Comings and goings

Knee deep in heather at Wig Stones

My twenty three miles of running last weekend revealed a couple of premature happenings. One of the many things I look forward to at the onset of Autumn is heather coming into bloom as I run the high moors above Hebden and Grassington. The change is usually quite sudden: one week the landscape is a uniform, dullish brown. Next it's transformed into a vast expanse of mauve/purple that exudes a wonderful scent as my feet brush through it in sun and wind. Mid to late August, around the time of Hebden Village Sports, is the time normally associated with this annual display. This year, things are different.  As I ran towards Mossdale last Sunday (July 25th) I was amazed to find patches already in full flower.

And heather isn't the only thing ahead of schedule this year. Something else stopped us in our tracks as we sped through our fartlek session along the riverbank on Saturday. Mushrooms, those tasty, irresistable bright fungi that were sadly missing from our fields and menus last year are back in abundance. So, as soon as we'd showered and changed we were out foraging for more and came home with two or three pounds to make into lunchtime soup or to fry, with copious amounts of garlic, as a starter to our evening meal.

On the debit side one of our much loved Methodist ministers, the Rev Graham Kidman, preached his last sermon in Hebden on Sunday evening before his retirement.  He is one of that delightful breed of orators one always feels enriched for having listened to. He walks with a stick, slowly and awkwardly, and sometimes appears to have difficulty climbing the steps into the pulpit. But once there his deliberate, wisely chosen words and appropriate messages keep his congregation enthralled - for as long as he cares to preach. On Sunday I counted it a privilege to read the New Testament lesson for him, a passage from Paul's letter to the Philippians - that book that has us 'running towards the line for the prize of our high calling', an appropriate text for runners, and everyone else! We wish Graham much joy and happiness in his well earned retirement. 

Back to the drawing board.

I'm currently in a 'must try harder' state of mind brought on, no doubt, by that ignominious defeat by Ian Barnes in last week's 7 mile race at Kilburn. Mind you, Ian is a very talented 'good for his age' athlete and actually won his age category in the corresponding race last year, but as a MV70 and still 7 seconds slower than my MV75 course record.  So what's gone wrong for me, or right for him? Well, it's obvious isn't it? He's been hotting up his training ready for moving up into the MV75 category, and taking it by storm, whereas I've been slacking and merely ticking over after my whiplash problems. So it's back to the drawing board, building up a good base mileage again, stretching, strengthening and, later, one or two visits to the track for some serious speedwork. 

So, what was I doing last week?  Well, it began gently with an enjoyable relaxed fartlek session incorporated into a four mile run along the River Wharfe after taking my partner's car to the garage for its annual MOT. This was followed by a hilly five miles on Tuesday, another five mile run on Thursday including 12x130m fast repeats, ten miles of steady riverbank running on Saturday and an eight mile fell run in somewhat horrendous condition on Sunday. Also, I began some core and back strengthening exercises and will increase them by two each day until I reach thirty of each.
In spite of zapping up the mileage my old legs feel in pretty good shape and I'm looking forward to my next race, a fast four miler on August 14th, to gauge whether there's any improvement in my pace/mile since Kilburn.  There'd better be!

Kilburn 7 mile race

It's been one of those weeks when I wish I could go back a couple of days and do things differently. Training-wise it started off well, an enjoyable relaxed fartlek session on Monday, a steady 5 miles of x-country on Tuesday and some fast repetitions on Thursday. Then, on Saturday morning prior to the Kilburn 7 mile race on Sunday, it all went pear-shaped. My legs felt so good I decided on another fartlek session along the banks of the River Wharfe.

My mind must have been wandering as I jogged along the gravelly path towards the river. Next thing I was sprawled on the ground, my Rt leg twisted underneath me, a stinging pain shooting through my thigh and a hole in my elbow that appeared to have scooped up an awful lot of dirt. Normally, I'll be on my feet and on the move within seconds before any stiffness can set in.  This time it took somewhat longer, a good few minutes before I was up again and breaking into a limping, painful jog.

So, what to do next, turn and go the shortest way home or get down to the riverbank and complete the fartlek session.  To keep reasonably mobile I decided on the latter. I must have looked ever so funny, limping past the weekend walkers for fifty yards or so then launching into a fast and fluent 6½ min/mile pace for anything up to 240m. By the time I got home my thigh had stiffened so much I'd difficulty getting upstairs to my First Aid kit.  As a large black bruise began to materialize my wonderful partner was despatched to the local shop for a bag of frozen peas. At that stage I was 95% sure I wouldn't race the following day.

But miracles do happen. The rest of the day (and night) was spent resting and elevating it. Lashings of Arnica were massaged into the darkening skin to bring out the bruising, ice packs were applied to disperse the bruising, Diclofenac helped relax the muscle, Paracetamols reduced the pain. a compression bandage stopped it swelling during the night, and up to an hour before the 2 o'clock start of Sunday's race. Three hours before the race I declared 'all systems go' as we slung our Sports bags in the back of the car.

Ready for action. Well, almost

Conditions were ideal for racing, part cloudy with a cooling breeze, as the 300+ runners lined up for the Start outside the Forresters Arms. Not feeling quite 100% I started farther back than usual, so as not to be put off by runners passing me in the early stages of the race, and soon settled into a comfortable pace. After a mile we hit the first hill where I became aware of a car alarm sounding behind me and getting louder. In fact this noisy 'alarm' was attached to a baby buggy being pushed along at great speed by the child's dad! Strewth, I'd never been passed by anything like that before!

I'd been tracking a girl with the name 'Jackie' on her vest, past the ruins of Byland Abbey and on to the first Drinks station at just over 3½ miles.  I slowed to a walk to make sure of getting some fluid down before tackling the next hill.  I never saw Jackie again!  At the 2nd Drinks station I found myself another pace maker, a tanned young lady with long copper coloured hair, a small tattoo on each shoulder and bare midriff. We ran together to the Finish where I thanked her for her wonderful bit of pace-making. It turned out this 'young lady' was in fact Patricia Brobyn, winner of the LV60 category.  Well, she was young compared to me!

My Garmin measured the course at 7.27 miles with a total of 556ft of ascent which I ran in a slow 61.47 - a long way outside my previous MV75 course record of 53.54 - and 197th of 314 finishers. Needless to say, my below par performance earned me no prize this year. However, every finisher over 65 years old was awarded a bottle of rather nice wine so I didn't come away empty handed. Neither did another 31 male and female Super Veterans, one in their 80's, who'd crawled out of the woodwork at the mere sniff of some alcoholic reward!  

