Seek and you will find.......

   The exertions of last Sunday's hilly 10K race left me feeling a bit shattered so I didn't venture out for

Our route.... 9 miles/1,200ft

another run until Wednesday. But that couple of days rest must have done me good for I sailed up Castle Hill with the greatest of ease for the start of an enjoyable five mile circuit through shady woods and fields of ripening corn. Then I'd two more days rest before the weekend activities when, once again, things didn't quite go according to plan. Saturday was yet another of those occasions when my wonderful partner wanted to refresh her memory about a route over which she'll be leading her intrepid (and very brave) U3A walkers in ten days time. She was anxious to re-acquaint herself with the lie of the land, check compass bearings in case of mist or stormy conditions, and to check cellphone reception from various points in case of emergency. Not relishing the idea of her traversing such remote and mainly trackless country on her own, I volunteered to jog round with her. After all, it was only 9 miles, though there was also a little matter of 1,200ft of ascent to make it more 'interesting'.

Memorial cairn with Great Whernside beyond...

Saturday was a beautiful day, sunny and warm with clear views as we left Yarnbury to jog up Old Moor Lane, past the sheepfold where our local shepherd was shearing his flock, and in half a mile had reached the access gate onto open moorland. From here on our route would be trackless for the next five miles though there are some navigational aids in the form of walls and fences leading to the wild interior. We followed one of these walls for a mile before climbing more steeply into Howgill Nick where a ruined shooting hut overlooks a wide sinkhole that swallows the water from Black Edge Dyke. After our recent heatwave there wasn't the slightest trickle. Beyond the ruined hut was a faint dusty track that quad bikes will soon be using to transport the shooting aristocracy to allotted stances for their annual slaughter of the grouse population. 

   We followed the tyre marks until they ended at a narrow bridge over a dried up ditch from which point we

Running up the long fence to the boundary...

roughly guessed a compass bearing to a memorial cairn marking the spot where six cavers are entombed hundreds of feet below in Mossdale Caverns. This was a bearing my wonderful partner was anxious to get right because the cairn remains hidden over the horizon until almost within spitting distance of it, but after half a mile at 15º the top of the cairn loomed out of the heather immediately ahead. Spot on. We veered left to a long fence leading past Priest's Tarn, then upwards for another half mile to the Nidderdale boundary. I'd one foot on the fence, about to climb over into Nidderdale, when there was a plaintive cry from behind me. "I've lost my camera" she said. Like me, she'd had it slotted onto the belt of her waist pouch but it must have slipped off unnoticed when she'd taken off the pouch to check her phone. 

  

"There's Meugher"......rising out of the bog.

We'd a rough idea where she'd done this, so jogged back down to Priest's Tarn and began our search. Backwards and forwards and sideways we scoured the ground over a 50m stretch of heather and grass and a boggy ditch, but to no avail. After much wasted time and fruitless searching we had to admit defeat and continue on our way, retracing our steps to the boundary fence and climbing over into the obstacle course that marked the next stage of our route. We were making for a high cone shaped hill called Meugher (pronounced Moofer) which, in normal conditions, is totally surrounded by watery groughs and slimy peat hags. It has a reputation of being one of the most unvisited hills in northern England and, true enough, on all my flying visits I've yet to encounter another stranger on its windswept summit, or anywhere in its immediate vicinity.     

   Other than my wonderful partner and a late fell running friend I know of only one other person who's been

At Meugher's windswept trig point...

there - the shepherd/farmer who waved to us as we ran past at the beginning of our jaunt earlier in the day. Usually, the way ahead is akin to a watery version of Hampton Court maze, with ditches instead of hedges, but after the semi drought it was reasonably dry, making it more accessible and allowing us to take a more direct line, though it involved climbing in and out of several deep groughs. The final slopes are a mixture of tussocky grass and feathery bog cotton crossed by half hidden drainage ditches. Gaining the summit we'd a bite to eat and a quick drink by the redundant Trig point before following a 155º bearing across Meugher Dike and up to Henstone Band, a high point along the boundary fence ¾ mile away where we'd climb back into Wharfedale to run down the long straight wall that divides Hebden Moor from Grassington Moor. 

  

At Henstone Band, climbing back into Wharfedale...

Near the bottom of this wall we diverted west onto Sleet Moor where, in the ankle twisting tussocks, my left adductors decided they'd had enough of the rough stuff and cramped up solid. Fortunately, we discovered another of those faint quad bike tracks that had flattened the ground a little and made it more runnable. We followed it to a bridge over the beck, from which point we could follow good gravel tracks all the way back to Yarnbury. On a steepish hill just before the finish my right adductors decided that anything the left ones could do, they could do better. I strutted stiff legged to the top of the hill like the tin man in the Wizard of Oz, making all sorts of funny noises, before easing back into a run for the last ½ mile back to our car.  Boy, was I glad it was over!
   Come Sunday morning, I'd have really enjoyed an extra hour in bed to aid recovery, but my presence had

Our Chapel - where God works in mysterious ways.......

been requested to read a lesson for Rev Janet Clasper at a joint communion service for Anglicans and Methodists in our village Chapel.  My wonderful partner was scheduled to spend the day on National Park duty, roaming around Barden Moor, so no chance of a lie in for her either. I wandered wearily along to Chapel at 9am, my Bible tucked under my arm, feeling only half awake. I'm a bit naughty when it comes to reading lessons. Methodists traditionally use the Good News version of the Bible which I like but don't always use. In fact, I seldom use it. My iPad has around 36 different versions, all slightly differently worded, and I choose the one I like best, or which better suits my voice. Sometimes (nay, often) I'll further tweak the wording so it flows a little better and is easier to read. The finished result is my own personal interpretation which doesn't always contain the exact text on which the Minister has based his/her sermon!
  

