Peaks weekend.....

Winner Joe Symonds arriving on Ingleborough

The Three peaks race over the Yorkshire hills of Penyghent, Whernside and Ingleborough is a fell running classic that attracts runners from all over Britain and many from overseas.  It was first run in 1954 when Fred Bagley of Preston Harriers beat a field of just six runners over the 23 miles and 4,500ft ascent in 3 hours 48 mins. From such humble beginnings the race has grown so much in popularity that a limit of 999 entries has now been set. Andy Peace of Bingley Harriers is the current record holder in 2:46:03 with Anna Pichtrova of Czeckoslovakia fastest woman in 3:14:43.  In my brief fell racing career I ran it five times, once in the M55 category when I was beaten by a previous outright winner - George Brass of Clayton-le-Moors - and four times as an M60, winning three of them and beaten in the fourth by Laurie Sullivan of Clayton-le-Moors. My fastest time was 3:50:44 in 1995. Since then I've attended merely as a spectator.
Skylarks were singing in the sunshine as we plodded up Ingleborough on Saturday for this years annual pilgrimage.

5th man Andrew Fallas coming off Ingleborough

It was bitterly cold in a north easterly wind that brought odd flurries of sleet and hail to keep runners cool. I was wearing a long sleeved thermal top, two fleeces, a windproof/waterproof jacket, fleecy buff and woolly hat - and still felt cold! Knowing full well the wind would be gale force on top of Ingleborough we took our time ascending so as to coincide with the arrival of the leading runners. We got it right and found a small cairn to cower behind just as the solitary figure of Joe Symonds (Salomon International Racing team) came into view below us.

1st Lady Jasmin Paris takes the lead after 19 miles

We'd watched him leading the pack of 746 runners from the Start line and by the time he reached us he'd a good five minutes cushion.  He passed the check point and went hurtling down the last five miles to the Finish at Horton in Ribblesdale before any other runners had puffed their way to the summit.  Joe, who'd competed in the Rotterdam marathon two weeks before, completed the 23 miles and 4,500ft of ascent in 2:54:39 with the bearded Carl Bell of Keswick A.C. 5 minutes behind him in 2:59:44.  Karl Grey of Calder Valley Fell Runners was the only other runner to break 3 hours with his 3rd placing in 2:59:50.

Normally we'd hang around on the summit until the

2nd lady - Oihana Kortazar Aranzeta - suspected broken arm...

first ladies passed through but it was far too cold for that on Saturday. We jogged gently back down, all the while keeping our eyes open for the ladies. The classy Spanish runner, Oihana Kortazar Aranzeta of the Salomon International Racing Team had led the ladies race over the first two peaks and up onto Ingleborough but was passed on the final descent by a smiling Jasmin Paris of Carnethy Hill Runners who was clearly enjoying her first visit to Yorkshire for this race. She won in 3:33:04 with Oihana finishing 2nd in 3:36:29.  Oihana was later taken to a local hospital with a suspected broken arm after a fall during the race. Let's hope she's soon recovered and back racing again.

Jasmin's team mates, Helen Bonsor (3:39:07) and Jill Mykura (3:46:20) filled third and fourth places for

Splosh! ...muddy conditions in Sulber Nick

Carnethy. For the first time ever we didn't stay to watch the prize giving. The parking field with its hundreds of cars was beginning to get churned up. After watching one vehicle being towed from the mud we decided it was time to go. Frankly, I was glad to leave for after battling gale force freezing winds over ten miles of the race route I felt totally knackered. And that's almost swearing! It was sheer bliss to sit in a warm car and be driven home.   Results here....

I'd had a busy week. Saturday's 5 mile jog down Ingleborough and a 6 mile circuit round

Running towards the Finish, Penyghent in background....

Appletreewick on Sunday completed a grand total of 30 miles which is the most I've run since goodness knows when. I've felt stronger too. A four mile tempo run on Thursday, using shorter strides with a faster cadence, and an easy five mile run on Friday with lots of 'floaters' went very well indeed without having to walk any of the time. Since abandoning all that fish and salad in my diet I've been topping up with a combined mineral/vitamin supplement to restore my calcium, iron, magnesium and Vitamin C levels which were all sub normal, the former having got seriously low. Common sense tells me that for runners at my end of the age scale, supplements should be the order of the day, regardless of what we eat.  But, as I heard a race commentator say on Saturday, common sense and fell runners seldom seem to go together!     