Full results here:

A bit hot for running

This summer has been a bit of a scorcher. Well, it has in places I've been, and the path along the River Wharfe last Saturday, from Hebden to Barden Bridge and back, all but reduced me to a crawl. I cannot remember when I ran this ten mile route so slowly, if ever. There was very little shade from the merciless sun, sweat poured out of me, my vest and shorts were saturated and I squeezed enough fluid from my sweat band to water two plants.  I hope it doesn't kill them, or I'm in trouble!

It's a popular and picturesque stretch of river and walkers were out in force.  A party of around sixty children and adults impeded my progress through one narrow section. The campsite at Appletreewick was full to capacity.  Parents lolled around with cooling drinks while their excited children paddled and splashed in the river. The Wharfe can be dangerous but the water was low last weekend, so there was very little danger of anyone getting into trouble.

River Wharfe at Loup Scar

Normally I run to the turning point at Barden Bridge at a very sedate pace, then run back faster. Not so this time. I managed the sedate pace bit OK but on the return section my old legs felt a bit like those of the Tin Man in Wizard of Oz. I force myself to believe I'll ultimately derive huge benefits from these long energy sapping runs, that the training effect will stand me in good stead come my next race where I'll float effortlessly past anyone in my age category who happens to get in the way. I'll soon find out. My next race is only five days away.

Cornwall at it's very best

Old Runningfox cooling off by the sea

So, what else happened in Cornwall? In truth, not a lot. We were there to relax, to forget about the world and it's goings on, to cut ourselves off completely (particularly from World Cup football) and to enjoy all  that this beautiful bit of English countryside around Crantock has to offer. There wasn't even any phone reception on the campsite. A weather forecast on the day we arrived said that summer was about to begin in earnest with high temperatures and sunshine throughout the coming week, at least. Just for once, they were right. Hot sunny days were followed by cold, brilliantly starry nights that caused quite a bit of condensation in the tent.

Water lilies

We ran on every day bar one, sometimes twice and, in spite of hundreds of jellyfish, swam in pretty rough seas on a couple of occasions. It was coming up to full moon and some very high tides were roaring onto Cornwall's beaches and crashing onto the rocks. The surfing fraternity and body-boarders were having the time of their lives.

We indulged in Cornish fare, Cornish pasties for lunch, Cornish Cream teas mid afternoon, besides barbequed chicken, battered Whitebait, fresh herb salads straight from the garden and a fortifying rib-eye steak before our 10 mile race. Oh, and some beautiful bottles of wine to enrich our evening meals!

So much colour

There is so much colour in Cornwall, a rare quality of reflected light that enhances the whole landscape and blue shimmering seascapes. Hundreds of orchids adorned the Common where skylarks sang their hearts out from a clooudless sky. By the camp gate pads of bright water lilies floated on a pool alive with fish and nodding moorhens. We watched a female Kestrel regularly hunting, and catching, voles and mice in a newly mown field. 

The campsite we've patronised for the last six years was much busier than usual for the time of year. On occasions we've been the only ones there but this time it was more than half full over the nine days. Every other tent had a dog, all of which were suitably behaved, so it seems people can no longer afford to put their pets into kennels whilst they fly abroad and are opting for the cheaper alternative.

Holywell Bay

We'd booked for two weeks but sadly had to leave after nine days on learning of a death in the family. However, our departure was made easier by the weather breaking on our very last day. Just ten minutes after we'd packed away our big tent with all its accessories it rained! Until then we couldn't have ordered better weather.

We refer to it as our 'warm weather training camp'. Altogether this year, we clocked up 45 miles of delightful running including two sessions of 15x150m fast repetitions to sharpen up for the Lanhydrock 10 mile Trail race. It obviously paid off, as you'll have gathered from my previous post. Roll on next year's camp!

The Great Lanhydrock Trail Run

Arriving at 09.10 we were among the first to register and pick up our numbers for this 10 mile trail run through the beautiful estate grounds of Lanhydrock House, a National Trust property in the heart of Cornwall. The race was scheduled to start at 10.00. We'd been on holiday in Cornwall for the past week, clocking up around 35 miles of mixed training including two sets of 15x150m fast repetitions and some swimming in rough seas, so we were reasonably fit. As prize categories only extended to MV65 I'd no expectations of winning anything but felt pretty sure my wonderful partner would take one of the LV60 prizes.

The start was a little congested so we back markers were slowly away, round a sharp left turn onto a narrow woodland path where it was impossible to pass anyone. It suited me fine, giving me chance to settle into a rhythm I intended to maintain throughout. Soon we were onto a wider track and the group thinned out as the tough got going. After a two mile loop we passed the start line to much spirited applause from the many spectators and supporters. We needed that encouragement to help us up the next hill.

Lanhydrock

The temperature rose to around 24ºC so a little hot for running, but most of the route was through sheltering trees as the trail wound it's way through delightful countryside, by a meandering river, past farms and wide open fields that were a joy to run. At some point I passed a young guy (compared to me) who spotted 'Runningfox' on the back of my vest. "I was looking at your website last night. Very impressive" he said. I only hope I lived up to those first impressions and didn't disillusion him!
As there was no category for geriatric 78 year olds I'd told my wonderful partner that my sole intention was to RUN rather than RACE this 10 miles, for there was no way I could beat the fit youngsters in the MV65 category. I'd settled into a steady pace and was running for sheer enjoyment.  Or so I thought!
As the route rose somewhat steeply up then along the top of a grassy field at 7½ miles I found myself catching a grey haired gentleman I guessed was an MV65 veteran and the old brain suddenly switched into racing mode. I surged past him.  The adrenalin was beginning to flow and my pace increased as I cruised along 'running loose, running with style, step by step, mile after mile', cutting down the distance to the group ahead. At 8½ miles I passed another tall, grey haired bespectacled gentleman who was running well but was destined to finish another place down his category as I began to think I might even finish in a medal position, maybe bronze. The last ¼ mile was downhill and I was flying by now (5.37 pace, according to my Garmin) overtaking other runners racing each other to the finish, one of whom was Hannah Clitherow, 3rd LV45. My time was 1.35.46 in 102nd position from 161 finishers. Not bad for a route with 1,520ft of ascent.

Gold for Old Runningfox

Until I actually saw the results in black and white I couldn't believe what I heard at the prize giving. Results for each category were in reverse order, bronze first, silver 2nd and gold last. A chap called John Gilbert was called out for silver in the MV65 category.  I said to my partner "Hey, that's the chap I passed at 8½ miles".  I got the shock of my life when the next name to be called, for GOLD, was mine. And to put a little icing on the cake my wonderful partner was awarded Silver for finishing 2nd in the LV60 category.