That fence post, one among thousands...

Such was the case on Sunday when I read a slightly tweaked rendering of Luke 11, v 1 - 13 from the New International Version, all about prayer and being persistent in our requests.  I'd to stifle a little laugh at my version's reference to 'shameless audacity' but when I sat down and got to thinking about it I became so engrossed in its meaning that I've really no recollection of what the sermon was all about. Sorry Janet! My mind and my prayers were totally focused on a camera lying in the bog somewhere up on the moor and the sadness on my wonderful partner's face on yesterday's realisation of its loss. It hurt, I wanted that camera back and only God knew where it was. I went home, made myself a mug of strong coffee and went on the computer to study the photographs I'd taken the previous day. I remembered taking a shot of Great Whernside, looking across the boundary close to where my wonderful partner had taken out her cellphone to check if there was any reception. My attention focused on a particular fence post, near to where she'd stood, one of a long line leading to the Nidderdale boundary. Zooming in to get a clearer view of it, I noted two black markings and felt sure I'd recognize that particular wooden post again, though in other respects it differed little from the hundreds of others. I printed off the zoomed version onto A4 paper, stuck it into my waist pouch and, after another mug of coffee, set off in search of it.
   After heavy overnight rain the landscape had changed dramatically. Everywhere was oozing water. Black

Up Old Moor Lane, there'd been a drop of rain overnight...

Edge Dike had filled and was roaring noisily down the sinkhole at Howgill Nick. Saturday's dusty quad bike track was a dank ribbon of dark peat through which I left a line of stud marks that would no doubt tell our hawk-eyed gamekeeper old Runningfox had passed that way. The memorial cairn had a little moat of water surrounding it whilst remote Priest's Tarn had increased threefold in size overnight. I jogged happily along, feeling as refreshed as my surroundings, to the line of fence posts where I took out the folded A4 picture and began my search for the particular post I wanted. It didn't take long to find it, whereupon I dropped to hands and knees and began a fingertip search of the rough ground. Eureka! Within minutes my hand alighted on the sodden black case perfectly camouflaged in a peaty hollow beneath overhanging grass only feet away from the fence. 

Cotton grass - cleaning my legs on the way home...

Inside its case, the camera was still perfectly dry and unharmed. I let out an exultant cry that would have had any nearby grouse quaking in their feathery boots. Gone was the morning lethargy. I never felt more alive as I jogged triumphantly back across the moor in a shower of cooling rain with wet cotton grass brushing my bare legs, then up the old lane to where I'd parked the car.  Mission accomplished - as they say - albeit with quite a large dose of divine help!  Needless to say my wonderful partner was absolutely ecstatic when I phoned the good news to her on Barden Moor. I reckon I've scored enough brownie points to last the remainder of the year!

2013 Bentham Beagles Bash....

Temperatures in the high 70's had me struggling a bit last week so I didn't quite get in all the planned training

Swallows on the line in Wednesday's 79º - too hot to fly?

for the weekend's 10K race. An eight mile circuit to Howgill on Monday, and back along the river, went really well. The last four miles were an absolute breeze, so much so that the last steepish hill into the village felt like I was running on the flat. Not so Wednesday's session that should have been a set of fastish repetitions on Castle Hill, but I never got there.  High humidity and 79º really knocked the stuffing out of me and I crawled home, drenched in sweat, after only 3½ miles. I went out earlier on Friday, in a slightly cooler 72º, for a hard earned 4 miles that included just 6 x 200m reps @ 46 secs - which was better than nothing.

Warming up for the Bash...

Then came Sunday's 10K race, the 2nd running of the Bentham Beagles Bash, through beautiful countryside with extensive views to some of North Yorkshire's finest peaks. With 615ft of ascent it's by no means a PB course, probably the reason for the low turnout as most Yorkshire and Lancashire runners preferred to compete a few miles away in Blackpool's flatter and faster 10K Summer Run on the same day. Each to his own, but I strongly preferred the streamlined efficiency, friendliness and facilities of this wonderful little club that has come on leaps and bounds since its formation less than two years ago. If only I lived closer, I'd be proud to be a member.

We left Hebden shrouded in mist and drizzle at 9am to set off north en route for the race venue. The

The feared Mike Walsh....

weather had cooled to a more bearable 60º and I prayed it wouldn't get above 70º. I was feeling a little apprehensive having been informed that my chief rival in the race, a chap called Mike Walsh of Wesham Road Runners, was bang on form after lifting the MV80 title in this year's London Marathon, a win that must surely have boosted his confidence and morale. London attracts runners from all corners of the earth so anyone who wins there is virtually a world champion - which is why I was considering Mike such a formidable opponent. A change of tactics was called for. There would be no hanging about today.

Pacemaker - Jill Noble...with that bottle...

Unlike the Kilburn race, where I started at the back, I lined up just behind the leaders to get a decent start up the initial steep climb into High Bentham and hopefully steal away from any opposition. Then I'd use the flat bit through the town to quickly recover and settle into a pace I could hopefully maintain over the hills ahead. All went according to plan and I felt reasonably comfortable as I ran alongside a local lady through Low Bentham and across the River Wenning towards the second of the many climbs of this undulating course.  Little did I know at that point that this lady, Jill Noble of Bentham Beagles, would become my pace maker for almost the whole of the race for she was running at a pace that suited me ideally. Just what the old man needed!

