a 6x4 garden shed). I stayed over on Friday night with the plan that on Saturday I would go for a run that would be steady and will turn into a walk just as soon as I was tired.
In the first life, I shrugged off last night's cider and wandered down to the kitchen to see about breakfast. Plenty of tea and an alarmingly large bowl of muesli; both containing the richest milk I have had for years. There was a yellow skin of cream on the top and tasted - yes, milk actually tastes of something other than white- rich and characterful. This would prove to be perfect preparation for a run, and the weather decided that it too would oblige, with a cool and jewelled morning. I cautiously circled my rucksack, and having decided I could delay no longer, lolloped up the track and out into the 21st century.
The next life began as I entered a field at the bottom of a lane. I climbed over a stile and into a field sodden with dew. Chaffinches bounced around the hedging, shouting and calling in competition with sparrows. The landowner had made some splendid signposts with large fingers pointing the way, which was a relief as it was quite difficult to navigate through countless small fields. On reflection it is a pleasure to see those small fields, as years of unsympathetic stewardship have lost us much of the hedge; that cultural marker harbouring species diversity like a rural ark.
Without much difficulty I traversed past a number of truly beautiful farm houses and cottages and climbed up the slope to a rather threatening main road that sat along the top of a hill intimidating anything or anyone who wanted to move across the countryside. Hedgehog-like I skipped over the road, painfully aware of traffic hurtling at me from both directions.
Once across the road I suddenly found myself bowling down through some dense woods - a muddy yet easy-to-follow path that flowed downhill to the sea. Birds set up a cacophony that bounced off the trees, and the damp conditions had generated moss that glowed and sparkled in the sunlight. Blackbirds were engaged in their spring scuffle with two males squabbling; fan tail down. I exited the woods and followed a stream that led into into the middle of Lyme Regis. Path turned to track which led to road and then transformed into alleyways skirting back gardens.
My third life started when running past a strange collection of tiny bungalows that clustered round the stream as if plotting with it. Little wooden constructions that presumably harboured retired couples, sat freshly painted and showed off their whimsical names. Deeper into the town and the buildings got bigger until suddenly I was spat out into a main street full of art, fossil and pastie shops. It was still only about nine so not many people were about; the sea rolled forward into the town with only the seagulls keeping an eye on it.
I stood and admired the slight choppiness of the sea as it pushed into the Cobb, and then wandered down to the extraordinary beach. I had no idea of the coast at Lyme Regis - I knew of course that there were fossils and therefore there must be shale but was very surprised to see a flat stratum sitting like a shelf where the beach should be. I nudged past the huge digger doing something percussive to a rock and down onto the pebbly part that stretched the whole way to Charmouth. Rocks chinked and scrunched underfoot and the calm curiousness of a misty morning filled the air like a gentle breath. There were quite a number of groups fossil hunting, all bashing away at various rocks with their hired hammers, and a few looked up puzzled as I crunched past. I reached Charmouth but it only offered me a closed gift shop so I ignored it and looked ahead at the green line of cliffs that strteched right on into my next life.
This life traced the boundary between horizontal green and vertical tan as the coastal path inched as close as possible to the cliff; sometimes disappearing when sections of the coast were dragged down by the sea. The path was closed in a number of places but I took heart from the footprints of what seemed to be another runner and skipped under the barriers. The wave-like undulations of the path dragged at my legs but the increasing sun and a promise of water and a fruit bar kept the momentum.
Foolishly, two runners decided to hover just ahead of me like a target. I silently crept closer to them and they kept throwing furtive glances back to see if I had gained. Nothing worse than being the prey. However, they angled off to a road and left me to my own pace and no-one to chase; probably a good thing since the horizon was starting to fill with the outline of Golden Cap. A plunge down toward the coastline and into the blackthorn-filled valley; warblers singing and chasing through the trees. I went through the gate, climbed up through the trees and out into the grassy open stretching upward. The climb was really steep and forced the path into a zigzag. Nibbled grass sat like a velvet blanket with just a few strands of bramble inchig across. Feeling pretty good I stepped up the steepness; offering a greeting to a couple sat on a bench with a flask of tea. Through another gate and finally crawling onto the top of Golden Cap.
A rather ancient walker wandered up to me and informed me that Golden Cap had been an ancient hill fort, but at that time the ridge had extended another mile into the sea. I politely epressed astonishment and made a mental note to check its history out later - not yet achieved.
Nothing wrong with retracing your steps when the route is new - the return journey is fresh and unexplored. I was starting to feel tiredness in my legs during the zig-zag descent, with some detours around brambles to avoid closed sections of cliff path., but warmth in the sun and an optimistic view created by entering the second half of the run gave me energry. I cruised down to Charmouth with its car park full of detritus thrown up by the winter storms and headed inland on the hunt for food. A mango juice drink and packet of nuts and I was ready to attack the sapping shingle of the beach.
