To Islay - Queen of the Hebrides....

    

Machir Bay with Coull Farm in the distance

Round about Eastertime, we usually head northwards to the Inner Hebrides for our first wild camp of the year. For several years we were always the first to sign the 'Camping Book' after crossing to the remote little island of Ulva. It took some time but eventually the dour ferryman came to recognize us and would greet us with "You're back again". And that's all he'd say!  Well thank goodness we hadn't planned to camp on this occasion as we drove through the southern uplands in sleet and snow before boarding 'MV Hebridean Isles' at Kennacraig to cross to the beautiful island of Islay. The weather was mainly dry throughout our stay but, taking the wind chill factor into consideration, the temperature was constantly below freezing. And it was the equinox whilst we were there. The winds gave us a fair old drubbing - all week.
    

Brown hare trying to hide

Thankfully, we'd decided to indulge ourselves with a little luxury. Well, more the height of luxury as we snuggled into the spacious well appointed flat at Coull Farm overlooking the vast expanse of Machir Bay on the west coast. We've stayed here before, on three occasions, and this time Pat Jones had left a rather nice bottle of Chardonnay and a bowl of sweets on the table to welcome us back. The wine was a good accompaniment to our roast chicken that evening - and the next.  Outside our window huge flocks of barnacle geese grazed the fields, waddling along in a great swathe, heads down, cropping the grass like some giant mowing machine. They'd been there in their thousands since October and wont leave until April so one can imagine the vast amounts they eat during that time. Farmers are not happy! Hares loped across the fields too and the odd rabbit fed fearlessly just over the wall.

    

Each morning, an hour or so after breakfast, we donned our running gear to churn out a measured four miles

Lonely bull

starting off along a farm track, down a stretch of tarmac road to Machrie and then on a sheltered sandy trail behind the dunes with hoards of black beasties, trekking horses and sheep for company. A notice on the gate that some might find intimidating advised people to beware of cows with young calves, also that there was a bull in the field.  In fact, the cows were more afraid of us hooded runners than we were of them. The bull was in a field of his own, fenced in, always in exactly the same spot when we ran past, and invariably facing in the same direction - gazing across at the frisky black beauties feeding on choice silage beyond the lochan, and out of reach. We felt sorry for the poor creature surrounded as he was with barbed wire and nothing to eat but the sparse grass beneath his feet.
    

Running the length of Machir Bay

Another gate led us out from the dunes and onto the pristine white sands that stretch for 1½ miles towards the fields of Coull Farm.  Here we'd oystercatchers and little ringed plovers for company. Giant rollers trailing whisps of blown spume came roaring in to crash on the shore in a mass of creeping foam. A tractor trundled across the horizon followed by a cloud of screaming gulls. Except for the farmer's wife and her friend walking their dogs, we saw no-one. Imagine, having one of the most beautiful beaches in the Hebrides virtually all to ourselves. OK, it was cold, and the wind was usually against us, but we were well wrapped up to face whatever the elements cared to throw at us for that short(ish) space of time. Those exhilerating morning runs across the white sands of Machir Bay are largely responsible for our repeated visits to Coull Farm. It's that beautiful.
    

After a quick change and a warm drink to replace lost fluids we drove off to do other things.   My wonderful

Kildalton Cross

partner was bitten by an archaeology bug that has her seeking out old chapels, ancient stone crosses, carved tombstones, standing stones and suchlike curiosities - of which there is an abundance on Islay.  Personally, I have little interest in the past and have a slight aversion to musty old museums, but dutifully I follow along, taking photoraphs and editing them to best effect when we get home. That way I derive some pleasure from the experience. One of the most photographed and must see relics on Islay is Kildalton Cross, carved around 1,300 years ago, which stands in the walled grounds of the chapel.  But it was a driech day when we arrived and my camera wouldn't do it justice in the poor light. It was a better day when we turned in to Nereabus graveyard to photograph glass covered tombstones of Clan Donald chiefs. As we came out a hearse came crawling towards us bearing the remains of a local dignitary, his coffin bearing a gold monogram, and the whole mournful entourage preceded by a piper playing a dirgeful lament.

    

My wonderful partner - arriving to claim her rent

However, one of the great things about Kildalton is that it's situated along what's very affectionately known as the distillery road where no less than three of these wonderful establishments impart their glorious fumes into the air. Laphroaig, Lagavulin and Ardbeg are names that roll off the drinking man's tongue like a litany and bring a sparkle to his eyes. Now it so happens that my wonderful partner and I are 'Friends' of the former and have  a square foot of land, in the bog across the road, on which we can claim rent from the distillery. Rent is, of course, in liquid form consisting of a not so wee dram of the various single malts currently available. I chose my usual 10 year old vintage, and right well it went down. My wonderful partner was driving so couldn't indulge but each of us was given a good sized miniature to imbibe at our leisure when we got home.
    

We're both keen on birding too, though there are lots of times when we haven't a clue what we're looking at

Solitary Grey seal at Portnahaven

- like the large brown raptor that flew by on a couple of occasions while we were watching from the RSPB hide at Gruinart flats. We knew of several things it wasn't, but by no process of elimination could we actually tell what it was!  My most inspired guess was a marsh harrier, but no-one else seemed to have reported seeing one there.  Nevertheless, we did in fact identify at least 25 different species including choughs, hen harriers, whimbrel, redshank, kestrels, snipe and scores of teal in various places round the island. And it was while we were focusing our binoculars on a shelduck, swimming away from us, that we suddenly spotted a huge colony of seals. So that was a nice bonus.
    