However, she managed to open up a gap as we passed the water station at just

Old Runningfox - all smiles at the Finish...

over three miles. I was desperate for water and slowed to a walk to ensure I got ¾ of a cup down my throat before pouring the rest over my head.  I gasped as it took my breath away and it took a while to get back into my stride. Meanwhile Jill had ignored the water station and was striding away up the hill 30 or 40 yards ahead. It took another mile or so to catch her and noted she had one of those hand held water bottles which had enabled her to keep going past the water station and gain an advantage. I made a mental note to buy one of those. The climbs carried on relentlessly to the high point at 528ft, just after the 5 mile marker, after which there was a steep downhill mile before the flat run in to the finish.

My wonderful partner - finishing strong..

From here on I really expected the younger Jill to leave me standing but the reverse was the case and I felt a bit rotten about leaving her after she'd pulled me over all the hard bits. But there was still lots of running left in my legs as I set off to overhaul another runner ahead of me who turned out to be Jill's club mate, Ann Butcher, later to be announced winner of the LV65 category.  Approaching the final straight I was amazed to hear my name being called out over the public address system, encouraging me on to a sprint finish. I crossed the line in 57.29, about three minutes slower than last year but nearly 8 minutes ahead of my feared contemporary, Mike Walsh, who'd really posed no threat whatsoever over this shorter distance. I took a picture of him finishing so I'd recognize him if ever I came across him again!

In conclusion I'd like to thank all the wonderful people who made this event the success it turned out to be,

The spoils....

the race committee, marshalls and volunteers, those who baked all the mouthwatering cakes and goodies (especially that yummy coffee cream cake) - and not least that almighty 'someone up there' who kept the temperature below 70º and provided such a refreshing breeze where we needed it most.
Full results here

Preparing for another 10K....

   With another 10K race looming on the horizon next Sunday, at Bentham in North Yorkshire, I'd every intention of taking things easy last week to

Sun worshippers by the River Wharfe

conserve the old energy levels and hopefully be rarin' to go when lining up for the Start. The week began steadily enough with a 4 mile riverbank run to ease any stiffness out of my legs from the previous day's race at Kilburn. Three days later I enjoyed an undulating circuit through fields and woods culminating with a few fast repetitions across my local cricket field to round things up to 6 miles. With temperatures hovering between 22 and 24º Celsius, conditions were absolutely ideal so I was able to run topless and feel the welcome sun caressing my body. Love it!

Undulating trail to Middleton Moor

Then came Saturday. My wonderful partner was anxious to suss out a nine mile route through some unknown terrain in the Ilkley area where she'll be leading a party of walkers in the not too distant future. We decided to jog/walk the route together and memorise the details. I'd estimated it would take no more than a couple of hours - so no need to take any food or water; we'd be back home in time for a late lunch. Ha ha! 'Best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley' - as that other bard said. And he was right. We actually made very good time running up onto Middleton Moor from Ilkley Lido where we'd parked the car. So good, in fact, that we hadn't realised we'd overshot our planned left turn and reached a remarkably similar left turn that mysteriously disappeared into the bog cotton after a few hundred yards. We knew for a fact our planned route continued over the moor on a perfectly good trail, so where had it gone? Even more confusing, the wrong turning we'd arrived at had exactly the same compass bearing as the one we were looking for. After much wasted time, and several failed attempts to locate a path, we agreed to retrace our steps - if necessary straight back to Ilkley and call it a day. We ran downhill, scattering the sheep and a few young grouse that had hardly learnt to fly and weren't quite sure what to do until, lo and behold, after half a mile, there was the trail we wanted, running exactly where it was supposed to do, across Long Ridge to Moor End Farm.
   My wonderful partner, a very wise lady, had sneaked half a dozen jelly babies and 350ml of juice into her

Maybe this will point us in the right direction........

bumbag - and that's what we had for lunch! Except it was already well past lunchtime, the sun had climbed to its zenith, there was absolutely no shade across the moor and the temperature had soared to around 29º.  I love running in the sun but in these blazing conditions, with little or no nourishment, it became a bit too much and I'm afraid I got a little bit ratty. (On hearing about this, our good neighbour remarked "You'll be having a heart attack doing things like that at your age, then what will you do?". I joked that having long since passed my three score years and ten I'm living on bonus years, so what does it matter?).
  

Count me out.....

After leaving the moor we fortuitously reached a well worn trail alongside sheltering trees which we followed into the valley to pick up a signed footpath, the Dales Way, running by the River Wharfe into Ilkley. The soaring temperature had brought out thousands of sun worshippers, men, women and children, who lounged along the river bank or splashed around in the cooling water. It would be interesting to know how many years it is since they were last able to do this? We drove home. I hammered on the back door of our village shop, risking the wrath of very protective dogs, and explained my thirsty predicament to 'our Linda'. After a short lecture about the stupidity of what we'd done I was allowed into the shop to raid her fridge for two wonderful cans of ice cold Stella. I took them into the garden for some blissful relaxation, watching the flowers grow, listening to summer swallows twittering on the telephone wires, swifts screaming around the roof tops at great speed and obese bumble bees buzzing in and out of the foxgloves.  Utter contentment - and hopefully ideal preparation for next Sunday's race. Watch this space!

Kilburn Feast 7 mile road race......

