A slight niggle.....

Giving my legs some 'Stick'.....(click to enlarge)

Short rest among the blubells, Appletreewick.....

      For the first time in years - six years to be precise - my Rt calf muscle was playing up a bit last weekend. Back in 2008 I'd a painful bout of Plantar Fascitis in my left foot which only went away after an even more painful cortisone injection. For reasons I can't remember - maybe it was just an experiment - I got it into my head that some off the shelf orthotics might prevent further attacks of the dreaded PF. I've been wearing them ever since in all my training shoes, dress shoes, walking boots, etc. everything except my Teva sandals and seaside flip-flops, and sure enough I've never been bothered with PF again. And there was an added bonus.
      Until that time, six years ago, I'd been plagued with intermittent calf muscle problems that frustratingly set me back weeks of training, inevitably just when I was getting fit for some big event.  Putting ¾ length Orthaheel Regular orthotics into my shoes put paid to all those calf injuries and annoying little niggles too. Until yesterday.

Reflections at Hebden suspension bridge.....

      Half way through a six mile run there was a sudden twinge in my Rt calf that slowed me to a walk. The only reason I could think of for this was that I was wearing different shoes, Inov-8 Roclites instead of my trusty New Balance MT 101 trail shoes.  I've had 5 pairs of the latter of which I'm still using 3 pairs, but they're all getting pretty much worn down now. In their infinite wisdom New Balance stopped producing them even though many trail/fell runners swore they were the most comfortable shoes they'd ever worn.

      The good news is, according to a Facebook message from Anton Krupicka, a New Balance sponsored athlete, common sense has prevailed and the MT 101 will be revamped, reinstated and come back into production in early 2015. I've consequently emailed the New Balance factory shop asking them to inform me as soon as these shoes come back into stock.  In the meantime I've shelved the offending Inov-8's - much as I used to love them - given my legs a whole load of 'Stick', an almost full jar of embrocation and applied a compression sock kindly supplied by the hospital after my recent operation. I'm happy to report I haven't the least semblance of a twinge at this moment in time. Tomorrow, I'll most certainly be reverting back to my MT 101's for my morning run.

....a horse came to say 'Hello'.

      Last week saw the return of swallows to the village and I thought I saw a swift dipping down from under the eaves where they've successfully nested the last few years. On the swollen river Wharfe young ducklings are causing a stir among tourists who think they're being washed away from their mums by strong currents, though they always seem to get rounded up again. After daffodils and sun-loving anemones, a rich carpet of bluebells, interspersed with stitchwort, now adorns the grassy woodland near the campsite at Appletreewick. Farther along the road another entrepreneurial farmer is promoting his field as a campsite for a few days bordering the Tour of France cycle race Grand Dêpart that begins in Yorkshire on 5th July.
      There's little else to report really. Saturday's run through Grassington was one of the quietest ever with hardly a soul around. So I was happy when this friendly horse came to say 'Hello'........

We're back.....

Our alternative wild camp on Ulva....(Click to enlarge)

      ......after a wonderful sunny Easter camping on the islands of Mull, Ulva and Iona in the Inner Hebrides. It's a time of year we always look forward to - 'when 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). Actually, we were rather hoping for the voice of the corncrake but if it had in fact flown back from its winter quarters in Africa, it was keeping quiet. Probably suffering a wee bit of jet-lag. Flowers had already appeared in abundance, violets being so profuse on Ulva they were even growing in our tent.

      In years past we've camped in a sheltered bay

A cushion of primroses.....

on a patch of grass less than six feet away from the sea at high tide, though protected by a substantial sea wall. Nosy seals would leave their skerries and swim across to investigate as we pitched our tent right next to their hunting grounds. We'd hear them splashing around and grunting in the bay as we lay in our warm sleeping bags through the hours of darkness. Alas, when we arrived there this year our 'secret camp' was covered in a thick blanket of seaweed deposited by the same violent Spring tides that had devastated coastlines all round the country.

Ulva eagle.....

      It didn't take long to find an alternative site less than fifty yards away on a raised hillock where we pitched our tent with its back to the wind on a surprisingly flat and comfortable bit of turf. Thermarests were inflated, sleeping bags spread out to 'loft', water bottles filled from the burn and our wee stove purring away nicely for our first well earned cup of tea. Home from home. The views around us and out to sea were, as usual, quite mind-blowing. Seals were singing on their skerries and a noisy wren, nesting in a nearby ruin, kept bursting into song too. Deer surveyed us from a high skyline, a pair of shelduck were regular feeders in the bay, a golden eagle mobbed by gulls provided a brief bit of excitement while newly arrived wheatears flitted from stone to stone. Great clumps of primroses mingled with violets to give a dazzling display. Skylarks sang and all was well in our wonderful world.