Portnahaven

It's ironic that some days we walked for goodness how many miles in arctic conditions, hurrying along to keep warm, searching for birds and wildlife the guide book told us ought to be there - and never found a ruddy thing. Ardnave Point, the sand bars out from Gortontaoid, Bridgend Wood and various other places never yielded anything listed in the guide book. Always, we came across things in quite unexpected places, like, for instance, the colony of seals mentioned above. And the picturesque little whitewashed village of Portnahaven had masses of photo friendly seals on previous occasions. This time there was just one of the Atlantic Grey variety lounging alone on a rock in the bay, and trying in a wry fashion to say cheese as we pointed our cameras at him.
    

All in all it was a good holiday, with apparently much better weather than it was in wild Yorkshire where this

Snow blocking my door and windows (Courtesy Shelley Askworth)

picture of my house was taken while I was away. Fortunately, my wonderful neighbours had cleared the doorway prior to my return home, otherwise I'm not quite sure what I would have done? My snow shovel was, of course, behind the drift!  It hadn't exactly been a relaxing holiday. Running an undulating four miles each morning, much of it on sand, then walking the hills for the rest of the day isn't every octogenarian's idea of enjoying themselves.  But it was both invigorating and stimulating, spent among superb sea and landscapes and I can honestly say I'm looking forward to going again to the island that's known to many as 'Queen of the Hebrides'. Besides, there are seven more distilleries we've yet to visit.    

Reminiscing.....

      When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
      I summon up rememberance of things past.....
                                                              Shakespeare
      Track racing was never my preferred discipline but last week one of my racing contemporaries, Peter Dibb, flashed a piece of paper under my nose that had me wondering whether I should have given it a bit more attention. It referred to my first ever introduction to a Track & Field League meeting held at the Dorothy Hyman stadium in Cudworth way back in August, 1995.  I remember it was a balmy summer evening and we'd some difficulty locating the venue, only arriving a few minutes before the gun went off for the start of first race, the 800m. After some nifty footwork we made it to the start with seconds to spare. I was 63 at the time, and Peter a year younger, but it helped us immensely to be running with athletes in younger categories whom we could use as pace-makers. I was pulled round in a fairly comfortable 2.33.04 to be 1st M60 while Peter was 2nd in 2.35.00.
      But the next race, the 100m, is the one I remember most. Next to me in the line-up was a chap called Joe Moran of Manchester Harriers, a renowned sprinter who took his racing very seriously indeed. He'd brought along his own starting blocks and went through a whole gamut of formalities and foot shakings before settling into them. In the 'set' position I leaned forward slightly, right hand on right knee, waiting for the gun. I'm not sure who got away quicker, Joe or me, but what I do know is that I beat him to the line - by the skin of my nose. We were given the same time - 15.60 - but the judges awarded it to me.  Very much to Joe's annoyance. Instead of shaking hands, the traditional Track protocol, he went straight to the judges and implied they must have made some mistake. The judges were adamant and the result stood. A friend of ours, Jack Betney of Clayton-le-Moors was third in 16.3 and Peter was 4th, also in 16.3. Joe disappeared into the crowd to await the start of the 200m when he'd no doubt be seeking revenge.
      Meanwhile Peter and I decided we'd amass some League points for our club, Longwood Harriers, by running the 1500m.  Peter was notorious for competing in every event on the card, not just on the track but also in things like the discus, shot put, long jump and javelin. Otherwise he got bored just standing around. Once again I came home 1st M60 in 5.18.8 with Peter 2nd in 5.34.6 - another  creditable double for our club.

The 'piece of paper' that inspired this post

      We'd no sooner got our breath back than it was time to line up once more beside the peeved Joe Moran for his other speciality, the 200m. Again, it was a close race but I beat him by the slender margin of 31.4 to his 31.8, to once more take the M60 title. Peter was 4th in 33.3 - so 9 more points for Longwood.  Once again, Joe quickly disappeared into the crowd, ignoring protocol.     

      We later scored another 11 points running the 400m which I won in 66.7 with a tired Peter coming second in 73.2. Whether tired or not, he'd recovered enough to line up for the 3000m, which I'd declined, and actually got his first win of the evening in 11.10.0, ahead of Derek Howarth of Leigh Harriers in 11.46.5.
      There was an amusing sequel to the evening's activities. Whilst I'd been otherwise engaged, Joe Moran had sidled up to our friend, Jack Betney, to ask who the hell was this Gordon Booth? After all, Joe was a stalwart of Track & Field League events whereas I'd never before attended one in my life. I was completely unknown. Jack's answer left Joe somewhat stunned and speechless.
"Gordon?  He's currently top of the British M60 marathon rankings, he ran London this year in 2.53 something"  Jack informed him.
"Whaaatt????" Joe, a top class sprinter on his day, could not believe he'd been beaten - twice in one evening - by a marathon runner.
      Peter and I drove home well pleased with our performances while having a good old chuckle regarding Joe's sporting attitude and antics on the night.  Some time afterwards I met Joe again at a 10,000m track event where I believe he was officiating. His face was all smiles and he shook my hand warmly. He'd got over his double shock and said so many good and respectful things, I suspect my head swelled a bit. I never raced him again.

Pushing limits in the snow....