Returning to Lyme I entered a new existence, as couples leaned on the sea walls and watched me gingerly picking my way over the slippery rocks, past children and dogs, dads with rucksacks and mums guiding the hair out of their eyes. Off the beach and up the hill in search of a decent pasty. I found it in a shop that also offered tea, so clutching both treats I went and sat on the beach with couples eating fish and chips and failing to push buggies across the drifted angle of stones.
A check of the map suggested heading back over the hill toward Charmouth to meet the Monarch's Way (how funny that it passes our house 100 miles away), which would then lead me to Monkton Wyld. I hadn't anticipated a detour due to the erosion of the cliff, which at one point dragged me up a really steep path through some woods only to force me to double back when I reached the top: so frustrating.
I was reminded of the weather we have had this year by a soggy path that had been churned by horses, and it was possible to see how the water is slowly seeping down to the sea leaving new patches of firm soil. I was then routed along the main road, across the golf course, with golfers clearly appreciating the bright weather, and down to an unpleasant main road and roundabout from which I was supposed to pick up the path. This was a disturbing example of how busy roads charge straight over ancient routes; the path was all but lost with a new route that disappeared on one side of the road, and started again in a layby on the other. Any sense of the history and evolution of lines of communication is ignored in the new mantra of expedient travel. Mind you, I used the road myself, so am not really in a position to be self-righteous.
Luckily, before long the noise of traffic was replaced by more birdsong, and I was travelling through into a world of long grass and dandelions, sheep and bees.
The new and last existence brought the day full circle as I climbed over stiles and into water meadows with only passing crows for company. My tired legs were boosted by the sight of wild daffodils in a field - they sat squat in the grass and from the distance offered a yellow sheen. I haven't seen so many for a long time and it made me wonder if this was evidence of an ancient field that had suffered less than others. Something else to research when I got home.
Not a very clear video I am afraid, but you ca see the yellow of the daffodils.
One last climb up a lane to the hostel. The lane was well below the fields on either side and the banks offered ample evidence of its extreme age. Surely no other country can offer byways that are a window to the past in such an intense and earthy way.
One last bend round the church and into the hostel - 25 miles in 6 hours including stops for pasties and numerous photos. Legs tired but nicely so with plenty of energy to make a cup of tea and sit in the garden for a while.
Tuesday 1 April 2014
Bats
I went out for a brief jog this evening, partially because the clocks had changed, partly because I needed to unravel my head from the day, partly because it was actually warm and I could wear shorts, and partly because I just wanted to. Let's hope it was the sum of all those parts.
Anyway, through the plantation and down to Gatcombe in order to cross the road to return via the field where the scary cows someimes live. I rolled past Gatcombe (which for the uninitiated is a farm with a farm shop and sunday-lunch-type cafe in, although how they call it a farm shop when most of the produce is imported and in poor condition I don't know), and curved up the lane to what we locals laughingly call the main road (two cars a minute).
I was suddenly drawn to a halt by the unmistakable flitting of a bat; it dipped and circled above my head; disappearing, only to reappear in another part of the sky. I was very surprised to see it, given it is the beginning of April and I felt it was scarcely warm enough for bats. However, my pleasure was gilded by another bat joining the first in an airborne conversation.
For reasons that have now left me I decided that I had the capacity to attract bats by drawing air in through my teeth and lower lip to produce a high pitched sound that would surely prove alluring. What actually happened was the Chiropterid version of 'wtf is that?' 'No idea; let's fly out of here before it gets really annoying'. And with that they left.
Not much of a bat-whisperer.
Anyway, through the plantation and down to Gatcombe in order to cross the road to return via the field where the scary cows someimes live. I rolled past Gatcombe (which for the uninitiated is a farm with a farm shop and sunday-lunch-type cafe in, although how they call it a farm shop when most of the produce is imported and in poor condition I don't know), and curved up the lane to what we locals laughingly call the main road (two cars a minute).
I was suddenly drawn to a halt by the unmistakable flitting of a bat; it dipped and circled above my head; disappearing, only to reappear in another part of the sky. I was very surprised to see it, given it is the beginning of April and I felt it was scarcely warm enough for bats. However, my pleasure was gilded by another bat joining the first in an airborne conversation.
For reasons that have now left me I decided that I had the capacity to attract bats by drawing air in through my teeth and lower lip to produce a high pitched sound that would surely prove alluring. What actually happened was the Chiropterid version of 'wtf is that?' 'No idea; let's fly out of here before it gets really annoying'. And with that they left.
Not much of a bat-whisperer.
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