It was with a little caution that I found myself on the start line of the MCN 10m trail race this morning - I haven't actually run fast for at least a year, hardly run with anyone, and wasn't sure of my level of fitness. Still, it was only 10 miles and could always just treat it as a training run by relaxing and enjoying the run.
Anyway, with one minute to go we jostled on the line; not to get to the front but to avoid being exposed as over-confident. I lost the shuffle war and when the bell sounded the start led the charge to the canal at Talybont.
I made a point of pinging along in a skippy barefoot style; partially to look relaxed and partially to ensure I didn't get over-competitive. One mile in and there were four of us together, with the rest of the race receding behind us - not what I had planned at all. However, I felt comfortable, knew what I was doing and had no expectations other than enjoying myself. Two runners drifted ahead - one I knew was in the marathon and so wasn't in the same race, but his compatriot clearly had ambitions. The race was initially flat, then climbed up Tor y Foel followed by a long cruise down to Talybont - my time would be on the hill as I am strong uphill, and was determined not to push too hard downhill in order to save my ever-complaining hamstrings.
So: foot of the hill, runners stretched out the whole way up the slope, weather looking less pleasant but still dry, and my protagonist (to be known hereafter as Gary Doherty, as it is his name) was lurking in the midst of the ultra runners about a minute ahead. Bit by bit I clawed my way through the field making good use of my leg strength and the hints I recently read in Trail Running magazine. Yes, past Gary, yes keeping running when others were walking, yes, through groups of pole-wielding ultra runners, and up onto the top.
What I hadn't considered was Gary's take on the race - while I fancied myself up the hill he fancied himself going downhill. I was suddenly sobered to hear a thundering behind, and then in front, as he capered past; arms and legs flailing, with sheep scattering in all directions. I was rather lamely picking my way down and watching my hopes of maintaining any contention steadily evaporating.
Through to the first and only checkpoint and we bad farewell to the few ultra runners daft enough to be running at the same pace as us and then dropped down off the hill. The only part of the race that needed carefully signage was clear and easy to navigate, and before long we had hit the path that led the whole way back to Talybont. I thought it would be a flying descent but the path was really rocky and hampered development of any pace. Gary had long gone - his buoyancy at taking the lead coincided with my resignation of the placings, so I picked my way downhill slower than a training run. A slight frisson was created by being overhauled by another runner, but he explained he had dropped out of the marathon; however if he had dropped out of a race and was still running faster than me that couldn't be good.
Never mind, a rather weak run along the towpath and into the grounds of the HQ and I finished in second place. There was the usual welcome from the MCN team that always seems to include more prizes than I feel I deserve, but am still very happy to receive.
So, how did it go? Well, it was nice to be running competitively despite the timid descending and finishing. I wasn't at all tired afterwards which suggests some fitness. The race had the usual MCN hallmarks - careful planning, crap weather, nice post-race atmosphere despite most of the runners still being out on the course. I wish I had entered the marathon as it was clear that I could have run that distance comfortably; mind you the idea was to ease back into competitive running very slowly and I achieved that. I wasn't very envious of the ultra when it was clear the weather wasn't at all good and they had to shorten the race - good call.
Camping at Talybont Farm was excellent as always, and I was back home by 2pm!
Sunday, 18 May 2014
Tuesday, 6 May 2014
Treasure
I ran home from the train last week; up over Backwell toward Barrow court. The sun was just poking through which took the edge off the temperature. I climbed up the steep path through the woods, and right at the top, nestling against a rock was this common orchid. How lovely.
Sunday, 27 April 2014
Wildlife
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
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, 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.
Sunday, 9 February 2014
Up. Down.
Due to a late bedtime last night Karin wasn't able to rise this morning, so I took advantage of her sleeping and went out for an hour or so. If she has a busy day one day, the next often finds her exhausted. Whenever Anne and Gary come down I find myself on the receiving end of a feast of excess, so a blast in the countryside would surely offer a cleansing.
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.
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.
Sunday, 19 January 2014
Routes
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.
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.
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