A wild track down from the moor on Sunday's run

    Needless to say, the shorts I'd been swanning around in last week flew back into the drawer pretty smartish as the temperature in Hebden took a nose dive to -5ºC. And that was just in the village. I can't imagine to what depths it plummeted in that nithering north easterly that roared across Grassington Moor. One thing I do know - I was absolutely perished! It numbed the muscles of my face and almost froze me to a standstill. I dread to think what might have happened if I'd slipped on the ice and turned an ankle - or worse. There was no phone signal or anyone around to hear my six blasts on a whistle if I'd had need to blow it.  Not that they'd have heard it anyway in that freezing holocaust. The only time I could hear anything else was when I crossed the floor of the ghyll where lapwings were wheeling and whirling in their aerial dance routines - peeeee wit...pweewit...pweewit. As soon as I climbed the other side I was back into that roaring wind.
     

Calmer and less windy back in Hebden ghyll - to my great relief!

    Snow had drifted along the wall sides, half blocking gateways and creating wonderful rippling effects among the grass and reeds.  I'd to climb over gates where fasteners were too frozen for my fumbling fingers to operate. It didn't snow, thank goodness, but the black, angry sky looked absolutely full of it. I'd set off to run ten miles into the wilds of Mossdale, in search of illusive curlews, but my body temperature was dropping dramatically, forcing me to cut it short and drop back into the ghyll sooner than I really wanted. Unlike last week when I almost felt I could have run forever, I found myself in the painful situation of having to force my stiffening old legs to perform their natural duty. That eight miles had taken nearly two hours to run (if you could call it that) and was never so hard won.
     

St Peter's Church, Hebden

    My hot shower never felt better as I languished in its blissful warmth for longer than usual. Not that it managed to thaw out my befuddled brain. An hour later I wandered along to the Chapel to read my lesson, only to discover the service was actually being held in St Peter's Church. I diverted and eventually got my bum parked in a pew that felt so cold I was afraid it might trigger a visit to the loo before I strolled up to the lectern to deliver my bit of the service. That would have been very unfortunate seeing how St Peters doesn't have a loo!  I was reading Psalm 32..'when a great flood of trouble comes rushing in it will not reach them' (v6). Well, thank goodness for that!  I'd also forgotten my weekly offering so I hope the Church doesn't go into liquidation before we're back from Scotland.

A bit nippy by Woodhouse Farm

    Monday dawned fine and dry, though a light covering of snow had fallen overnight. Once again, the temperature was hovering on -5ºC so I dawdled around, drinking cups of coffee, checking emails and messages while waiting for the sun to warm the flags. Huh! By 10.20 we'd blizzard conditions and hardly able to see across the road. I decided I might need another layer, three thermals instead of two underneath my jacket, for a planned six mile run. There was no way I was going up onto the moor again until my brain had had chance to thaw out. For this run I'd stay low. As I trundled along the riverbank towards Appletreewick in yet another particularly heavy shower I couldn't help thinking how all those early lambs would be feeling a bit sorry for themselves. As if to confirm this a local farmer happened to be taking one into his barn as I passed, dangling it by its hind legs. I'm not sure whether it was alive or dead, though I suspect the latter as the farmer wasn't his usual cheerful self.
"It's a bit nippy" I shouted.
"It's moor na' bloody nippy" he replied as he disappeared into the barn.  End of conversation!

Still snowing by the river

    I hurried on, passing occasional walkers most of whom only had eyes showing from a welter of winter clothing and woolly balaclavas. Unlike the previous day I was feeling good again, dressed in just the right amount of gear and plodding along at just the right pace. With virtually no wind chill factor it felt comparatively mild, even when it was snowing so hard I could hardly see across the river - a matter of 40 or 50 metres. My 12 min/mile pace must have looked a bit slow to a jovial gentleman on Burnsall Bridge who suggested I might benefit from a pace-maker. He was the only one I met who seemed to be enjoying the conditions as much as me. 'Exhilarating' was the word we agreed upon to describe the weather before continuing our different ways, me along the river path where a pair of Mallard were wiggling their rear ends rapidly in a sandy basin, creating circles while apparently enjoying a freezing cold jacuzzi. I'm not sure about the purpose of these ablutions, but I can guess!

Clean yourself up, ducky!

    In mixed weather I've only managed to run 25 miles in the last eight days. Most of it was enjoyable though I'll admit to getting a little worried during those savage conditions on Sunday. It's not often I allow my brain to ruminate on the 'What if' factor. I have the utmost faith in the strength of my bones, the capabilities of my body and my strong survival instincts. I'm aware of my limits but on occasions I get very close to crossing the border. I well remember an occasion last year, also on Grassington Moor, when due to a slight injury I couldn't maintain sufficient speed to generate enough body heat in the arctic conditions. I reckon I only just got back down in time - but I was ever so pleased with myself when I did!
    In a few days time we'll be travelling to Scotland again for a holiday on the west coast of Islay, one of our favourite islands, so not sure when this Blog will spring to life again. Don't go away!

Harbingers of Spring

Sure sign of Spring - me in shorts
for the first time this year!

I dream'd that as I wandered by the way

Bare winter suddenly was changed to spring,

And gentle odours led my steps astray,

Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring

Along a shelving bank of turf........
  
     So wrote the romantic Percy Bysshe Shelley in his flowery poem 'A Dream of the Unknown'. Similar words came to mind last weekend as I jogged gently along sunlit trails by lonely streams and up into the hills where lapwings were whirling and filling the air with their beautiful noise. I wouldn't go so far as to say Winter has 'suddenly' turned to Spring though there's abundant evidence of its awakening, not just in flowers, new born lambs and birds becoming territorial, but in a surge of energy that had me donning shorts for the first time in months and running longer distances with seemingly less effort.
     