Years ago, too many to remember, I saw a film starring a young Paul Newman based on the life of Rocky Graziano, the middleweight boxer. It was called 'Somebody up there likes me' . I can echo that statement. At Church next Sunday there'll be cause for some special thanksgiving. Maybe even a few tears....

Results here.  Click on Lanhydrock 10.

Time for some proper training!

My first race of the year is in twelve days time and it dawned on me this morning I haven't actually done any specific training for it. For the past nine months I've been nothing but a plodder, gently going through the motions, avoiding anything that hurt, or seemed likely to get me out of breath, and mainly on days when the temperature felt the same outside the house as it did inside.  Lying in bed, where I do most of my planning, it struck me some sort of crash programme is called for. Last Saturday's 10.38 miles could, I suppose, be regarded as my 'long run'. So that's done and out of the way. Time now for some speedwork.

After breakfast I set out at a gentle jog through dewy fields  to a local landmark known as Castle Hill where I do my 'altitude training'. At a mere 900' the air up there is not exactly rare, but the effort involved getting to the top certainly wakes up the old cardio-vascular system and prepares it for the series of repetitions I do along a slightly uphill path towards the summit. I'd planned to do 12 x 180m but failed miserably and jogged back down feeling a bit disgusted with myself after only six.

My local Cricket field - for speed training

But I wasn't going to give up so easily. Closer to home is a perfectly level cricket field which I also use for doing fast repetition runs and my steps turned towards there for another six reps to bring my total to twelve. These reps are shorter, a mere 130m, but I run them quicker. After six reps I ran four laps of the field to warm down (where a  portly gentleman who'd been watching proceedings while leaning on his garden fence remarked "You're a very fit man, Sir), then jogged home. After 'Sticking' my quads, hamstrings and calf muscles I plugged my Garmin into the computer to read the results.  It told me I'd run 5.98 miles with 469ft of ascent in 63 mins 9 secs. But what pleased and surprised me most were those reps on the cricket field. I kid you not, I'd been churning them out at 5.54 min/mile pace. Hmmm, I reckon that's not bad for starters!

With Lanhydrock in mind

A misty River Wharfe at Burnsall

My old body doesn't seem to be getting any fitter, but my mind is positive and anxious to get back racing again. From 20th June we'll be on holiday for a couple of weeks, camping in Cornwall, and quite by chance we discovered there's a 10 mile Trail run around the grounds of the National Trust property at Lanhydrock on 27th. Against my racing principles (the prize list only extends to MV65 category so I'll only be there to make the numbers up) I suggested to my wonderful partner that we might do it.  Much to my amazement she agreed, depending upon the outcome of a 10 mile trial run before posting the Entry Forms. 

And so it came about that last Saturday she set off along an undulating path by the the River Wharfe with a gusto that was quite mind boggling, leaving me trailing in her wake. She was determined to complete the 'trial' in a time that would satisfy her she could complete the Cornwall race without too much stress or discomfort. This she certainly achieved, which is more than can be said for me as I huffed and puffed and sweated buckets in my determination to catch her before reaching home!  I managed this, just, by the thickness of my vest!  My Garmin registered 10.38 miles with 936ft of ascent in 1 hour 46 minutes - which might just keep me out of last place!

Unbelievably, the Entry Forms are on their way.

Easing back into racing

After a wonderful nine mile run through some favourite Yorkshire Dales countryside in warm sunshine last Saturday, I came to the conclusion it's time to start racing again. Over the past year and a half I've suffered a painful whiplash injury that was much aggravated by any form of jolting or running. Now, after months of physio, neck exercises, sleeping with neck supports, applying homoeopathic creams and ointments, Collagen capsules, Devil's Claw, not to mention six-hourly doses of painkillers and anti-inflammatories, the pain is at last beginning to subside. 

78th birthday run, Isle of Mull

After twenty four years of running, racing and lolloping through some of the most beautiful countryside in the world I've reached the stage where I can no longer visualize life without running. So, throughout all this treatment I've endeavoured to keep moving, gently gliding along at a sedate pace to keep ticking over as best I could. Last weekend I decided to unleash the 'Old Runningfox' and discovered to my delight that I could zip along, for short distances at least, with no apparent adverse effects.

It will take time and hard training to get back into racing mode  but, to speed things up, I've posted an entry form for my come-back race in just over a month's time. I've opted for the low-key Kilburn Feast 7 mile road race in north Yorkshire on July 11th where, even if I fail to win my age category, every competitor over the age of 65 gets a free bottle of wine. So, I can't lose, can I?  Watch this space!

Pre

Pre

As I read this it suddenly dawned on me that the current date was 30th May and a little shiver ran down my spine as I realised it was the 35th anniversary of Steve's death, to the day.  I felt I was getting a little poke from beyond the grave, prompting me to train harder and aim for greater heights. One of Steve's inspirational quotes is worth repeating:

"Some people create with words, or with music or with a brush and paints. I like to make something beautiful when I run.  I like to make people stop and say, 'I've never seen anyone run like that before.' It's more than just a race, it's style, it's doing something better than anybody else. It's being creative."

I'll go with that, but in my case people will have to say 'I've never seen anyone so old run like that before!'

Thanks Pre, message received.

Ten

Hebden Ghyll

Towards the end of May when trees have come into full leaf, when the dawn chorus has risen to a rich ear-splitting crescendo, where every meadow, pasture and roadside verge puts on a multi-coloured display of wild flowers, then nowhere on earth is more beautiful than the Yorkshire Dales. It is a real privilege to be able to run through such a wild landscape. Last Sunday we took full advantage of all that this sensuous environment has to offer.

We set off up Hebden Ghyll with its babbling beck, primrose banks and flowering wild strawberries, over the old Miner's Bridge and past Loss Gill Side where a dozen or so black, and very lively, Aberdeen Angus stirks decided it would be great fun to race us for a couple of hundred yards or so.  Of course, they won and stood there looking very pleased with themselves as we plodded on past old lead mine workings towards the gaunt hill top hamlet of Yarnbury. 

Limestone country

The walled lane towards Bare House provided some welcome relief from a keen wind that became colder and stronger as we rose higher. Otherwise the sun shone from an azure sky with bright fluffy clouds.  From the top of the lane a breath-taking view opens up to reveal the whole of Upper Wharfedale with Buckden Pike and Old Cote Moor dominating the north west horizon. All this is rich, well drained limestone country with walled fields, old barns and turfy paths that are a joy to run. 