    Typical isn't it, we get back from a cold, windy holiday in the supposedly warmer climes of the south west

Turning the hay - over my garden wall...

coastal region to find some of the best weather is right here in our own back yard. Yorkshire boasted some of the highest temperatures in Britain last week which, at times, reduced me to a crawl. Farmers were making the most of the perfect conditions to cut and harvest their hay whilst the garden was humming with bees as I set out for last Tuesday's intervals - 18 x 200m - high on Castle Hill where I'd hoped for a little breeze.  They were the slowest for some time, 47's as opposed to my usual 44's, but it was important to get them done before the weekend race. My only other session was a bumbly five miles mainly in the shade of local woods. 

    

Busy bee on the Astrantia...

All this was in preparation for Sunday's Kilburn Feast 7 mile road race. If I said I enjoyed it I'd be a liar, it was one of the hardest races I've ever done. To be fair, the organisers had no idea it was going to be the hottest day of the year when they scheduled the Start for 2pm - when temperatures would just about reach their highest. I stayed in the shade until minutes before the 'Off' then positioned myself at the very back of the line-up. I was willing folk to get out of the way as the hooter sounded in case the sweeper vehicle ran over my heels!
    As the crowd thinned I dodged through widening gaps while at the same time keeping to the right side of the road where leafy hedges and occasional trees offered some scant shade. Such was the intense heat that several runners called it a day after the first mile or so, and walked back to the Start. I determined to run until the first water station at around 3½ miles, then take a short walk break up the steepish hill that followed. I grabbed two cups of water, one to drink and another to pour over my head and shoulders whilst endeavouring to keep up with others whose running pace was little faster than my walk. Shortly afterwards a car cruised alongside: "Anyone need water?" a kindly gentleman asked. Affirmative. I took a huge swig from a large bottle whilst others preferred to pour it over their heads. 

    In another mile a sympathetic gardener had attached a sprinkler to a hosepipe and invited runners to take a

Poised (or posed) for the 'Off'...

refreshing shower. I saw a wonderful rainbow as I ran through it. Like many others, I was in survival mode through the next water station and on towards the Finish. Time and placings had become irrelevant. A lady runner I passed was uttering moans and cries more appropriate to a bedroom scene in a steamy erotic film than a sweltering Sunday afternoon road race - though her expression didn't quite match the former!  The lady from a house beside the road, ladling icy water over runner's heads, could have cooled her down.
    The cheering crowd was a most welcome sound as we approached the Finish and I was mighty glad of the water bottle thrust into my hand as I crossed the line. But best of all was a slightly sadistic lady with a vicious hosepipe in the pub yard. "Go on, soak me" I said. And she certainly did!  I ran to the car, towelled down and changed into dry shoes and clothes before setting off down the road to photograph my wonderful partner as she struggled to the Finish. A runner was flat out on the grass verge with a St John's ambulance crew attending to him. Earlier, a lady runner had collapsed in the road around the 3 mile mark and needed urgent attention from knowledgeable medics. She got it as an ambulance quickly arrived on the scene.
   

Receiving my £20 voucher and bottle of wine.....

Meanwhile, back at the Finish, the local Women's Institute had put on a wonderful post race spread in the Village Hall - a variety of free sandwiches, fruit cake and flapjacks with lashings of hot sweet tea to counteract the shock! I munched my way through thick tuna sandwiches to get some protein into the system to repair the damage - though I'm not sure it worked!  The car thermometer read 30º as we left Kilburn but dropped to 27º on the way home. It had been a brute of a race so I was quite chuffed to come away with a £20 voucher and bottle of wine for winning the M80 category and working my way forward to 176th of 247 finishers. It just goes to show, there's life in the old dog yet - though one might not have thought so if they'd seen a somewhat crumpled figure dozing in his rocking chair - wishing it was time for bed.  Zzzzzzzzzz.....

The Lanhydrock shambles....

   We've been off the radar for a while, camping in a beautiful little corner of Cornwall with no wi-fi or mobile

Polly Joke, a beach we ran past each day....

phone reception. We did buy a newspaper one day - but mainly for the crossword! We call it our warm weather training camp but in all honesty it wasn't very warm at all, though the sun shone on a sufficient number of days to change the colour of our skins from a lardy white to a slightly more healthy looking tan. Or maybe it was wind burn? In total we ran 55 miles, much of it along undulating coast paths fringed with late flowering sea pinks. For music we'd the crying of gulls and the constant sound of the sea. Gray seals lumbered back and forth in the seething surf or hauled themselves out to bask on the rocks. A particularly nosy one at Polly Joke kept surfacing only yards from a group of surf boarders and seemed intent on joining in their fun. We ran across grassy commons and sandy dunes, through crowded caravan parks, up ploughed fields and even ran the gauntlet through a popular golf course. On other occasions we ran 200m repetitions along a grassy path through an overgrown valley rich with purple orchids, yellow rattle and flag irises. Running tracks don't come better than that!

Running above Crantock Bay......

  We'd also entered a race, the Lanhydrock 10 mile Run, which was a complete shambles. We ran the inaugural race three years ago and it was such a well organized event we decided to run it again. Big mistake. It's an off-road race that takes place among hundreds of acres of wooded grounds around the beautiful Lanhydrock House, a late Victorian structure now owned and run by the National Trust. If only the Trust could organize a race to the same high standards used to maintain Lanhydrock estate its popularity would be a byword among runners.  This year things went horribly wrong.
   In 2010 car parking was closer to registration. There were ample Portaloos adjacent to registration. The Start/Finish area was also close to registration. This year car parking was half a mile away. There were no Portaloos. Toilets were some way beyond registration, the same ones used by visitors to Lanhydrock House - and they arrived by the coach load - so there was considerable queueing before an anxious run to the Start which, because of alterations to the course, had been moved a few hundred yards farther away. 