      On Good Friday we enjoyed wall to wall sunshine as we struck camp to walk the 3½ miles to Ulva ferry

Bothy on Ulva with Ben More rising across the water.....

en route to Iona. Every time we leave, the stock question of Donald Munro, the ferryman, has been "Did you see the eagle?". This year, for only the second time, we were able to answer in the affirmative. Our theory regarding why we haven't seen it more often is because most of its hunting has to be done on the island of Mull where food is more plentiful. The rabbit population on Ulva has been decimated by North American Mink, a cute looking little animal but unfortunately quite deadly. On one of our walks we found a hind leg of a mountain hare that had probably been brought from Mull by a foraging eagle though I believe a few mountain hares do exist on Ulva.

The Loch Buidhe arrives at Iona

      After a forty mile drive on narrow switchback roads, with passing places, we arrived at Fionnphort to park up and sort out gear to take across to Iona. Our ferry, the Loch Buidhe, had raised it's ramp and about to sail as we reached the slipway. But we were spotted and the ramp lowered again to allow us on board. They're very kind, these Hebridean people. In little more than an hour we'd reached the official campsite at Cnoc-Oran, erected our tent and had some water boiling for our first brew. A pair of geese greeted us from an adjacent field, skylarks scattered their notes from a cloudless sky and lambs gambolled happily in the warm sunshine before bleating loudly because they'd lost their mums.. The site owner, assisted by his mum, arrived shortly with a bench and picnic table for our sole use.

      Being very much creatures of habit we tend to do the same things and visit the same places each time we

Taking a breather by the jetty on our morning run....

set foot on the island. And we never tire of doing so. We run the same circuit, up the hill to Maol, on past the Nunnery to Iona Abbey, then back via the Bishop's House and along the seashore by the dazzling white sands of Martyrs Bay.  It's only around 3½ miles but most invigorating in the clear, unpolluted air. Speed comes naturally on Iona. A new sign had gone up since our last visit, at the place where corncrakes are most likely to be heard on the island. I say 'heard' because they're skulking birds and therefore very rarely seen - though one near the Abbey must have been specially trained to strut about in full view to attract bird watchers from near and far!

Cairn on Dun I just above the 'Well of Eternal Youth'.....

      Iona's highest hill, Dun I (pronounced Dun-ee), is another place that always demands a visit, not just because of its extensive views to other Hebridean islands, mountains, lighthouses and shining white beaches, but also to indulge our ritual dabbling in the 'Well of Eternal Youth' that springs just below the summit. I've been doing this each time I've visited the island since working there way back in 1949 and like to kid people it accounts for my longevity (not that 82 is very old). This year, as I wet my face and hair with the magic water, I remarked to an onlooker "It really works, you know". All I got from him was a grunt before he went away - swearing to his partner about something or other.

      Besides being pilgrims and runners we're also tourists and do what all tourists do, i.e. stick our noses in

A glass of Rosê and new earrings - celebrating in the Mediterranea
restaurant at Salen, Isle of Mull....

all the shops searching for suitable souvenirs or mementos to take home. The Iona Community shop can usually extract money from our wallets and this year was no exception. Celtic earings usually satisfy my wonderful partner but her collection over the years prompted her to plump for some a little different this time, ones with a shiny moonstone mounted into them. Very attractive. Being somewhat harder to please I was about to leave with nothing until a book called 'Running over Rocks' by Ian Adams shouted at me from the top shelf. It's not really a book about running at all, more a manual of spiritual practices to cope with the rocky roads we travel. I was captivated by it's beautiful poetry and lilting prose, so it wasn't long before my hand was reaching for my wallet.
      Which is where I've got to end. I'm away for a quiet read before turning in......night night.......

Colours of the Day.....

Yellow gorse, daffodils and cloud dappled sky - suitable for runners

      It was a bit of a lean week last week. Three days of thick fog meant it never came properly daylight so that I'd to have lights on in the house, all day. With visibility down to 30 metres I couldn't even see across the field so felt pretty much marooned in my little cottage that peered out into grey nothingness. Mind you, encroaching cataracts don't help either. It was all very depressing.  Not that I know what depression is though someone said I'd certainly recognize it if I had it. So far as I'm concerned it's the state you get into when you can't run.  

       On the opposite side of the coin, when the sun

Flowering currant brightening my garden...

comes out to highlight all the colours of the day my sense of well-being can border on euphoria, as it did for a little while at the beginning of last week, before the days of doom and gloom.  Spring was everywhere, hawthorn hedges bursting into leaf, blackthorn and wood anemones forming a white haze, flowering currant red against the vivid blue sky, splashes of yellow from daffodils, gorse, forsythia and a myriad celandines worshipping the sun beneath waving catkins. Ducks dabbled, spindly legged lambs were being born even as we ran past whilst back in the village a happy thrush sang his morning matins from the topmost branch of the tallest tree.