Black beasties

More black cattle were determined to bar our way, but we shooed them off, crossed the well trodden Dales Way and continued by old Iron Age settlements and field systems into the jaws of Conistone Dib. The  wide upland pasture  narrowed and funnelled us into a tight, rocky gorge with steep-sided walls made even more dark and gloomy by overhanging trees. 

Eventually we emerged into bright sunlight to run through the charming little village of Conistone before taking a rising track with fine retrospective views of Kilnsey Crag, a monolithic landmark with an overhanging roof where rock athletes can test their superhuman skills over 150 different routes.  

Looking back to Kilnsey Crag

Our track deteriorated into a rocky path that required care through another steep sided Dib that finally deposited us along the fringes of Grass Wood and Bastow Wood. Fairly soon we re-crossed the Dales Way and put on a bit of style as we ran through Grassington from whence it was but a short jog along High Lane, through the old hospital grounds and back to Hebden for some welcome refreshment. It had been a most enjoyable ten miles with a further ten out of ten on the scale of beautiful surroundings.

78 years young

The 'Western Isles'

My birthday fell on Polling day this year - May 6th - when all radio, TV and newspaper coverage was about the country electing a new head of the Westminster Mafia. To escape the election hype and literature - and 'discreet' Funeral Pre-payment Plans that sneak through my letterbox from people who seem to think I'm getting old - I got well away from it all among the hills of Knoydart, Mull and the beautiful little island of Ulva.

KNOYDART.
From Mallaig we took Bruce Watt's 'Western Isles' ferry to the isolated little village of Inverie which, according to the Guinness book of Records, boasts Britain's remotest pub - The Old Forge. We resisted it's temptation, ignored the comforts of the bunkhouse, and took the primrose lined path for seven miles/1,500ft to the head of Mam Barrisdale where we found a delectable spot for the tent facing Meall Buidhe (3,107ft), one of Knoydarts most impressive Munros. A Red Deer stag gave nervous little barks, resenting our intrusion into his territory. From far below, by the Loch an Dubh-Lochain, came the incessant call of the Cuckoo, a sound we'd have to get used to for the duration of our holiday.

Facing Meall Buidhe

We'd arrived in glorious sunshine but our ascent of Luinne Bheinn (3,083ft) found us scrambling around in clouds and rain on compass bearings that were not always reliable due to the presence of magnetic rock. After a quick photograph we left the summit cairn on a dodgy bearing but thankfully when the clouds briefly parted the compass was pointing in the exact direction of our tent. We returned to Inverie, scattering the deer down Mam Barrisdale, closing our ears to the insistent Cuckoos and howls of resident Inverie Peacocks, and caught the ferry back to Mallaig.

ISLE OF MULL.

At Loch na Keal

For many years we've kept returning to one of our favourite wild camping spots on the gorse scented shore of Loch na Keal where eagles fly. On this occasion some untidy louts had left unsightly litter all over the place and burnt brown rings in the grass where they'd thoughtlessly placed hot pans. After putting up the tent we spent a good couple of hours bagging up all the rubbish and burning whatever was combustible. A local farmer kindly took the rubbish away for us and order was restored.

Birthday treat

We went for a five mile run, as far as the Gribun Rocks, to work up an appetite for a gorgeous Italian meal at the 'Mediterranea' restaurant in Salen, a birthday treat courtesy of my wonderful partner. We opted for local seafood, Mussels in a wine and garlic sauce for starters, seared scallops with red peppers, strips of streaky bacon and Mediterranean salad for the main course, mixed berry pavlova for sweet, and all of this made more appetizing with a rich red Sicilian wine. My partner was also given a complementary dish of black and green olives. I don't ever recall a nicer birthday meal. We returned to camp, watched a blazing red sunset over the Western Isles and slept like babies.

On the A'Chioch Ridge

We arose early next morning to warm sunshine, filled ourselves with porridge and set off up Gleann na Beinne Fada to a col below the towering A'Chioch ridge. The adrenalin flowed thick and strong as we clambered upwards, making the height and exposure all the more pleasurable. From the summit cairn of A'Chioch (2,770ft) we descended 300ft to another col before the long airy ascent of Ben More (3,169ft). At an exposed section near the summit we were joined by a happy little Jack Russell terrier jumping from ledge to ledge on its way down. Then it's owner appeared accompanied by a rough coated Deerhound lurcher both of whom were equally adept in negotiating the steep, rough terrain. On the sun warmed summit there wasn't a breath of wind. We lingered a while, over a bite to eat and mouthful of juice, wallowing in nostalgia while chanting a litany of well loved names of all the beautiful islands and places we'd visited together in the past - the sacred Isle of Iona with its shining sands, Staffa with it's basalt pillars and famous Fingal's Cave that inspired Mendelssohn's 'Hebrides Overture', Bac Mor like a giant sombrero floating on the sea, Lunga with it's incredible population of nesting Puffins, Guillemots, Razorbills and Shag. Beyond the Treshnish Isles floated the white fringed island of Tiree and the more rugged island of Coll. We descended Ben More by its easy north west ridge and were back in camp by lunchtime. After a well earned brew and a bite to eat we packed the tent and drove west along the coast to catch the ferry to our 'secret camp' on the island of Ulva.

ISLE OF ULVA.

Welcome to Ulva

After days of running, walking, scrambling and Munro-bagging we went to Ulva for a weekend of relaxation. We've been to this island on many occasions before, always camping at the same spot, just yards from the sea and a large colony of seals that usually swim across to investigate our arrival with great interest. This time they didn't. There was a waning moon and tides were unusually low so that skerries, where the seals bask and rest, were always clear of the water. The seals hardly moved until our third and final day when, after a somewhat higher tide, the whole colony vanished. I suppose if they'd been human they'd have left a notice saying 'Gone Fishing'. On a grassy islet beyond the skerries wild geese were cropping the lush vegetation. Curlews were calling and a Grey Heron was stalking around the seaweed shore in quest of a seafood supper. Soon a delicious smell of cooking was wafting from the tent and a gradely bottle of Australian Shiraz made it all the more enjoyable. Well, half a bottle!

Note. I wish they didn't put screw tops on wine bottles. Hearing the 'Pop' of a cork was all part of the pleasure, arousing the senses to mouth watering anticipation of the gastronomic delights to follow.