   It got worse. We were assured the course had been well marked and all we had to do was follow the arrows. Unfortunately, at an important junction, one of these arrows pointed right instead of left and, in the absence of a marshall, front runners did as they'd been told and as a result came storming through the Finish after only 7.38 miles. The time-keepers of course were unprepared for these early finishers and were nowhere to be seen. A cry went up and they jogged into position as the tenth finisher came through.
   For some, including my wonderful partner, things got worse still. The entry form asked us to "Please

Finish at Lanhydrock...but no goodie bag and no T-shirt...

circle your T-shirt size for your goodie bag! S. M. L." Many ladies had circled S for Small.  Well, for starters there was no goodie bag, and neither were there any small T-shirts.  No-one was in charge of T-shirt distribution. Boxes had been dumped beyond the Finish and everyone helped themselves. We suspect that children who'd taken part in the Fun Run an hour or so before our race had sneaked off with all the small shirts. Indeed, we heard one parent admitting taking a shirt for his child. Some people took two. It was a free for all. All in all it was a race that's best forgotten - and never to be repeated!  Oh, and there was no MV80 category either!
  

Lily pond by the gate of our campsite...

Anyhow, we're back home, refreshed and fitter for all we've done. We can forget about Lanhydrock and happily remember all the good things - our morning runs, Cornish cream teas in the afternoon, orchids in the valley, thrift trembling in the breeze, larksong, sunsets and sun rises, seals singing moanie songs on their skerries, fields red with poppies, the morning chorus of birdsong, kestrels hovering in the breeze, a robin that befriended us and perched on our wing mirror as if to say goodbye when we were about to leave, white and red lily pads floating on a pool teeming with fish, moorhens and a shy heron that swooped in silently when the fishermen had gone home. I love herons and was surprised to discover one had flown into one of my pictures. Many regard them as a symbol of good luck, a good omen, and since arriving home I've had reason to believe it's true. But that's another story....

Another good week.....

Gorse-clad Castle Hill

I find it awfully difficult to sit at my computer, catching up with emails or updating my blog, when the sun is shining outside. When the sun is out, I want to be out too, running the hills in shorts and vest, maybe pottering around in the garden, or laid in some secluded spot smothered in sun cream, enjoying the sheer bliss of that welcome warmth on my bare skin. Over a five day period last week I did all three, and a few other things besides. As far as the running went I managed a total of 27 miles - a five, two sevens and an eight miler - all at an enjoyable pace through glorious countryside and finishing the first three of these runs feeling I could have done more. The last one over seven miles on a third consecutive day had me struggling a bit but I couldn't resist making the most of such wonderful conditions. The spirit was strong but the flesh was feeling its age, as it sometimes does.....

Castle Hill was its dazzling best on Thursday, its banks covered in bright yellow gorse that gave off a heady

Step we gaily, on we go - up the ghyll....

scent of vanilla as I jogged past. Yellow hammers serenaded me with their 'little-bit-of-bread-and-no-cheeeeese' ditties. Larksong dribbled from the sky.  In ploughed and harrowed fields corn sprouted in neat green rows, the farmer's work of art.  The air was incredibly clear so far flung landmarks - Holme Moss, Emley Moor TV mast and Haworth wind farm - appeared close enough to run a circuit around all three. But not by me!  In woodland glades my nose was assailed by the scent of bluebells that formed a dense carpet beneath the trees. I look forward to these events every year. They're always new and fresh and exciting. I never tire of them. I think it was Ellen MacArthur who said: "The most incredible thing that will ever happen to you is still to come - and the moment you think it's not, then life gets a bit boring."  Amen to that. 

The track to remote Bare House - left of centre...

We hadn't run the 7 mile circuit around the isolated Bare House for quite some time and had forgotten just how pleasant this route is. The farm house is deserted now but was recently re-roofed to prevent it from becoming a ruin. It sits at a height of 1,260ft with panoramic views across upper Wharfedale to the rolling limestone hills beyond. We'd a 650ft climb to reach it, up Hebden Ghyll, passing cushions of mountain pansies with their tiny faces turned towards the sun, through the tiny hamlet of Yarnbury and along a sheltered lane where violets lined grassy banks and agitated lapwings lured us away from their wandering fledglings. At Bare House I bid my wonderful partner a temporary 'goodbye', unable to resist a fast 1¾ mile downhill swoop on springy turf all the way to Grassington. The brakes were off and I felt to be flying. Wonderful. So much so I repeated this same seven miles on my own two days later. 

My 8 mile circuit round Grassington Moor was my only other run, in shorts and vest, revelling in sun and

The wonderful run down the long wall - sans ravens....

wind.  Last year on the way home I could almost guarantee the company of a pair of ravens as I careered down 'the long wall' - where I used to run measured miles in my marathon training days. I fear my wonderful black friends may have since come to grief in our local gamekeeper's many traps scattered around the estate. Not many years ago peregrines, buzzards, hen harriers and red kites stopped me in my tracks as I ran these wild and wonderful places. The gamekeeper at that time loved these birds as much as I did and believed there was room for all.  Philip has gone, so have all those beautiful raptors - probably for ever - and the new gamekeeper, sadly, will seemingly tolerate nothing but grouse. Our world is an emptier place by their passing.