Something fishy has been going on....

I've been a bit lacking in energy lately and a QMA test last week revealed my iron stores are becoming

Meat....

rather depleted. I should know after 80+ years that I can't live without meat. I know now, because I've just tried it. On the advice of well meaning friends I've been 'existing' on a daily diet of fish, salad, fruit - and yogurt - for my main meal over a number of weeks.  I don't dislike such things but no matter what quantities I stuff down my little throat I never seem full. They're just not satisfying enough and I'm forever yearning for snacks, especially at the end of the day before I go to bed. Some folk might be happy to go to bed hungry, but I'm not one of them. If I don't feel content there's no way I can get to sleep, which results in me sneaking downstairs in the wee small hours for a bowl of muesli or thick slice of bread plastered with peanut butter.

Uphill route to Castle Hill....

So today it was back to my butcher who greeted me as if I were the prodigal son returning to the fold feeling a bit sorry for himself. "I'd like ¾ lb of braising steak for tomorrow's casserole and a nice slice of sirloin to celebrate with tonight". And celebrate I did. The deep fryer hadn't been in use since goodness knows when, but it was soon bubbling away with proper chips and battered onion rings while the mouthwatering steak sizzled under the grill to medium rare perfection. Mushrooms and tomato helped to fill a fair sized plate whilst a large goblet of Australian Shiraz helped things along their way nicely. Scottish oatcakes spread thickly with a mature Saint Agur had me lingering at the table a wee while longer - putting off the washing-up.  I was happy again. I was me again. From henceforth salad will be relegated to a take it or leave it accompaniment on a side plate - should it ever grace my table again.
Much as I hate wasting food, I'm afraid an Iceberg lettuce and various other bits of rabbit food got thrown in the bin. For the present, at least, I just can't face any more. Fruit and, surprisingly, the yogurt survived. I've tried various yogurts over the years, well aware of their probiotic properties, but could never stomach more than a spoonful before I gipped. However, on the advice of a running acquaintance, I persevered and eventually found one I liked and there's been a tub in the fridge ever since. So "Thankyou Alex, I do take note of some of the things you say"!

Anyhow, between bouts of gardening (that necessary evil) last week I did occasionally manage to get my butt out of the

Trying to maintain speed by the Wharfe last Tuesday....

chair that links me to the computer and churn out a very slow 23 miles. My heart and mind were in it but my body just didn't want to know. So much so, and I hate to confess this, there were many times I was compelled to take short walk breaks, especially on lengths of tarmac leading to my off-road routes. I was OK through fields and along river banks, springing along nicely, but soon juddered to a jog on any harder, more jarring surfaces. I'd to abort a five mile tempo circuit on the road and make a diversion back through fields from the three mile point. When I'm dressed for running I feel quite embarrassed if anyone sees me walking. On another day when I'd planned 12 x 200m fast repetitions I ran out of energy after just seven and jog/walked back home. With Spring in the air I'd normally enjoy that exhilarating feeling of speed and easily accomplish what I set out to do.  Not so on that last occasion.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.....

I'm not certain what's gone wrong, though I strongly suspect that change of diet to be mainly responsible for lack of energy and reduced spring in my step. Today, I put aside my minimalist trail shoes and wore Asics DS trainers to see if they'd give me a bit more bounce. They didn't.  Quite the reverse, in fact my minutes per mile pace was so slow I'm not even going to mention it, hoping it was just a temporary blip rather than the onset of chronic old age, decrepitude and that final sunset. Dylan Thomas wrote:
"Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light......" 
So long as I've a nice steak and a goblet of wine I'll be happy to live forever. As a sarcastic neighbour once said, "I reckon they'll have to put you down!"

Behold, all things are become new.....