Ben More from Isle of Ulva

In truth, not a lot was done on Ulva. We sauntered around the 'Livingstone Trail' and took photographs of the ruined house where the grandparents of the famous explorer, David Livingstone, once lived. It was tiny, making it hard to believe whole families lived and slept there in such a small dwelling. We found a huge cave, excavated recently by a group of archaeologists from Edinburgh University who found human infant remains that indicated people lived there as far back as 5650 BC. Farther along, monolithic basalt pillars rise from the shoreline and on the grassy top of one of these we stretched out to sunbathe among a myriad flowers.

Ulva is a botanist's paradise. We strode among millions of Primroses and Celandines with lesser numbers of Violets, Wood Sorrel, Wood Anemones, Sea Pinks, Bugle, Milkwort, Lousewort, Lady's Smock, Speedwell, Tormentil, Marsh Orchid, Wild Strawberry, Dandelions and Daisies, Herb Robert, Ramsons, Lady's Mantle and Birdsfoot Trefoil. As summer progresses, hundreds of other different varieties will burst into flower.
Deer peered warily from the safety of crested hill tops like bands of renegade Red Indians ready to descend at dusk. One hundred and twenty three different species of birds have been recorded on Ulva and some of these were hardly ever out of our sight. At times we could have done without the noisy Cuckoos that called non-stop until darkness fell, then began again as dawn faintly tinged the eastern horizon as early as 3.45 am. Fearless black-faced sheep leapt about the rocky heights with the agility of mountain goats, their tiny bleating lambs keeping close at heel.

'Secret camp' on Isle of Ulva

We visited two Standing Stones of seemingly unknown origin and an overgrown graveyard, Cille Mhic Eoghainn, with ancient weather-worn headstones recording the final resting places of MacQuarries, MacNeills, Blacks and MacArthurs, amongst others.
Since leaving the ferry, on arrival, we saw only two other people, gentleman walkers striding out purposefully on a circuit of the island. For the duration of our jaunt we'd no contact with the outside media world whatsoever, which is just what we'd planned. We returned happy and refreshed - not to mention a little sunburnt - went for a five mile run to loosen our mountaineering legs, then indulged in a fabulous pork casserole with a rich red Shiraz all the way from Namaqualand - wherever that is - to nicely round off my wonderful birthday gallivantings! Roll on my 79th!

A  Loch na Keal sunset

A good weekend

FRIDAY.

In a little under three weeks time my wonderful partner is scheduled to lead a group of U3A walkers over some exceedingly rough country along the Wharfedale/Nidderdale border. In order to acquaint herself with some of the more complex parts of this wild route there was a suggestion that we might just 'nip round it' last Friday afternoon. So, a little before 2 o'clock, we parked the car by Grimwith reservoir, stripped down to our running gear and set off at a gentle pace across the dam wall.

Poor Pheasant!

The weather was cool with a slight breeze, making it ideal for running. A welcoming call of wild geese drifted across the water whilst Plovers and Curlews filled adjacent pastures with their Springtime melodies. A crag high above us on the horizon, Great Wolfrey, was our first objective. We left the track and made our way uphill through tussocky terrain, bouldery in parts, squelchy in others. Considering the land around us was all part of a prime shooting estate we saw very little in the way of game birds - other than one unfortunate pheasant that had got it's head caught in an open trap. Had the pheasant not got there before me I might well be nursing a badly bruised foot!

At Great Wolfrey Crag

From Great Wolfrey, known locally as Wuffler, we headed roughly northwards, upstream, to eventually pick up a line of white topped posts which mark the Hebden Parish boundary. It was hard running over flattened reed beds, boulders and mainly dried up peat hags. Soon we reached the fence that marks the Nidderdale boundary where we turned west for around one mile to Henstone Band to pause for a drink and a bite to eat. From here on our route was mainly downhill all the way back to the reservoir though we'd to take care negotiating a couple of boggy sections.

Pause for rest, Henstone band

We crossed Blea Beck, picked up a sheep trod, then a farm track, and were soon re-crossing the dam wall over which we'd set off. My Garmin said 9.47 miles in 2 hours 24 minutes, but it tells lies. We'd actually been running for just over three hours and we both agreed it was easily 11 miles in distance. Trouble was, when we were floundering through some of the really rough stuff, my Garmin had stopped, failing to register anything because we weren't running fast enough. Ho Hmmm!

SATURDAY.

Start of 3 Peaks race

..was the day of my favourite race - The Three Peaks of Yorkshire. This 24 mile circuit starts and finishes at Horton-in-Ribblesdale taking in the summits of Penyghent (2,268ft), Whernside (2,406ft) and Ingleborough (2,373ft) through some of the most beautiful scenery in England. Long before I started racing I walked this route around 30 times, usually to get a measure of fitness into my body prior to some longer mountaineering or hill walking expedition, but it wasn't until 1991, when I was 59 years old, that I actually qualified to take part in this long established classic. Just prior to my first race Clayton-le-Moors Harriers had presented an elaborate Rosebowl trophy to be competed for annually by anyone over the age of sixty. In forthcoming years I went on to win it three times the most memorable of which was achieved only one week after winning the MV60 category in the London Marathon. On Saturday I was only spectating, but the passion and emotion felt by runners, mainly as they came within sight of the finishing line with the crowds clapping them on, inevitably got to me producing a lump in my throat and the odd tear in my eye. I cannot cheer or praise them enough. In truth, every one is a winner.

Anna Lupton, 1st lady.
Photo by 'Ady in Accy'

Conditions this year were perhaps more suited to spectators than runners for it was a little on the warm side. Some took precautions and lathered themselves with sun cream - only to be half blinded when it mingled with sweat running into their eyes. At 10 o'clock exactly shot guns were fired and the earth rumbled with the sound of pounding feet that took ages to cross the 'Start' line. An injured runner next to me, Andy Hauser, who'd previously run every Three Peaks race since 1980, remarked "They must be coming out of a hole in the ground". Soon the multi-coloured vests had disappeared into the hills and were streaming towards Penyghent. We set off in the opposite direction, to the summit of Ingleborough where we'd shout and encourage runners over their third and final peak.

Vicky's knees

There were some spectacular falls but no serious injuries. Victoria Wilkinson, a one time neighbour of ours, badly gashed both her knees and was streaming blood when she passed us, but battled on regardless to finish second lady in 33rd place overall in a time of 3.37.58. First lady was Anna Lupton in the yellow vest of Radcliffe A.C. in a time of 3.30.45. Of the 705 starters 602 made it to the finish line. Forty four of the non finishers were newcomers, perhaps having under estimated the severity of the course.Outright winner was the purple vested Morgan Donnelly of Borrowdale Fell Runners in a splendid 3.02.34.