Two days of summer......

Summer passed through Yorkshire last weekend in the form of two days of warm sunshine. We'd hoped it was here to stay. Lambs were frolicking in the fields, mountain pansies were opening their little yellow faces to the sun, seedlings in the garden grew a couple of inches, bluebells flourished in nearby woods, a cuckoo called and I was out running the riverbank in nothing more than shorts and vest. It didn't last and yesterday I'd to wear a warm thermal along that same stretch of riverbank. Whatever happened to those long hot

Another of my poems......

summers of yesteryear? A good friend of mine, now sadly deceased, reckoned it was a bad summer if he hadn't acquired a good healthy tan by the end of May. He'd have little chance now! Nevertheless, over the May Bank Holiday period I stuck another 27 miles into the running bank, though I was flagging a bit over the last six!  After an easy 4 mile run over the gorse clad slopes of Castle Hill on Thursday, Saturday was a shorts and vest day when I set off with my wonderful partner to run 4 miles along the road to Howgill, where I left her, and 4 miles back at a faster pace by the river path. The latter section was teeming with weekend walkers, and their dogs. Most dogs were leashed and under control but one had been allowed to roam loose and chased sheep into the river. The farmer, normally a very quiet and well spoken person, was venting his wrath in language I'd never have previously associated with him - as I told him later. But everything got sorted and he was back to his smiling self two days later. 

Running by that sheep trod in THAT SHIRT.....

Whilst my wonderful partner was patrolling a section of the Yorkshire Dales National Park on Sunday I was revelling in the deserted wide open spaces of Grassington Moor. I chose a tiny sheep trod I haven't used for some time - and neither have any sheep for it has almost disappeared into the rough grass. Not long ago our local gamekeeper set fox snares along this trod but I'm glad to say they've now been removed, making it a safer place to run.  For the benefit of 'The 5K Challenge' running group I took pictures of the free shirt they sent me for being its 100th member, but most of the time I ran shirtless in just a pair of shorts, enjoying the sun, the warm breeze, the plaintive piping of golden plovers and curlews calling. Amazingly, on this well keepered grouse moor, I neither heard nor saw a single grouse. I'd planned to run 8 miles but made a slight deviation that added another mile and was reluctant to go home. I wished I'd taken some lunch and something to drink.

On Monday we did a short recovery run together in deteriorating

Running the Appletreewick loop......

weather round what we call the Appletreewick loop, six miles round the busy campsite, through Woodhouse farm that had all the trouble on Saturday and back by Burnsall where the holiday crowds were starting to gather. There was a sneaky cold wind and we were glad to have been wearing hat, gloves and thermals again. We were home before the weather broke, had a good lunch and settled down by a warm stove as walkers went by, licking their ice creams - in the rain.

Revisiting Iona.....

After the worst wild camp we'd ever experienced at Loch na Keal on the Isle of Mull we decided it

Wild camp at Loch na Keal

was time to move to somewhere more amenable. Horrendous gales blowing from the freezing north, lashing rain and deafening noise had buffetted us all night long, so much so it was impossible to hear each other speak. The tent leapt up and down like some wild pernicious demon hellbent on dragging pegs from the ground and hurtling off into watery space. Come daylight we decided enough was enough. In a period of relative calm we struck camp, piled everything into the car, drove to Fionnphort then hauled our sacks onto the MV Loch Buie, a ferry bound for the beautiful Isle of Iona.

MV Loch Buie arriving at Iona

We were making for the island's only official campsite at Cnoc Oran on the Machair road where we hoped to find a spot sheltered from the wind and quickly put up the tent to dry out; where we'd have the luxury of proper loos, so no need for tramping off into the bog (excuse the pun) wearing full waterproofs, clutching a handful of toilet paper and seeking a convenient hollow well away from prying eyes - away from those eagle spotters with their long telescopes; where we'd be able to wash our hands, or anything else, in wonderful hot water rather than in a cold, rushing river. And all for £6.50 per night - each. However, after recent storms we found much of the site oozing water, including the secluded corner we'd planned on using, but we soon settled in and our tent dried in no time at all. Night fell, the wind bated a little and one of the island's many corncrakes rasped away in the darkness appearing, a bit like me, to have a sleep problem.

We had mornings of glorious sunshine, though the wind was still from the north and blowing cold. 

Morning run by Iona Abbey

Wild geese honked noisily across the sky, skylarks sang their matins while swallows engaged in swift, low level flights in search of sustenance. Starlings were the most common birds, nesting under the eaves of most houses, in our camp toilet block and, most of all, in the confined cloisters of the Abbey where hungry fledglings kept up continuous tweetings. Occasionally, when the sun shone brightest, a cuckoo called from some vantage point across the island. It was a wonderful atmosphere, perfect for running, and we soon worked out a very pleasant route, out towards Clachanach, down by the Abbey, through summery corncrake fields, then back by dazzling white sands at Martyrs Bay and up the Machair road to Cnoc Oran.

Columba's Bay

The Pentecost service in the Abbey on May 19th was a little disappointing. The Iona Community website promised something extra special for their 10.30am service to mark the 1,450th anniversary of Columba's arrival on the island in AD 563. It was also the 75th anniversary of the founding of the Iona Community in 1938. The Mull Gaelic choir were to sing at this service, as were the children from Iona Primary School. In actual fact the powers that be couldn't get rid of the congregation quick enough from the morning Communion service to prepare the Abbey for all the specially invited guests at the 'special' service in the afternoon. I felt quite cheated. Perhaps if I'd told them I was a past resident of the island, way back in 1949, I might have been allowed in?