     After a couple of four mile runs during the week, over what I morbidly refer to as my graveyard route, I was lured into new territory back in the Yorkshire Dales on Saturday.  On a previous run to Wig Stones, we'd noticed a new track leading up onto the moor and disappearing into the heather. My wonderful partner, ever on the lookout for new U3A walking routes, decided it was time to investigate and discover where it goes. So, what better place for a run on a beautiful sunny day?
     

Mallard on Grimwith reservoir

     We ran round Grimwith reservoir, a great bowl in the hills where Mallard formed little rafts and Canada Geese bugled across the water. From a shooting hut we took the steep track by a long straight wall through Trunla Allotment, over Trunla Gill and up to a gate leading to Wig Stones Moss. From here our new track zig-zagged north into unknown territory, adjacent to Sykes Dike, until finally finishing at a 1,000 litre diesel tank gamekeepers have installed to refuel their vehicles in the absolute back of beyond. We reckoned it was feasible to run/walk due west from here, past Great Wolfrey Crag and return to Grimwith via Gate Up Ghyll. I was secretly pleased when my wonderful partner announced she didn't feel quite up to doing the full circuit that day and suggested we return by the way we'd come. A pleasant seven miles that set us up nicely for our evening banquet of roast chicken and celebratory wine. Well, we'd earned it.
     

Crocuses among the rubbish in my garden

     She sneaked out for a run while I was recharging my batteries at a Communion service in Hebden Chapel on Sunday morning, and didn't get home till lunchtime. So I'd to go it alone in the afternoon. At this time of year we derive great pleasure from seeing, hearing and recording signs of Spring - the first curlews, skylarks and wheatears to arrive at their nest sites, frogs back to their spawning grounds, coltsfoot, lesser celandine, violets and primroses in the ghyll - and we spend hours combing wild places, looking and listening for these welcome first arrivals. And that's what I was doing on Sunday afternoon but, sad to say, none of the afore mentioned harbingers had yet returned to their usual haunts.
    

      Nevertheless, I'd a very pleasant run to places little visited since the onset of winter, an eight mile circuit round the upper reaches of Hebden Ghyll and back by quiet trails and little known paths, far from the madding crowd. What's more, I was running easily - nay, effortlessly - so apparently fully recovered from the sneezy lurgy and hacking cough that struck me down in the unseasonably cold Canary Islands a month ago. Hopefully I can build on this fitness, boost the mileage and have enough confidence to return to racing though, guess what, low pressure is forecast with the prospect of more snow in the next few days. That might set me back a bit!

Splat!

Managing to stay upright on the ice around Grimwith Reservoir....

       I wish I could stay on my feet. Last Thursday, just when I was starting to feel good again, I'd another great splat. Running downhill on a gravelly path, picking up speed, I tripped and took a flying dive, tearing the skin on both knees, both elbows, cutting my Rt hand and cricking my neck - again. Taking a misty eyed look back, I couldn't see anything I could possibly have tripped over. Maybe I just stubbed my toe into the ground while my mind was elsewhere. I don't know. At least, I didn't break anything this time - unlike other occasions when I've returned home with a finger hanging off, or hardly daring to breathe because of a broken rib. Nor was there quite so much blood as the occasion I fell down rocks on the Isles of Scilly while 'enjoying' a final run before returning home.  Regardless of my countless catastrophes it never crosses my mind to stop running.  It's what I do, my raison d'etre....and I'm not done yet.

       

I'm not quite ready yet, thankyou.....

On this last occasion I hit the deck right next to where they're laying foundations and landscaping a new cemetery in a most beautiful location overlooking the Colne Valley. Good as it might seem to be its first permanent resident, I'm not quite ready yet. There are better ways of getting one's name or photograph in the paper and I came across quite a good one yesterday. Fauja Singh, the turbaned torpedo, has decided to retire from competitive racing after competing in a 10K road race in Hongkong - five weeks short of his 102nd birthday. He wont stop running, he says, and may turn out occasionally to raise money for charity. It's amazing how running can become so compulsive, regardless of age. I have friends well into their eighties who turn out regularly, regardless of the weather, to churn out the miles or match their racing skills against contemporaries. It seems there is no antidote for the running bug.

       

Snowdrops in my garden....

Mileage-wise, it promised to be quite a good week - until Thursday's splat. On Monday I'd devised a new circuit to break the monotony of regular routes, and repeated it on Tuesday. The weather was cool and dry, ideal for running. Before snow returned at the weekend there was even a hint of Spring in the air. Snowdrops were shaking their drooped heads in sheltered corners of my garden. What I first took to be a couple of sweet wrappers thrown in the grass were, on closer inspection, some early purple crocuses turning their faces towards the welcome sun. Then a lapwing swept by on its broad wings, hopefully a precursor of many more to come.  Best of all, the fields at Bolton Abbey were full of new born lambs on wobbly legs, most with blank expressions on their tiny faces as they gazed about not quite knowing what to make of their new surroundings - or the freezing temperature.

      

Cold enough for a Buffalo jacket on Sunday

By the time I'd loosened up enough to run again, on Sunday, the temperature was still in the minuses and though I was wearing lots of layers, plus a woolly hat and gloves, I still felt cold while crunching over snow and ice on a four mile run round Grimwith Reservoir.  My wonderful partner even went to the extremes of wearing a Buffalo jacket!  Notices proclaim Grimwith to be a 'Wildlife Area', advising folk to keep dogs on leads, but apart from a raft of mallard and a few pheasants we saw nothing. It's possible some of the well togged walkers circling the reservoir in the reverse direction thought we were part of the wildlife. A cocky little spaniel definitely thought we were fair game until it got shouted at and called to heel by a girl running faster than us.