   "Flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle dove is
heard in our land; (Song of Solomon 2:12)"  

Wood anemones flowering at Appletreewick

Well, that's almost right - so long as we cross out turtle dove and substitute their noisy little cousins, collared doves and ring doves, that join the thrushes, blackbirds, robins, great tits and a raucous cock pheasant outside our bedroom window in the breaking dawn, telling us it's time to get up. I'm not complaining. It's a wonderful symphony of sound that reaches a crescendo after 30 minutes or so, before gradually dying down as they go about their morning chores - whatever they might be. Invariably, I settle down for another hours sleep until the milkman comes rattling his bottles.
  

Last Monday morning there were other accompanying sounds to make doubly sure we were awake, that of gale force wind roaring through the treetops while our twangling wind chimes danced themselves into a frenzied extravaganza of musical cacophony the like of which we've seldom heard. Thank goodness. The Lord only knows what the neighbours thought?  Anyhow, it certainly woke us up and, like the sunny weather, we were bright and more than a little breezy. Shortly after breakfast we donned our running gear and set off up the ghyll, with the wind behind us, for one of our longest runs of the year. Actually, it was only seven miles, but none the less enjoyable for a number of reasons.    

Triplets - and cock pheasant

We'd hardly run a quarter of a mile before we discovered our first primroses of the year flowering on a warm
east facing bank sheltered from the wind.  Nearby, coltsfoot shone like yellow stars in the grassy verges beside the rising track onto the moor. The wind blew stronger and gustier as we climbed higher but it was all in our favour. We parted company at 2½ miles, my wonderful partner branching off to Yarnbury whilst I carried on up Bycliffe Hill, climbing another 500ft to the 'stone man' a tall cairn that affords a fine viewpoint looking southwards over the Wharfe valley. It's always hazy when I reach this point and I've never yet been able to take a decent photograph of the view. Someday, I will.

Stone man at 1500ft

   

Revelling in the snow down the long wall from Grassington Moor

My planned descent was by a mile of glorious springy turf down what runners call 'the long wall'. I'd noted from a brief stop by the cairn that there was still some snow lingering beside the wall, but I was totally unprepared for the huge drifts and cornices lower down. Fortunately, although several feet deep in places, the snow was still compacted and safe for running. As such, it gave me a delightful descent and a fitting memento of the hard winter we've experienced this year. I returned home a very happy man, having been serenaded by skylarks and my path illumined by bright flowers and snowy descents.   Not many years ago nothing could stop me while
out on a run. I was training and every second was important. I recall my sister looking rather cross on an occasion when I ran past her with just a casual wave.  And, years later, her amazement when I actually stopped to talk and pass the time of day with her. I believe the change came about after my 2nd M60 category win in the London marathon after which I decided I'd rest on my laurels, believing I'd reached the limit of my capabilities. Many new runners set their sites on the marathon but, from the very beginning, my sites were firmly focused on a sub 3 hour marathon.

The marathon shirt I wear with pride.

In my view, anyone can 'do' a marathon. It's no big deal. I could go out and do a marathon any day of the week. The distance never frightened me. So far as I was concerned the true test was to RUN it, every stride of the way, in a respectable time which, for me, was under three hours.  I did it, twice, and after that I metamorphosed into what I am now, a zen runner who runs purely for fitness and pleasure. I may or may not race again. My runs are not seriously regarded as training any more. I run for enjoyment. Now, unlike yesteryear, I frequently stop to chat to farmers, neighbours or fellow runners, to gaze at the luscious landscape, take photographs or, like yesterday, revel in the snow with a childish delight. It suits me and I plan to go on doing it for many more years.

The day I became a runner.....

  There are still a lot of dirty drifts around where I live but roads are clearing, the sun has shone, temperatures

Roads are clearing...

have risen and my old legs are slowly starting to defrost! As I laboriously trotted and slid through diminishing drifts this past week it came to mind what Rev David Macha said last week about it being 'very good training'.  I certainly felt stronger, so much so I began to toy with the idea of doing a bit of speedwork. After a three mile warm-up over Castle Hill, I turned into the cricket field for a few fast repetitions. Most of the snow had gone from the flat turf so I was able to run the longest stretch of the field unheeded - for 130m or so.  For a change I was wearing my Garmin which I clicked (without actually looking at it) at the beginning and end of each repetition. I'd planned to do twelve reps but felt another four wouldn't do any harm. I was feeling good. On reaching home I was rather pleased with what the Garmin told me when I plugged it into computer. During the 6.07 mile run with 276ft elevation gain I'd actually done 18 reps (never could count) every single one of them in 28secs. Now there's consistency for you! What I wasn't so happy about was that I'd run each rep at an average speed of only 6.52min/mile. OK, I wasn't pushing it, but when I recall running each and every mile of the London marathon at an average 6.36min/mile pace, then the cricket field session didn't look quite so rosy. Mind you, that marathon was 19 years ago so I suppose allowances must be made for old age and decrepitude.

