Change

The railway line from Bristol to Portishead was closed in the early sixties - I believe my Dad used it once to go to work before Beeching decided it wasn't worth keeping.  Now, given the cost of car use there are proposals to re-open it so Portishead commuters can use it and avoid the bottleneck at the M5 junction.  Work has started to clear the line; slashing the brambles away to reveal the rusty lines still sat underneath.  I ran past the line at Portbury today in my bid to get enough miles under my belt to survive the 40 mile ultra I rashly signed up for in May.

I ran into Portishead - a town I scarcely recognise as the one I lived in as a child.  The docks have been developed into a huge residential area with apartments that overlook the marina jammed with recreational craft; false lighthouse vying with stainless steel buildings of unrecognisable culture.  I reluctantly concluded that despite the battles with the parish council planning department the construction companies have done a pretty good job of creating a living space that offers something to derive pleasure from - boats, the sea, history; all on land previously occupied by the power station and a phosphorus plant.

Over into the lake grounds and onto the cliff path to Clevedon.  I haven't run here for 30 plus years; it hasn't changed but I was frustrated  by my inability to run with that rolling pace that I had in the past.  Despite reassurances that I will be back up to speed soon I felt like a new running identity was ingraining itself; loping along at a pace barely above walking speed.  I was happy to use distance, and the weight of my rucksack as a reason for the pace.

Into Clevedon and up to the crumbling Victorian pier; another victim of nobody recognising the value of such an extraordinary structure, just like Birnbeck pier in Weston.  I passed through the chi chi shopping area feeling out of place as the only person there who didn't drive a new Volvo or Audi or own a labrador, and down onto the timeless moorland.  Swans looked concerned as I passed by their territory, through flocks of sheep and newborn lambs, avoiding the herds of heifers that spotted me just as I was leaving their field.  

A sluggish pass through Nailsea, and back home - 27 miles, although it felt like 37.

The leaves are just unfurling, providing a glowing green decoration in the hedgerows and celandines and wood anemonies provided sparkle.  Spring was apparent, giving hints of the summer to come and the passing through of the year.  On it goes, on I go.