       

My two lads, Alasdair and Callum
with one of my lurchers - 37 years ago

In a previous life, long before such practices were banned, I hunted with lurchers, dogs that would chase anything fast moving that caught their eye - from mice and rats, squirrels and rabbits to hares and young deer. One of them, a bitch called Fly, had tremendous stamina and would never stop running until her jaws had locked round her prey. Sometimes I'd difficulty finding her, calling her name with no response, until eventually I'd come across her collapsed on the ground, panting her heart out, but invariably with a hare lying in the grass beside her. She was the physical embodiment of the mantra - Never, ever, ever give up.  Animals can teach us a lot. A wildlife clip that never fails to fascinate me is of a cheetah coursing a gazelle. Whilst the legs and rippling body are twisting, turning and running at tremendous speed, the big cat's head and eyes are locked in one position, totally focused on that fleeing object. There's surely a lesson there for all of us who race seriously, to fine tune our bodies to the point they can perform with effortless independence while our minds concentrate fully upon the tactics of outrunning the opposition and never stopping until the prize is won.  However, before all that I've got to learn to stay on my feet. After all, I never once saw Fly, or that perishing cheetah, falling about all over the place!

Roughing it in La Palma.....

How it should be. A view from our balcony on the first day

A text from Alasdair, my eldest son, mentioned he was spending his 45th birthday walking in the Derbyshire Peak District and intimated he was looking forward to languishing in a hot tub at the end of a cold day in the hills. The thought struck me we could maybe have appreciated such a commodity at times in far off Santa Cruz de la Palma where the lazy old sun decided to go on strike for twelve of our fourteen days holiday. It shone bountifully on the first day, raising our hopes, allowing us to sunbathe and swim in the pool, but never another peep until the very last day when we were due to fly out at lunchtime anyway. It was all far different from the last occasion we visited when we'd wall to wall sunshine and temperatures in the mid 30's. But that was in May.

The sea was a bit rough for swimming....

This year the sea was a seething mass, wave after wave thundering onto black rocks flinging spray and spume rooftop high, drenching unwary walkers (and runners) along the promenade. It never let up for one moment around Cancajos, our holiday resort, for all of fourteen days. I'll admit, it was all very spectacular and we took more pictures of this hydrological maelstrom than anything else, but it would have been lovely to have a break. Red flags were flying on all three beaches warning swimmers to keep the hell out of it, though we did see one brave soul playing the macho man. Our swimming, if you could call it that, was confined to a swift dip in the hotel pool on that first sunny day before the weather turned cold - and wet. From then on the pool area was deserted, the sunbeds and brollies remaining unused in regimented straight lines.

The youthful Mike

Running was one way of keeping warm but, truth be known, we didn't do very much of that either, mainly because on the fourth day I went down with the daddy of all colds which I suspect I caught on the plane while sat in front of a lady who coughed and sneezed for England. Or maybe she was an International. It was a shame because on our second day we'd met up with a runner from Norwich, a few years younger than me, who really stretched me the following day when I ran with him. It would have done me a power of good to have had two or three more sessions with him. He'd pushed me enough to reduce the time for my hilly 3½ mile route from an average of 37 minutes to 31.25 - and that after he'd had several weeks off running recovering from pneumonia! Two days later my dreaded cold struck, with a vengeance, so I spent an awful lot of time filling and washing handkerchiefs - and feeling somewhat sorry for myself.

Setting the pace from El Pilar along the Volcano Route in wild weather...

Unfortunately, while doing that fast run with the youthful Mike, it seems I still had sufficient breath for talking and had suggested he might like to share a taxi with us to El Pilar, the starting point for the renowned Volcano Route that undulates for 19 Kms over seven of the islands umpteen volcanic heaps which the guidebook refers to as 'The big one'. It's officially given the highest grade  of 'Strenuous' though there's only 500m of ascent as against 1500m of descent which I'd regard as well within the capabilities of an average walker. Wind and mist can be a problem, the book says, and we certainly got our mega share of that, not to mention rain, but the route is well waymarked and sign-posted so it's almost impossible to lose the way. Mike, who'd never been to the island before, regarded the walk as a 'must' and was glad to join us.

By the Trig point on the cloud draped summit of Pico Deseada...

My wonderful partner set off at a cracking pace up the steep initial stages of the GR 131 with Mike in close pursuit and the old man sweating, struggling and snuffling along behind trying to keep them within sight through steamed up specs as thick, cold mist swirled around reducing visibility to 20 - 25 metres in places. Mike had full body cover and carried a sack with an apparently endless supply of food and water which he regularly availed himself of. We wore our usual shorts, trail shoes, thermal tops and lightweight running jackets, a lightweight approach that enabled us to move fast - when I eventually got my ancient legs into gear!  I carried 500ml of water and a minimum of food but, flaunting the usual recommendations, they remained untouched for the duration of our walk/jog/run.

Volcanic landscape approaching Fuencalliente...