  

..and so is the cricket field where I sometimes train

Come to think of it (he says with chest puffed out and broad smile) I was rather good at marathons having won an age category in seven of eight starts with an M55 course record thrown in for good measure. My baptism of fire came on a boiling hot July day in 1987 when I lined up with 373 others for the start of the notorious Pennine marathon. Never mind undulating, it had at least twenty hills which, according to Anquet, amount to 2,750ft of ascent. It roller-coasted to its highest point at 10 miles (915ft), dropped 300ft, then climbed back to 760ft at 22 miles - just where most people would likely hit the wall.  My only previous experience of a marathon had been in watching the 1986 race when a smiling Tanya Ball of Serpentine Harriers won the ladies race in a little over three hours. "Huh, I can do that" I'd thought, and the seed had been planted. 

   I'd been a jogger for only 15 months and hadn't really done much at all by way of marathon training. A few

Pennine marathon route and profile

weeks prior to the Pennine I'd been sauntering across some of the wilder parts of Scotland on a 200 mile coast to coast walk (TGO Challenge) and I'll admit to being more than a little nervous in the couple of weeks before the marathon. But come the day, the nerves had settled and I was probably as calm as any of the more experienced runners. I needed to be. Drinks stations were every three miles which some reckoned insufficient given it was the hottest day so far that year. I carried no water nor anything to eat. Approaching 18 miles I passed lots of runners who'd ground to a halt by the roadside, some just stood there, others tried to keep their legs moving, some sat with bowed heads looking forlorn and totally knackered.  Blisters, dehydration and heat exhaustion had taken their toll resulting in 58 of those stragglers failing to finish. Helpful or concerned spectators brought extra water from their houses, children offered fruit and other goodies while gardeners sprayed us with hose pipes to cool us down. I kept going, ignoring the handouts, though struggling and having to walk for a while climbing towards that 22 mile marker. I suppose I'd hit the wall but it was nearly all downhill after that.

   I crossed the line in 3:30:04 to take 82nd place of 316 finishers. Mike Critchley of Bolton United Harriers

Breaking the M55 course record in 1988

had won it in 2:34:07, a chap I've met many times since at the Arncliffe 4 mile race which he organizes each year in August. Eileen Denby of Denby Dale Travellers survived the blistering conditions to be first lady in 3:31:17. The best was yet to come. I'd wanted to go home to rehydrate and soak my aching legs in a hot bath, but my chauffeur/sister insisted on watching the prize giving before we went. I got the shock of my life when I was called to the podium as winner of the M55 category, a silver cup placed in my hand together with a voucher that would buy me a new pair of shoes and an embossed towel that has accompanied me to every race since. It was my first ever win, at anything, and it totally changed my life. That was 26 years ago but I remember details of that race as if it were yesterday. And I remember telling the race secretary, Alan Sykes, I'd break the M55 course record the following year.  Gone was the casual jogger who'd started this game to lose weight and get the old body back to some sort of shape. Things had gotten serious. A runner had been born, one that henceforth hated to lose, and God help any contemporaries that lined up beside him.

Can you tell I've just been watching  'Fire on the Track' - the story of Steve Prefontaine's extraordinary life?

Arctic Easter....