Morgan Donnelly on Ingleborough

We jogged the 5 miles back to Horton with hundreds of runners streaming behind us and continued to clap them on their way to the 'Finish'. An old running friend of mine, Bill Wade who is well into his sixties completed his 40th running of the race in 5.46.41. One of my MV70 contemporaries, Mike Breslin of the Fell Runners Association, crossed the line in an incredible 4.57.50, one of only three MV70's ever to complete the race. Results here.

Passing through Settle we called at Booth's Supermarket on the way home for a little alcoholic beverage. We decided the blood, sweat and tears of all those wonderful competitors was worthy of a little celebration. Cheers!

Stan

Yesterday, the funeral took place of an old acquaintance of mine, one of my mentors whom I regard as something of a legend, one of those wonderful people you always feel better for having met. He was Stan Bradshaw, a name revered throughout the fell-running world and a highly respected life member of Clayton-le-Moors Harriers. He was 97 years old.

We weren't really close enough to be called friends, but we had many shared interests and experiences in our mountaineering and fell-running lives. I regularly came across him at the annual Three Peaks of Yorkshire race where he once shouted encouragement as I negotiated a swollen stream near God's bridge, where I turned to acknowledge him and slipped in up to my thighs.

In 1993 I recall him running in both the Northern Veterans and British Veterans X-Country Championships - taking the Men's Over 80's title in both.

He features in Bill Smith's much sort after book 'Stud Marks on the Summits' which is full of inspirational characters I tried my best to emulate when I first started fell-running, but failed miserably in the shadow of such legendary giants as Stan.

Rest in Peace Stan, we will treasure your memory.

A favourite run

Mossdale shooting hut

Last Saturday I re-acquainted myself with Mossdale, a wild and remote valley that lies in the shadow of Great Whernside in the Yorkshire Dales. Years ago when venturing around here I'd always inform my partner where I was going, or leave a note on the table describing my route. I'd stuff spare clothes into my bum-bag and, later, I was even persuaded to carry a mobile phone. Nowadays, A lightweight windproof and tiny camera are all I usually take. It feels so friendly and there is no longer a sense of danger.
It is a delectable place where Red Grouse feed and nest among the heather shoots. In the Springtime Curlews come skirling out of the sky in gentle descents to the grassy river banks while Plovers twist and whirl in joyous acrobatic displays. Ring Ouzels rear their young by the shooting hut and Wheatears bob and call from the old stone walls. Sometimes a Peregrine goes hurtling past and once, in September, a pair of Red Kites stopped me in my tracks as they rode a thermal high above in the boundless blue. But it is a place of tragedy too. Where the Mossdale beck disappears under the Scar a plaque is fixed to the wall commemorating six cavers who were trapped, drowned and entombed by a flash flood 43 years ago. There is also a memorial cairn high up on the moor above their exact resting place. I know it's illogical, but I always give them a wave as I run past. You can read more of the tragedy in this more recent newspaper report.
My route, measuring 10 miles with 1,144ft ascent, was the farthest I'd run since racing a half marathon in Spain last November. The pain caused by a whiplash injury acquired in a road accident in early 2009 had become progressively worse, cramping my style, and was much aggravated by running. Pain-killers, anti-inflammatories and short, slow runs became the order of the day. I'm not sure whether the pain is subsiding slightly, or whether I'm just getting used to it, but I can now run further without too much hassle. All I've got to do is re-train my old legs and cardio-vascular system to let them know I haven't quite finished with them yet. Who knows, there might even be more races to come!

A Happy Easter

EASTER SATURDAY was a 'go it alone day' when I set off for a gentle run round Grassington Moor, desperate to get my old legs working again and, hopefully, back into racing mode within the next few months. The problem with this run is that the first three miles are all steeply uphill, so I was huffing and puffing from the start. I stopped to investigate the frog pond up the long wall, not that I was interested in overrated froggy activities but more because I needed the rest.
Half a mile further along, I took the track that cuts across to Hebden Ghyll, where the crow trap used to be, and where I discovered an old unfenced mine shaft I thought might interest one of my speleological friends. Naturally, I stopped, rummaged in my bum-bag, took out the camera and assessed the best setting for a photograph, then switched on the GPS for a Grid Reference before fishing out my notebook and pen to record it. All of this took time, the more, the better, because my old bones jolly well needed REST.
After ten minutes or so I jogged merrily on, eyes peeled for some of the many snares set by our over-zealous gamekeeper. I climbed the wall into the ghyll, increasing my pace down the wonderful springy turf into Ring Ouzel country where I stopped, looked, and listened - and of course RESTED which was the main thing! But as yet, the Ouzels have not yet returned to their customary nesting sites.
From hereon it was all downhill. I'd had the whole moor to myself. The Curlews, Plovers and Skylarks had sung their wondrous songs for me alone. I was trotting happily back down the ghyll when a smiling girl came gliding towards me, moving easily at a good pace, her dark hair bouncing in the breeze, and full of that infectious vitality that made me intensely aware that SPRING is here.

FIRST KISS

Silently

The world sleeps

Deep in winter hills

Stealthily

Vernal youth

Folds back her blanket

Suddenly

Earth pants, and

Ah love, Spring has come.

EASTER SUNDAY was the day we intended to park the car at Starbotton, run over Buckden Pike, down into Buckden, steeply up onto Old Cote Moor, along its boggy top, then back down into Starbotton. But it didn't quite work out like that.
In spite of a coolish breeze it was otherwise a beautiful day but we were struggling from the start. Initially the track was steep and stony, then gave way to parts that had been mashed into a muddy morass by the passage of modern day giant tractors with their wide chevron tyres. There is a Fox staring from a memorial on Buckden Pike to commemorate one of it's kind that reputedly saved the life of a Polish airman whose plane crashed in a snowstorm during the 2nd world war. Nothing to do with Old Runningfox, you understand! The summit of Buckden Pike was a veritable swamp churned by the boots of a million walkers - and runners - but, joy of joys, a Skylark was pouring out his heart over the cairn.
We trod gingerly past a bank of snow down the man-made steps, then squelched down the Pike's flooded flanks to the more hospitable path that led us gently down to Buckden. After jogging/running/walking through such a hostile environment we were both totally knackered! As we sat on a stone in the car park for a quick bite to eat and a swig of juice we unanimously agreed that High Cote Moor would have to wait until another day, or perhaps another year! So, ignoring the track that climbed into the clouds, we jogged along the more gentle path that meandered beside the River Wharfe, along the Dales Way, back to the welcome sight of our car, and blessed rest, at Starbotton. According to my Garmin we'd run 7.61 miles with 2,102 ft ascent in a time I'm too embarrassed to record. Back in 2004 I think (and no doubt someone will correct me if I'm wrong) I set an MV70 course record when I ran up and down Buckden Pike in 53.02 on my way to winning the inaugural English MV70 Fell Running Championship for that year. How the mighty are fallen!