Amazingly, 2,000 miles south of Yorkshire, much nearer the equator, we found chunks of ice littering the path on higher parts of the route. We were mostly traversing picon, dark volcanic grit that necessitated a controlled skid on steeper parts whilst allowing us something akin to fast scree running in other places where it was deep enough. I took full advantage of the latter, revelling in the comparative luxury compared with the horrendous conditions over Pico Deseada, the highest point of the route where it was almost impossible to stand up or walk straight in gale force wind, clag and rain. The mist cleared on the lower slopes, the wind dropped too and the sun came out as we strolled into Fuencalliente to wait for our bus. It had been something of an epic and I silently questioned whether Mike would ever join us again on any of our walks. He didn't!

My wonderful partner, out running the hills while I suffered in silence..

Not surprisingly, I spent the whole of the next day filling and washing handkerchiefs again. To add to my sorrows I'd woken up with a painful stiff neck and persistent cough which in turn produced a sore throat full of razor blades. Frequent double doses of Paracetamol became the order of the day while slouched on the settee absorbed in Zane Grey novels about gunmen, gallants and beautiful young ladies in the pioneering days of the wonderful wild west. It was far more preferable to conditions in the disgusting wild west of La Palma where we just happened to be. More rain, a constantly roaring sea, hills shrouded in thick cloud and wind moaning through every crack it could find in the building's architecture gave us no incentive to venture out. We didn't. Not until the next day when we forced ourselves up to the Mirador Concepcion, an incredible viewpoint overlooking the main town and harbour, for a sunless look around. After all, we were on holiday, for goodness sake. We had to do something!

Santa Cruz from the Mirador Concepcion....

We lounged around the beautiful, but locked, church before a steep enjoyable descent from the Mirador to Santa Cruz, down narrow alleyways that intersected the main road, where friendly women leaned from upper floor windows of brightly coloured houses to converse with passers by (don't ask me what they were on about); where not so friendly guard dogs, given the chance, would have torn us to shreds; where exotic flowers and tropical trees, butterflies, bees and Canary Island kestrels all enlightened and helped shorten our journey to the busy shopping centre of the island's capital. We found a wonderful patisserie full of mouth-watering delights where I could really have made myself ill, but we restricted ourselves to just one calorie filled carbohydrate confection that amazingly survived a bus ride all the way back to accompany our lunchtime coffee at the hotel.

Beautiful Church at Mirador Concepcion...

That very same night something went wrong with the plumbing. Mike had taken off into the hills to bivvy out under the stars leaving his cuddly partner, Liz, to dine with us in the evening. We talked into the night before going our separate ways, but we didn't sleep. A low hum gradually increased in volume until it became a louder vibration that culminated in a higher pitched whine. After an hour it stopped - for five minutes. Then it began again and the process was repeated. I got up, made a cup of tea and finished yet another Zane Grey novel (there are 18 of them on my iPad) before storming down to reception to report the matter after another high pitched crescendo at 3.45am. An armed security guard was on duty who didn't speak a word of English, but from his various words and gestures I figured his colleague would be along in 10 minutes. He was, and he spoke English. The source of the problem was quickly located in a box under our balcony that appeared to contain little more than a fire hose. After a bit of poking around the cover was slammed shut and the noise ceased - at 4.15am. I reckoned this must have happened before because the guy knew exactly where to look.

One of the many desirable residences....

In the eventuality of it happening again I took the precaution of visiting the local Pharmacy and purchasing ear plugs. While there I discovered I could buy Ibuprofen in 400mg tablets which I don't think are available over the counter in Britain, only 200mg tablets. My wonderful partner had informed me, on the basis of something she'd heard on the radio, that taking a combined dose of Ibuprofen and Paracetamol was far more effective than taking just one or the other on its own. I spent the rest of the day, and all next day, testing out this theory until, after around 4,000mg of one and 5,000mg of the other, my various aches and pains seemed vastly diminished so I was able to leave my virtual sick bed and go for short walks again.

The stricken cruise ship, Thomson Majesty, minus one lifeboat..

Meanwhile, down in the harbour a major catastrophe had occurred. A Thomson cruise liner, the Thomson Majesty, had docked there for its 1,500 passengers to witness the Los Indianos carnival in Santa Cruz before setting sail for Madeira. At each port of call compulsory lifeboat drills are carried out to determine all is in working order in case of emergency. On this occasion a rope snapped as the lifeboat was being lowered. The boat hung vertical until the other rope snapped under the strain plunging the vessel 65ft intro the sea where it landed upside down. Miraculously, three crewmen leapt clear as they fell but five others were trapped under the boat and died. The ship remained in dock for some days afterwards, presumably whilst an inquiry was carried out and repairs were made. Thomsons sent out seven of their planes to fly the marooned passengers back home.

All dressed up for the Los Indianos carnival...

In spite of this tragedy in the island's capital the Los Indianos carnival went ahead as planned. I never did find out exactly what they were celebrating though I'm led to believe it began after Palmerian exiles returned from Cuba. Some paint their faces black, representing slavery, but all of them, men and women, dress in their best white finery and straw hats of Cuban tradition. Thousands upon thousands gathered in the streets from all over the Canary Islands, the main focus point being the large square in front of the Church with its impressive bell tower. There were musicians, street vendors and a lady rolling cigars that are said to rival top rated Havanas. Whole families turned out together, sometimes with elderly patriarchs marching ahead of the group. I recall a gentleman with his two very attractive daughters receiving particular attention from itinerant photographers - including me!