To conclude. Many years ago, more than I care to remember, I found a wonderful little pebble of Iona

marble at Columba's Bay. Or it found me. I had a ring bolt put in it and wore it for years on a leather thong around my neck. Sadly I lost it, I suspect on a campsite at Arrochar, and have mourned it's loss ever since.  Each time I go to Iona I scour the length and breadth of Columba's Bay, searching for a similar stone, but can never find one. Last week we visited the select gallery of Val MacCormick who fashions wonderful pebble pendants using stones gathered from beaches close to where she lives and works, and where she advised us to go and look. We did but alas, found nothing resembling the striking green and white marble of the one I lost. Nor had Val anything like it in her collection - for which I'd have paid whatever price she asked. That tiny piece of Iona marble was one of my most treasured possessions.  My poem - Iona Stone - encapsulates all that it meant to me and paints a beautiful picture of the Sacred Isle. Enjoy.

Cave Rescue Organisation Challenge.......

A glance at the final report of the CRO Challenge indicates that only 66 people took part in this year's event

The CRO Challenge route......

with equal numbers competing in the 26 mile marathon and the half marathon Clapham circuit. Of the 33 who took part in the marathon 45% of them, 8 walkers and 7 runners, all found it a little too much and were forced to retire. Another marathon participant changed his mind after 4 miles and opted to get the job over with as quickly as possible by joining the shorter Clapham circuit at the first check point.  Others apparently opted to bend the rules to suit themselves, nine of them setting off long before the scheduled mass start for runners at 09.30 hrs, one of them sneaking off as early as 08.25.  However, this wasn't a race as such, it was all about getting round the challenging routes and raising as much money as possible to boost the organization's much needed funds. An early estimate suggests over £2,500 has so far been raised at this event. And even as we battled round, the organizer of the Challenge, Philip Nuttall, was called out to 'an underground incident' and therefore missed many of us finishing.

Gathering for the 09.30 'mass start'......

So how was it for us? Well, pretty horrendous, that's what. The weather was bad enough as the 18 remaining runners lined up for the start in Clapham where my wonderful partner and I had opted for full body cover as protection against a freezing cold blustery wind and increasingly heavy rain. But at least half a dozen runners set off in shorts, much to our amazement. The start of both routes is through a dark tunnel and into a long stony lane that climbs steeply for two miles before depositing us onto the open fell. I found it difficult to maintain any sort of rhythm over the hard uneven surface of the walled lane and found myself relegated to tail end Charlie in the early stages.  Once through the gate and onto a smooth green track across the fell I began to pick it up and clawed back a couple of places.

Conditions grew decidedly worse as I ran towards the flashing headlights of a Land Rover guiding us like a beacon to

The path after Nick Pot check point......

the Nick Pot check point just below cloud level. Wind was doing its best to tear my hood off and rain rattled my waterproof jacket as the marshal clipped my tally before embarking on the muddy, well worn track down Sulber Nick. It was in such a churned up state that running became very difficult indeed. Slimy mud and water covered slippery limestone rocks and filled deep holes. It was difficult to tell whether these holes were ankle deep or knee deep, so care was required to maintain any sort of momentum and stay upright. This muddy morass, made worse by a herd of lumbering cows, continued for 1½ miles to the next check point where a marshal was trying his best to shelter from the horrid conditions in a flapping open tent tucked away in a corner of the rocks.

Slippery conditions in Sulber Nick

I'd passed another two runners, Heather and Clive, on the way to this second checkpoint but they caught me up again as I studied the map to work out the route ahead towards Moughton. Together we got it right for the next ½ mile but became confused as to our next turning where, if my hands hadn't been so numb and useless, I'd have got out my compass and worked it out. As we stood there with heads together gazing at each others maps a guiding light appeared in the form of my wonderful partner who pointed to a stile over the wall and declared "It's that way". And it was! We all ran together, more or less, for the next 2½ miles, through the tiny hamlet of Wharfe and on to the next check point by Wood End farm where I once lived and worked in the late 1940's. The marshal punched our tallies and offered us water before we set off to run the last 3¾ miles.

Heather and Clive had to be shouted back and pointed in the right direction. I dragged a Cadbury's Brunch

The beasties that churn it all up......

Bar from my daysack, tore the paper off with my teeth and awkwardly nibbled at it as I jogged along a back lane I knew so well. A runner came hurtling past us as we ran down a muddy field to Flascoe Bridge. Whoever he was, he took a wrong turning shortly afterwards and missed out the final check point.  Shortly after Flascoe Bridge Heather was reduced to a walk, complaining she'd pulled a muscle, and Clive dropped back to help her over the next section of the route that climbed a strength sapping 400ft over Robin Proctor Scar in the next mile or so - a nasty sting in the tail where I was reduced to a walk up the final steep bit.

Runners at Flascoe Bridge

After that it was more or less all level and downhill along Thwaite Lane and back through the tunnel to the Finish at CRO headquarters in Clapham village. As I ran down the village street, intent on breaking 3 hours, two runners came flying past and beat me to the Finish by a mere two or three seconds. "We were in the lead" they told the Finish marshal, "hoping to finish in 1 hour 40 minutes, but took a wrong turning and got 4 miles off route". The marshal seemed far more interested in their tale of woe than he was about checking us in as we trooped upstairs to his office to be awarded certificates and medals. My recorded time was 2 hours 58 minutes, a minute more than the two who'd sneaked ahead of me. Seconds didn't count and none were recorded in any of our times. 