EASTER MONDAY was the feeding of the five thousand, give or take a few, in the Village Institute. Every year on this day villagers rally round to donate soup, sandwiches, cakes, buns, pies, tea, coffee, etc.. to feed hungry tourists and visitors to raise funds in support of our local Chapel. Folk arrive from far and wide on what has become, for many, an annual pilgrimage, the same faces, year after year, chattering away and queueing for tables at this Dales Mecca. And their generosity is overwhelming. I'm told that catering alone this Easter Monday raised £800 whilst another £600 was given in donations.
But the sad thing is that in a village surrounded by so much beauty so few people venture through our Chapel doors to express their praise or gratitude for God's wonderful and boundless creation. We have so much to be thankful for, so many blessings to count, but in this modern age people take it all for granted. Spiritual values have become lost in cyber space. On many Sundays a minister who has spent hours preparing his/her sermon, and having arrived from many miles away, will find themselves preaching to a congregation of just six people - most of whom are sat at the back! It's very embarrassing having to regularly apologize to preachers about low attendances.
We left the packed village with its scores of cars parked at jaunty angles and drove to the more secluded area of Grimwith for a 4 mile run round the reservoir. It was cloudy and there was a chill wind driving white horses across the water. It urged us to run faster to generate heat and warmth. The usual masses of Mallard, Teal and Canada Geese were conspicuous by their absense. The only birdsong, if we could call it that, came from a noisy flock of Oystercatchers that crossed our path along the dam wall. Kestrels have long since deserted their nest site in the old thatched cottage and in a section of land at the bottom of Blea Gill, where Partridge and Pheasant are bred in their thousands, there was no sign of life. Perhaps many were sat on eggs, deeply hidden in cover. Or perhaps they were sheltering from the fierce wind that rattled the trees. But the place seemed utterly deserted, strangely reminiscent of Rachel Carson's 'Silent Spring'.
We enjoyed our run, finishing happy and refreshed, unlike after yesterday's battle with the underfoot miseries.

TUESDAY was another 'go it alone' day, running up the ghyll whilst my wonderful partner was in Linton auditioning for another part in the great play that is called 'Life'.
Again, it was one of those stop/start days when, ostensibly, I was looking for Ring Ouzels, but with plenty opportunities to stand and stare and listen, breaking up the running into enjoyable little stints. Normally, the Ouzels are here before the end of March, and I've done my duty by reporting their arrival to the BTO. Not this year. Another gentleman was lurking around their potential breeding grounds too, equipped with both camera and sound recording equipment. He too was disappointed, having heard of their arrival in Britain some time ago and certain they should have been in the Dale by early April. Perhaps they've reverted to Dales timing! Whatever, they're grossly overdue.
I ran farther up the ghyll, serenaded by resident upland birds, climbed up onto the moor (where I noted Great Whernside still had patches of snow lingering on its flanks), then turned and ran gently back home where I silently proclaimed to no-one other than myself that Easter was officially over. Funnily enough, I'd intended finalising matters in the evening with a couple of pints of Timothy Taylor's excellent beer in the Clarendon, but finished up too tired to celebrate!

Voices of Spring

Because of dire predictions of forthcoming inclement weather - heavy rain, sleet and snow - I ran up the ghyll early this morning before the gentle precipitation turned far heavier. It was a delectable run when all the local bird population was of the same mind as me, to enjoy to the full what was apparently the best part of the day. By 8.30am the air was vibrant with their full blooded music.
Near the early flowering primroses a Blackbird was playing his boxwood flute in a garden by the bridge, a master musician. From its hidden shelter by the streamside a Mallard was quacking ever so softly as if talking in its sleep. A flashing white rump landed on a wall close by and materialized into a handsome Wheatear, one of the first of many summer visitors to grace our upland pastures. Loudest of all were the Curlews whose haunting call notes almost drowned those of the many acrobatic Lapwings and soaring Skylarks. Such a heavenly choir.
On the higher moor towards Yarnbury Grouse were calling their usual "Go back, Go back" but soon beat a hasty retreat when they realised I wasn't going to. Snipe were chipping away in a clump of smashed up reeds by the wall where I turned to take the middle path through sodden fields back towards the village. A pair of Partridge leap-frogged over the wall while Pheasant, poaching seeds around the farm buildings, briefly sported their gaudily painted plumage before clattering away to cover.
I jogged contentedly back down the ghyll with its primrose banks and chattering beck, past fields of new-born lambs, into the gathering gloom that was slowly enveloping the village. I'd 'run the gauntlet of eternity' and been a living part of all the sounds and movement and rhythms of the on-rushing Spring. Vixi, for one hour I had lived - abundantly.

Spring has sprung

I'm not sure what the official temperature was yesterday. All I know is that for the first time this year I reckoned it was warm enough to run in shorts, and I did. After a poorly attended, yet inspiring service in our local Chapel, I decided to further top up my spiritual batteries with a little jog round Grassington Moor.
Around Hebden lambing time officially begins on the first day of Spring - March 21st - but I reckon one or two crafty tups must obviously have thought this is perhaps a bit late. Some of their ewes have already produced fluffy bundles a little before that specified date!
The pond at the bottom of Yarnbury zig-zags was heaving with frogs on their annual migration to their mating area. Two days earlier scores of the little green jumping creatures were trying to fit into a wee splash of water barely a foot in circumference but overnight rain had turned it into a swamp. The frogs ecstatically croaked their approval! Farther up the ghyll is another pond with an even larger population that entirely covered the surface, all croaking away happily as they went about their courtship rituals. Until I stuck my head over the wall. They promptly submerged, as if feeling a bit embarrassed about being caught in the act!
Heather burning had recently taken place and the acrid smell still lingered in the warm air. Grouse called "go-back, go-back, go-back". Cheeky blighters! I took no notice and ran on, my legs feeling stronger than they had for some months.
Approaching Gill House the air pulsed with the sound of Lapwings as they tumbled and wheeled and dived over their potential nesting sites. Curlews were calling too, that welcome harbinger of Spring whose beautiful bubbling notes cascade from the air like liquid music, what Ted Hughes referred to as 'A wobbling water-call, A wet-footed god of the horizons'. Wish I could write like that!
After about 700' of climbing I reached the high point. Turning for home there was a new spring in my step, an urge to run faster, something I haven't felt all winter. Sweeping downhill towards Hebden I felt to be almost floating. There's no doubt about it. Spring has most definitely sprung - and that's official!

