Crantock, 2012

Ending an al fresco meal with clotted cream - and choice of wine

Natural arch at Park Head on a misty day

Herring gull among the thrift

Poppies and corn marigolds by Polly Joke

      Well, it wasn't the best of holidays we've had in Cornwall. I don't think we've ever spent so much time sitting in our tent listening to pattering rain, or drunk so many mugs of tea.  A silver teaspoon used to stir our tea was stained a deep mahogany brown by the end of the first week.  Our stove ran out of gas half way through cooking an evening meal. My wonderful partner's nose spent an awful lot of time buried in her Kindle whilst I ploughed through a paper version of Laura Hillenbrand's fairly disturbing but brilliantly written biography of Olympic athlete, Louie Zamperini, in her book 'Unbroken'.
      But it wasn't all doom and gloom for us.  Weatherwise, by all accounts, we fared better in the south west than people elsewhere in the British Isles who'd experienced terrible storms, severe flooding and a great deal of structural damage.  We managed to run on twelve of our thirteen days and only once got wet, though it wasn't the weather that prevented me from running on that blank day. To put it plainly I felt absolutely knackered after eleven consecutive days when I'd notched up 56 miles along five and six mile routes with a fast interval session thrown in for good measure. After a day's rest we both clocked our fastest times of all over 5.10 miles which augurs well for our next race, a seven miler at Kilburn on July 8th.
      Not satisfied with our morning mileages my wonderful partner was chomping at the bit for more action in the afternoons.  So we roamed coast paths under threatening skies, marveling at the wondrous rock formations, natural arches and nesting haunts of noisy seabirds. We searched for seals in the thrashing seas, found wild orchids raising their red/purple heads among cowslips, trefoils and yellow rattle.
      Particularly beautiful were the riotous reds and yellows of poppies and corn marigolds at West Pentire, a real feast for the eyes on a day of boundless blue sky. Carpets of pink thrift were still blooming along the coast, for some reason attracting herring gulls that spent hours picking their way amongst it, obviously finding something nutritious. Wild mountain thyme, as it's often called, seemingly isn't confined to higher hills but grows in profusion on sandy heaths where it forms divinely scented purple cushions.

Out walking on one of the few sunny days

      We stayed at Higher Moor just outside Crantock, a campsite we've used for several years because of its wonderful situation, integrated market garden that supplies delicious accoutrements to our barbecued chickens and, most of all, because it lies at the heart of some of the best running country in Britain. We call it our warm weather training camp and usually return home fitter and trimmer than when we left. This year we could easily strike out the word 'warm' though in all other respects it satisfied our needs. If the site lacks anything, it's an 11pm curfew which I once suggested to the owner but which went unheeded.  

      I got particularly annoyed this year when a group of five Italians set up camp next to us. Italians speak very loud and very fast and can be fascinating to listen to. But not when they don't settle down to sleep until dawn is breaking and birds are singing their morning matins.

Wild thyme growing by the coast

      On the very next night a group of eight boisterous children and two adults arrived on the other side of us who were also prattling away when I thought it safe to remove my ear plugs at 4am. I'd had words with the Italians, who'd apologized profusely, but who, I'm told, still yapped into the wee small hours with lights blazing away in their tents. Generally speaking, I like Italians, their food, their wine, their coffee, their land, their music and, after they'd knocked England out of the European Cup, was rooting for them to go the whole way and beat Spain in the final. I may well change my mind!
      Having reached a certain age, I find myself becoming increasingly intolerant of such behaviour and, sadly, may have to revise next summer's warm weather training plans.

We're back.....

The seven mile route that decided I was fit to race again.

  ...after our annual camping holiday at Higher Moor in beautiful Cornwall where the weather once again did us proud.  I'm privileged to have a partner who not only shares my passion for running but actively encourages it. This year she ran on all fourteen days and managed to clock up more miles than my own 63! Mind you, I was nursing a persistent calf injury at the start of our holiday but, after a lot of Stick and stimulating massage, it came good again during our second week. So good, in fact, that I allowed myself to be talked into running the Kilburn 7 mile race on July 10th which will be our first race since Arkendale back in April.  Prior to giving consent I'd to satisfy myself I could actually get the distance so, armed with my Garmin, I set off running and didn't stop until the infernal instrument had registered more than seven miles. In spite of undulations amounting to nearly a thousand feet of ascent I felt reasonably good so our Entry Forms were duly posted. I can't wait to race again.

Can't see the grass for flowers

     We share other passions too, mostly connected with the great outdoors.  Strangely enough we sometimes walk (!) usually ladened with camera and binoculars to observe and photograph flowers, butterflies, birds and other creatures of the wild. One of our missions this year was to go seal hunting to a little island off Kelsey Head where we'd seen odd ones on previous visits. We chose a time when the tide was ebbing and revealing rocky skerries that appeared to rise out of the sea. We watched, fascinated, as the seals homed in and eased themselves onto these rocks soon to be left high and dry in the sun's heat as the tide receded. On one occasion we counted nineteen, some of them huge bull seals that voiced their disapproval to any others trying to share the same rock.

Friendly lizard

     We found fields, bordered with wild roses, where you could hardly see the grass for masses of blood-red poppies, white and red campion, blue scabious and others I couldn't put a name to - but I've no doubt my wonderful partner could.  Red and white lily pads floated on the fisherman's pond whilst round the edges purple loosestrife, fragrant water mint and giant Chilean Gunnera grew in rich profusion.  Wild thyme and yellow bedstraw cushioned the edges of turfy paths we ran on each morning whilst a myriad butterflies danced on the scented breeze. We almost trod on a green lizard sunning itself unconcernedly on the path though resident adders were keeping a low profile.

Ready for the morning run

     We also share a passion for such delicacies as local Cornish steak pasties piping hot from the Treago Farm shop, for Rodda's Cornish cream on freshly baked scones with strawberry jam, for tasty barbequed chickens served with mixed herb salads straight from the garden of John and Sue Dennett at Higher Moor where we camp. For an extra special treat before returning home we trot along to the Cosy Nook tea garden and restaurant in Crantock, usually for a mouthwatering steak, but on this occasion we opted for grilled lamb cutlets with a viscious nut chocolate sundae to round things off. This establishment is unlicenced but welcoming staff encourage diners to bring their own tipple. Glasses are provided and there is no corkage charge.

      So that's what we did for a whole two weeks - ran in the morning, stuffed ourselves silly to replace all the calories we'd burned, imbibed just sufficient wine to help things on their way and repeated this each day till it was time to come home. If this is what's called a catch 22 situation, bring it on!