Meanwhile, my wonderful partner had arrived at the Finish shortly after me but there was no-one around to

.....and all for this!

check her in and no-one responded to her shouts - which she thought was a bit of a shambles!  How was she to know we were all busy chatting in an office hidden away upstairs? And why wasn't there someone permanently on duty at the Finish? After eventually finding her way to the office her time was recorded as 2.59 - a minute after me - so happy with that. Heather and Clive finished 3 minutes later in 3.02. 

After such a battle with the elements and treacherous underfoot conditions I felt totally exhausted. My fingers were so cold I'd great difficulty untying the laces of my shoes and hauling off wet clothes in order to get changed in a cubicle of the National Park toilets. Once I'd fought my way into them, dry clothes were sheer bliss and a hot cup of tea at a friend's cosy house on the way home never tasted better. My wonderful partner was adamant she'll never run the 'Challenge' again whilst I vowed to murder the woman in our village who'd talked us into doing it - just before she shot off for a holiday in Pembrokeshire where the weather was apparently glorious.   Grrrrrr!

Another milestone......

  

Maybe a week's supply - a few years ago....

The May Day bank holiday marked another milestone in the chequered life of Old Runningfox when, by God's grace, he reached the grand old age of 81. It's 27 years now since the simple act of running transformed my life. I'd survived 30 years of heavy smoking - cigarettes, pipe, cigars - and every drag inhaled as far down as it would go. Wine, women and song were my specialities - along with strong beer and copious amounts of the hard stuff. I'd sink a couple of bottles of whisky around town and still hit the keyhole with my key - first time - after I'd driven home! Friends who called and sampled my home brew quite often never made it back home. A chap painting the exterior of my house foolishly drank a glass during his lunch break and quietly disappeared for the rest of the day leaving his ladder still leaning against the wall. I drank the stuff copiously, like tea, as my belly was proof!
   Then, in my 54th year, along came 'running' and by some miracle - or because 'someone up there loves

Celandines, anemones and blackthorn on the river path...

me' - my lifestyle changed beyond all belief, my lungs cleared of all their multi-coloured gunge (though much reduced in air capacity) and my grossly abused liver must have totally regenerated. From a debauched, overweight and out of shape body came a slimmed down athlete who'd subsequently run thousands of miles, rise to the top of National Rankings - and even feature in World Rankings, if you looked far enough down the list!  It's my belief, and I say this with the deepest conviction, that had I not stepped out of the door that April day in 1986 for my first tentative steps into the world of running I wouldn't have been around yesterday to celebrate my 81st birthday.  At a recent service Rev David Macha asked the question "When did you first realize that God loves you?"  I could tell him - almost to the hour!
  

Leaving Mossdale on Saturday....

The weather was kind last week, temperatures reaching a warm 61ºF, enabling me to strip down to shorts and vest for most of my meanderings round the countryside and up into the hills. Spring flowers and bright blossoms had brought out bumble bees and butterflies. Farmers ploughed straight furrows across barren fields, and waved as I loped past. Lambs charged around their broad pastures, every now and then springing straight up into the air, or playing 'king of the castle' - as they do when they feel a bit of sun on their woolly backs! At such times it feels really good to be a runner, belonging to it all, part of the great scheme of things. The ground had dried too, enabling me to maintain a mainly steady pace, except where horses had made hock deep holes through woodland rides. In four runs last week I clocked up 26 miles, the last ten being an enjoyable romp into the wilds of Mossdale for the first time this year.
   A cuckoo calling from the wooded bank opposite woke me before 6am on my birthday, a bit too early for me, but a welcome sound

Where the sand martins live....

nevertheless. The sun was already up, its light through the open curtains ensuring I didn't go back to sleep. After breakfast, and a peek at all my presents, I set off along the riverbank for a 10 mile tempo run to Barden Bridge and back. Being May Day, an official holiday, this beautiful area was swarming with walkers - and their dogs - so it wasn't easy maintaining a steady pace along the sometimes narrow paths. A gi-normous parking field in Burnsall was almost full to capacity, costing £5 per car with lesser charges for pedestrians and picnickers. I reckon the owner must have raked in nearly £2,000 that day. The ice-cream man wouldn't do too badly either.
  

Fisherman - maybe listening to the sandpiper?

A fisherman had a novel way of escaping the crowds - standing in the middle of the river, serenaded by a chittering sandpiper as he cast his line. From their holes in the far bank sand martins skimmed the surface of the water for flies. Wood anemones, lesser celandines, primroses, and bluebells flowered in profusion beside the hedgerows and under the blosson ladened blackthorns. It was a feel-good sort of day when most people I passed were cheerful and returned my greetings - which is not always the case! The miles passed easily and not too fast, given the 60 gates and stiles to negotiate, and I was able to keep a regular pace between times - up hill, down hill and on the flat - which augers well for next Saturday's CRO Challenge which is only two miles farther though a heck of a lot hillier.
   Then, early on Sunday morning,we travel north for our annual camping holiday to the Inner Hebrides - Mull, Ulva and Iona - so this Blog will be closing down until we get back (makes mental note to put pen and notebook in rucksack, otherwise I'll never remember all the things we do).