P.S. A week after writing this I discovered that in my absence, whilst I'd been galivanting round the Dales, Longwood Harriers A.C. had presented me with the Bob Mathieson memorial trophy for the best performance by a veteran athlete throughout 2009. It was in recognition of my performances in the following races:

Meltham 10K road: 1st MV75
Grizedale 10 mile trail: 1st MV70
Wharfedale ½ marathon trail: 1st MV70
Burn Valley ½ marathon road: 1st MV70
Harrogate 10K road: 1st MV70 (48.04 gave me 2nd place in the 2009 British MV75 10K Rankings)
Lowther 13 mile fell run: 1st MV70
Burnsall 10 mile road: 1st local (1.21.36 gave me 1st place in the 2009 British MV75 10 mile Rankings)
Richmond 10K road: 1st MV70
Benidorm ½ marathon: Unofficially 1st MV75 (1.49.52 gave me 3rd place in the 2009 British MV75 ½ marathon Rankings)

THE BOB MATHIESON TROPHY

A good weekend in the Lake District

SATURDAY.
It was freezing cold when we arrived at Ullswater on Friday afternoon but we awoke to a warmer and more habitable environment on Saturday morning. After a hasty breakfast we drove to Pooley Bridge and parked by the Information Centre in the Square where we stripped down to our running gear for the start of one of our regular routes.
Ignoring red traffic lights we ran across the bridge and turned north along a path through the wood bordering the River Eamont. Beyond, in the fields around the man-made pond, it was a bit squidgy underfoot, but nothing Mudclaws and Sealskinz couldn't cope with. Startled Mallard sought sanctuary farther into the river and wild geese bugled across the benign sky. The Iona Community regard the wild goose as a symbol of the Holy Spirit and, strangely, I always feel uplifted by the sight and sound of these wandering birds.
We crossed the A592 Penrith road and took the grassy track over Flusco Hill towards Dalemain, a large and imposing red sandstone house recently featured on Radio 4's food programme promoting marmalade. They called it 'bottled sunshine'. In the lambing fields we've seen hares that had come to share mangolds put out to sustain pregnant ewes. In March the Dalemain gardens are smothered with shiny white Snowdrops and yellow Aconites, a brilliant sight to behold. A strutting grey cockerel was rounding up his wide-eyed hens, full of the joys of Spring. A field of Fallow Deer have become quite tame over the years and will readily pose for camera shots. This year they look drabber and less colourful than previously. Red squirrels regularly feed around a large tree in the courtyard but were missing on this occasion.
As we ran along the track towards Dacre a buzzard mewed in the distance. The old castle stood in bold relief, lit with warm sunshine, when we approached, but as I fumbled for the camera in my bumbag a car drove up and parked immediately in front of it. Typical! The driver did apologize when I mentioned it but we were running and couldn't hang around while he decided to move the offending object.
Dacre's roadside banks were smothered with snowdrops, nodding in the gentle breeze. We turned south, crossed the bridge over Dacre Beck and set off up the long hill towards Souland Gate. Bantam cocks crowed lustily from a garden near the summit where we turned right towards Soulby before taking a footpath through the fields for the final kilometre back to Pooley bridge. We re-crossed the A592, jogged steeply upwards into Dunmallard Wood before sweeping joyously downhill to finish our run in the Square. A very pleasant 5 miles in balmy Lakeland weather that effectively answers the question - "Why do I run?"

SUNDAY.
We parked by the old Church at Martindale, with its ancient yew tree, and set off behind Winter Crag farm to climb Beda Fell. But first we'd to rescue a sheep that had tried to jump a wall but got its horns fast in the wire netting at the top and was just hanging there helpless. It's friends must have assumed I was a shepherd and that the green KIMM sack I was carrying was full of nourishing nuts. They followed us in a long line up the fell bleating appealingly. As we crested the ridge we were struck by a fierce wind that almost bowled us off our feet. The sheep very sensibly turned back!
We struggled onwards and upwards, hoods up protecting our faces, occasionally blown off the path by an extra strong gust. Two watery eyed fell runners passed us, hardly able to maintain momentum against the viscious blast - and they were going DOWN hill! At least, we were being blown mainly upwards. A parcel of hinds, maybe a dozen or so, grazing a sheltered part of the hillside below us hardly raised their heads as we passed them by.
Mercifully, as we approached Angle Tarn down the lee side of Beda Fell Knot, we were sheltered from the wind and life became more pleasant. For the only time we can remember Angle Tarn was completely frozen over and made a wonderful foreground to the snow-capped mountain tops beyond. A pair of ravens cronked across the grey sky, the only signs of life in an otherwise deserted landscape.
We took the stalker's path below Heck Crag and descended into Bannerdale. Badgers had excavated a tidy hole under the long wall leading to Dale Head, but the wall remained perfectly intact. Now, if I tried that, I've no doubt the stones would collapsed on top of me and this Blog would come to an abrupt end.
As we strolled back down the road towards Winter Crag, where our car was parked, groups of walkers were setting off up the hill totally unaware of the horrors that would be unleashed upon them when they reached the top. Our day was finished and half an hour later were back at Ravencragg enjoying the first of many refreshing cups of reviving tea.

MONDAY.
Before returning home we couldn't resist one of our favourite runs we always do when visiting this particular location. It starts along the road between Pooley Bridge and Howtown before turning up the track to Swarthbeck farm and following the path beneath Swarth Fell and Bonscale Pike to Mellguards at the back of Howtown. We crossed the bridge over Fusedale Beck and ran the path leading gently upwards, parallel to the zig-zag road, that brings us to the Church of St Peter at Martindale. We took photographs of the churchyard heavily dotted with snowdrops.
There was no way I could run all the way up Hallin Fell, as I have in the past, but was tempted upwards by the thought of the wonderful flowing run back down. So off we went, arriving at the obelisk to be greeted by the same terrible wind that struck us yesterday on Beda Fell. We didn't linger, running easily back down the fell's leeward side, to the ferry landing stage at Howtown where we hit the road. From thence it was an easy jog back to Ravencragg - and sustenance.
All in all, a very pleasant weekend without one drop of rain.