Throwing the talcum powder

Maybe it has some religious significance for I saw men with hands together and eyes closed as if in prayer. Or maybe it's a time of final indulgences before the period of self denial in Lent. Eat, drink and be merry was certainly the order of the day, everyone being noisily good humoured and jolly while cute smartly dressed children were having a whale of a time. But their strangest habit was the throwing of talcum powder over all and sundry until the whole street was enveloped in a white haze. Anyone (particularly tourists) dressed in dark colours got extra dustings of talc to make them white. Our friend Mike, who'd dressed in black, was almost unrecognizable in his transformed state! We left as the party was getting into full swing, leaving it to the Palmerians, and walked the couple of miles back to our hotel. As we passed the harbour the cruise ship's stricken lifeboat had just been hauled from the water and police were much in evidence. Not everyone was celebrating.

Flower decked walls en route to the Caldera...

After a few thousand more mgms of painkiller and anti-inflammatory I was able to start some more serious walking - and running - again. After all the cold sunless days on our side of the island we ventured over to the east, through what I refer to as the magic tunnel. The road cuts under the volcanic spine of the island, the Cumbre Nueva, and invariably emerges into glorious sunshine at the other side. And so it happened again - twice. The warmth on my body was a real tonic as we strolled past flower decked gardens and crowing cockerels up the long hill from Los Llanos towards the Caldera Taburiente, the vast crater for which the island is famous.

Dun walkin'....

We turned near a roadside shrine where the road dropped 1,600ft to the floor of the Caldera and returned by a circuitous route to Los Llanos where dragonflies danced across the green waters, a classy restaurant balanced precariously on stilts above the Caldera and a pair of discarded walking boots dangled from a power line. We lunched in the sun and took a short walk down the Camino Real - an old donkey route linking Tazacorte in the east to Santa Cruz in the west - before catching the bus back into the gloom.

Pico Bejenado

The Volcano Route may be 'the big one' for most walkers, but the ascent of Pico Bejenado is more appealing to us and we'd noticed its tree lined slopes towering into glorious blue sky on our way to Los Llanos. We returned the following day for an enjoyable ascent. It was raining when we set off with wind gusting through the trees. A German gentleman sat by the roadside was waiting for more tranquil weather before risking going higher. Fortuitously, both rain and wind ceased in the next ½ mile so there was absolutely no danger involved at more exposed parts of the route. My various pills had done their job and I was moving easily again at a fairly fast pace, up the rough trail to El Rodeo, then up endless zig-zags to the sign posted summit at 1,854m. The ascent took 2¼ hours - five minutes longer than the guide book said, so I must be getting old! A raven greeted us and perched in a nearby tree to have its photograph taken. The umpteen lizards of yester year were conspicuous by their absence. Maybe the raven had devoured them, or the kestrels. Whatever, we missed them sharing our lunch and scuttering around our feet. We left our names in the Visitor's Book before a rapid descent, passing hoards of people toiling upwards in big boots, wielding their trekking poles. We felt rather smug in our lightweight gear. In a couple of hours we were back onto a tarmac road where a German couple gave us a lift in their hire car for the last 4½ km to our bus stop. Then, again, it was back through the magic tunnel to the wild west weather and the raging sea.

Happy to be aloft again. Note raven in tree on right...

The ascent of Pico Bejenado had been the highlight of our holiday, not least because the air was fresh and clear, we'd enjoyed panoramic views, blue sky and warm sunshine on this most remarkable of miradors. If you threw a stone from its breath-taking height it would travel more than a mile before it hit the bottom. So deep is the Caldera. When you look down from such heights you feel you've really achieved something. The rest, for me, was anti-climax.  I managed a couple more runs, struggled with the first but enjoyed the second on our very last morning when the sun deigned to show its face again. We love La Palma, it's mountains and trails to run or walk, it's colourful flora and fauna, it's Guancho history and curious traditions, but on this occasion we were glad to climb onto that plane and head for home. I've no doubt we'll be back again next year - God willing - but maybe not in February.

Closing down.......

From last weeks snowy paths......

 ......for a few weeks while we go chasing the sun. Cases are packed, travelling clothes are washed and set out ready to put on at the appropriate hour, Euros, passport and e-ticket are tucked away safely in my wallet, car parking has been arranged at the Airport, I've had an hour long Mag Sulph soak, done a huge amount of exfoliating so my skin can breathe and hopefully soak in lots of semi-tropical sunshine and, last but not least, due attention has been given to the safe stowing of every essential item of running gear. If all goes according to plan, by Friday lunchtime we'll be stepping off the plane onto the warm, volcanic island of La Palma in the far away Canary Islands off the coast of Africa.
     

.....to next weeks volcanic trails.....

       After breakfast on most mornings we'll be donning our shorts, vests and trainers (and sun glasses) to run 'the route', a four mile circuit that climbs to a stunning viewpoint before the luxury of a long downhill section where sun-bathing lizards dart for cover among the bushes as we thunder past. Also, high on the agenda again is a long section of the island's Volcano Route that follows a high level path past seven inactive volcanos from El Pilar down to Fuencalliente. Running that route was one of the highlights of our holiday two years ago.
      

....and lizards round my feet.

      Out of interest today I climbed onto my magic body composition scales for some before and after readings, and was pleasantly surprised at what they told me. Whether it's the daily core exercises I've been doing, or whether it's due to advice given in Matt Fitzgerald's 'Racing Weight' book, I dunno, but in just three weeks my percentage of body fat has dropped from 18.4% to 13.4% which is a fantastic achievement. Weight is down from 145.8 lbs to 144 lbs and my BMI down to a more acceptable 22.5. I got to thinking, with results like this it's time I set myself up as a Personal Trainer in order to cash in on these secrets!. Or maybe I should just keep quiet in case I pile it all back on again during the course of our extravagent holiday.