   I'm told it was the coldest Easter Sunday since records began and the coldest March for sixty six years - just two

After shoveling a way in...

good reasons why this old codger hasn't done a great deal of running of late. Even as I write, snow is still piled a metre high in my garden, though it's beginning to thaw and I can now reach my bird feeders, much to the delight of my little feathered friends. But I'm ashamed to say that running over the past week has amounted to just 14 hard earned miles. On Thursday I donned my Yaktrax and plodded through deep snow onto Castle Hill, climbing over drifts, sinking up to my knees at times, to record just three miles. The road below Castle Hill was blocked (still is) and some local residents were unable to get their cars back home. As protection from the arctic conditions I was wearing three layers, compression top, fleece and windproof jacket (not to mention woolly hat and gloves) which was all very well when I set off but I was beginning to sweat a bit by the time I reached the 900ft contour. As I jogged across the flat summit I was amazed to pass a couple of lads doing press-ups in the snow, one of them dressed in only a T-shirt and shorts. We breed 'em tough in Yorkshire!

Sign on Castle Hill side....

   My usual route off the hill was totally impassable so I climbed a wall and barbed wire fence to wend my way through the fields - searching for a line of least resistance. All of a sudden a pair of March hares exploded from the snow and streaked ahead of me, the first I'd seen in the area since my hunting days, many moons ago. They're best seen in the early evening as they venture out to feed, or early mornings before they sink into their forms to stay mainly hidden throughout the day (which is why I don't see them very much nowadays because most of my running is done mid-day). In March they don't seem to care very much whether they're seen, or not. I love hares and have a strange affinity with these wild creatures that love to run free in wide open spaces. For what it's worth, here is one of my poems about them from a little anthology I once put together. It's called: 

Lagomorpheus

That's the stile...

Couched in morning light, herb replete,
Fur feet kissed clean and dew-anointed,
A wild hare gulps one last warming draught
Of soporific sun

In splendid isolation
Of chosen solitude
He shines momentarily
Like living tourmaline
In a sea of rippled green,
Then settles in his sylvan seat,
Droops his black-tipped ears
And sinks to sweet oblivion.

Safe in his sanctuary
Beyond the death-dark door of sleep
That bars the fly fox
Or ripping stoat
He lopes through clover dreams
Where lilting larks
Pour out their paeons
On poppy fields
Of opiate paradise.

Macho guy wearing shorts in Hebden Ghyll...

   Enough of that. What else did I do? Well, together with my wonderful partner I ventured into yet more snow to churn out another eleven miles and keep the old body ticking over. For six of those miles we trundled round Appletreewick and back along a snowy riverbank where we managed to avoid sliding into the water. Funnily enough, it was sunny and lambs were snoozing in the fields, soaking up a bit of rare warmth. Around them, red-beaked oystercatchers were fraternizing with black-headed gulls, woodpeckers were hammering away at prospective nest sites and wood anemones were bursting into flower beneath the trees. A male goosander sat tight on the opposite bank, I suspect not very far from his crested mate who'd be warming a clutch of cream eggs - referring to their colour, not the Easter variety.

   On another day we donned just about everything bar fur coats to run up the ghyll for fun and games in the

All good fun.....

drifts. A macho man came running down wearing shorts, but he was running faster than we can, and better able to keep warm. It wasn't long before we'd to strap Yaktrax to our trail shoes to prevent us slithering around in the white stuff. We'd planned to run up 'the long wall' to ascertain whether frogs had returned to their breeding ground, but there was no way we could get there through huge drifts. I imagined hundreds of little Kermits frantically trying to reach their pond, leaping skywards up a nine feet barrier of snow, only to come tobogganing back down again on their cold bellies. And I could imagine the looks on their silly faces, and the daft way they talk!

Don't bother to get up...

   We turned homeward through a gateway half blocked with snow into a sheltered lane that had been partitioned off to form a sheep pen, and where dozens of hardy Swaledales browsed contentedly. They seemed happy and well fed for most didn't even bother to get up as we jogged past within inches of them. I could have stood on one to climb over the fence. From thereon drifts covered many of the stiles and gateways which made their negotiating a little more interesting, and lots more fun, though some might think we're getting a bit too old for that sort of thing.  Later, at an Easter Monday fund raising gathering in our village institute, we were relating details of our run to a Methodist minister who thought it commendable that folk of our age could still get out and do such things, though most people would say we're crackers!  His attitude was somewhat different from that of an Anglican minister I'd been talking to, who also happens to be a very good runner: "It's hard work but very good training" was his considered opinion. Now that's what I like to hear.  I might change my religion!

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.