      This Blog is now closing down until we return from the sunny Canaries. Au Revoir!

Running in the snow...

My snowy path through Roydhouse Wood

On Castle Hill

      I've been a bit frustrated this past week, basically because I haven't been able to run as much as I'd have liked. Once I've got my Yaktrax strapped to my trail shoes I love running in the snow, I love that virgin whiteness under the lazuline blue, I love all the intricate black and white tracery of snowy branches, I love following the tracks of hares, foxes or resident Roe deer through their wild haunts. But it's been hard work these past few days, trying to run in such a manner that doesn't affect my dodgy hamstring too much.
      Yesterday I tried to nurse it as I tripped lightly over hazardous tree roots, through frozen, ankle twisting rutted fields and up stony lanes - only to come aeroplaning down Castle Hill, kamikaze style, like some demented child revelling in the winter conditions. In her inspirational book, 'Mud, Sweat and Tears' Moire O'Sullivan says "We're all mad in our own little ways, everyone has their own passion or madness for which they are willing to go that extra mile or two". It's true. Even in our dotage there is still something of an uninhibited child wanting to be let loose to play.

Winter flowering gorse on Castle Hill

       A well dressed gentleman in his seventies, and wearing a deerstalker, stopped me the other day as I jogged up the icy lane towards Castle Hill. "Do you know that every 20 minutes of running equates to six hours wear and tear on your joints?" he asked. Apparently this information was based on something his daughter had told him, and she just happens to be a physiotherapist. Well no, I didn't know that, but informed him my 80 year old joints didn't seem to be giving me much trouble, apart from feeling a bit stiff at times, and I was still running up to 24 miles a week. Perhaps my daily dose of Cod Liver Oil has something to do with it. "Ah well, you could go four times further if you stopped running and just walked" he replied. Actually, I'm not sure I'd want to walk 96 miles a week, and I certainly wont be visiting his daughter if that's the sort of advice she gives to runners.
      I've been interviewed again, this time by a lady with the charming name of Satu Hattula who hosts a website called 'bodycapable.com' and hails from Finland. She refers to me, somewhat embarrassingly, as an exercise hero (who? me?) and, even more embarrassingly, seems fascinated by the shape of my thighs in the picture I emailed her. It's a good job I'd kept my vest on!  Click on the link and have a read.

An enjoyable week.....

Shooters in the ghyll

We'd a guard of honour as we trotted up the ghyll on Saturday, or so you'd have thought. The shooters were out again, a score or so of them stationed at various points up the beck and only yards away from the track. We were totally ignored as they blasted over our heads at pheasants driven from cover thick and fast. I dared hardly look up in case I got an eye full of lead shot, but on the few occasions I did it struck me that these were indeed wise birds as they flew high and fast, mostly out of range of gunshot. I never saw one fall. Not that I'm saying 'hurrah' to this, nobody enjoys pheasant more than I do (not to mention the nice red wine that accompanies it), but just occasionally I'm on the side of the birds.

Approaching the start of our measured mile

We continued on our way, albeit a little faster, in temperatures bordering on freezing but feeling more like 3º below in the nithering wind-chill. We'd set off to do a repeat of the measured mile down Moor Lane and after last week's poor performances we were determined to 'give it some welly'. The rough ground was frosted and a bit more conducive to running as I set off from our little cairn at what I considered optimum pace. I got it a tiny bit wrong and was slowing towards the finish, but that couldn't cloud my delight when I glanced at the watch and discovered I'd run the mile in 7.09 - some 43 seconds faster than last week. My wonderful partner's 8.34 was also a wee bit faster, so we jogged home happily and relaxed for the rest of the day.

On my way to a 7.09 mile down Moor Lane

Sunday dawned sunny and frosty with lots of blue sky, so whilst my wonderful partner roamed around Barden Moor on National Park duty I set off on a gentle run to Thorpe and Burnsall, returning along the river. I say 'gentle' because I was nursing a tight hamstring that was pulling a bit towards the back of my left knee, so I'd taken 75mgm of Voltarol (anti-inflammatory) before I set off. I'd noticed a slight pain three days previously while doing a a set of 200m reps on Castle Hill, but it didn't get any worse so I'd chosen to ignore it. There was little discomfort as I crossed the river and jogged uphill through frozen fields to the sleepy little hamlet of Thorpe. Of all the times I've run through here I've only once met an inhabitant, a friendly farmer who poked his head from the byre and asked if I'd like a drink of water as I sweated past. He obviously thought I needed one!

Leaving Thorpe - the lane towards Burnsall

Leaving Thorpe I'd a wonderful run past woods and mossy limestone walls, through open fields, across a stream and over a dozen stiles to the popular Dales village of Burnsall where I joined the river path towards Hebden. A young girl caught me up and I managed to stay with her just long enough to learn she'd run all the way from Silsden and heading into Grassington, a distance of around 18 miles. She was still maintaining a fast pace that I could only match for a couple of hundred metres or so before letting her go. Or maybe she was purposely showing me a clean pair of heels, not wishing to be shown up running with a decrepit octogenarian!

All in all it was a good week, 21 miles of reasonable running made all the more enjoyable by the appearance of the sun and some better underfoot conditions. But even as I write this, snow is falling quite heavily and the world outside my window has turned a deathly shade of white. Now then, where did I put my Yaktrax?

PS. I got a wee mention in Northern Runner's Guide last week - but you'll have to read quite a way down before you come to me!