      

Forsythia at Low Common....

  And I got to singing too last week. I recall flinging the bedclothes back and springing out of bed one
morning singing Land of Hope and Glory. It's not often I do that. Especially if there's anyone around!  But it isn't just me.  Spring invokes this marvellous, uplifting and life-giving phenomena in the whole of creation, birds, beasts, flowers and trees. As a runner flowing through this rich landscape I'm acutely aware of the pageant that unfolds all around me, from the flowers around my feet to the skylark's notes showering from above.
      

Blackthorn by the Wharfe....

 
Somewhere on my wild travels, and I hope someone will tell me where, I recall seeing a plaque tacked to a boulder and inscribed with words from Psalm 150: "Let everything that has breath praise the Lord".  Surrounded by such beauty in the flush of Spring I hear Earth's Amens in a thousand different voices, mingling with my own as I run in ceaseless wonder through all the marvels of His wonderful creation...

We woz lucky....

      All our camping gear was packed ready for spending a weekend at Wold Farm, near Flamborough, on

Content in our cosy corner - our first camp of the year...

Yorkshire's east coast, but a last minute check on the internet revealed the site wasn't open until Monday - the day after the weekend. An email to the site owner, asking if we could come anyway, failed to get a reply. We assumed that meant 'No'.  Instead, we opted for a favourite site in the Lake District and were jolly thankful we did. The weather on the east coast turned out to be cold, grey and grizzly whereas Langdale languished under warm, sunny skies when the temperature rose to a balmy 19ºC. The Langdale site is also a working farm, so we shared it with sheep, geese, hens - and cockerels competing for which could crow loudest. As regards pitches, we were somewhat spoilt for choice. It's hard to make up your mind when you're the only ones there and, like the hens, have free range.  We opted for a sheltered corner we judged would likely catch the most sunshine - morning and evening - pitched the tent, filled our water bottles, got out the chairs and settled down for a brew. We'd arrived.
      

Racing my shadow under that craggy fell.......

     In truth, we didn't do very much, but probably a little more than I should have done given how I'd undergone a fairly serious operation less than two weeks before (nurse's opinion, though not necessarily mine). However, it wasn't long before a craggy fell towering into the boundless blue lured us from our chairs and had us tramping upwards towards its cairn and Trig point at well over a thousand feet. A family group with a couple of energetic children were rooted at the summit. Naturally, the kids wanted to play but every time they set foot away from their parents they got shouted at.  We didn't stay long!  By 11.30 we were eating lunch and wondering what to do in the afternoon.  We never go anywhere we can't run. Cornwall and the Canary Islands are our warm weather training camps whereas places like Switzerland, Scotland and the Lake district are used for hillwork, for putting strength and stamina into our legs. Or that's the plan.  On this occasion I chickened out of hill running being more in favour of a flatter circuit around the tarn adjacent to the campsite. And very enjoyable it was too. Wrapped in hills, serenaded with intermittent birdsong on a daffodil dotted trail with Canada geese bugling their welcomes beside the sparkling water proved a real tonic that transported me miles away from the smell of hospital wards.  It's good to be a runner.
     

       Sunday proved a classic example of Rabbie Burns' lines - The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang

Angle Tarn, and a wee bit of snow on the hills....

aft a-gley - and they sure did.  I'd foolishly set my heart on climbing England's highest mountain - Scafell Pike - but in my weakened decrepit state failed miserably. Nevertheless, it felt good to be back in high and lonely places with wheatears, meadow pipits and skylarks for company as we toiled up the much refurbished Rossett Ghyll. Conservation workers have done a first class job of making the rocky path more amenable to the trekking hoards. Amazingly, of the many thousands of interlocking stones that form the trail I never came across one that was loose, tilted or rocked about. After 1,700ft of climbing I'll admit to feeling pretty knackered by the time we reached Angle Tarn, so was soon rooting around in my befuddled brain for a Plan B - or maybe C.  There was no way I was going to make it to Scafell Pike. We eventually decided on a route considered the easiest option, viz. traversing round the back of Rossett Pike and descending by Stakes Pass back to the valley floor. It was a good choice because that path too had undergone much conservation work making for a faster descent than we'd anticipated, down to the bridge over the river where we stopped for a bite to eat and a belated swig of juice.
      

Back down, crossing the river below Stake Pass...

     A runner jogged past and spoke briefly, making me a little envious, until he dropped to the ground a few hundred yards beyond us and failed to get up. We watched for a while but he stayed sat down until I became a little worried. After a while, some walkers passed him by and had a quick word to ask if he was alright. He assured them he was and was just changing into something warmer before proceeding on his way. Well, it was sure taking him a long time. One of the walkers said "He didn't look like a proper fell runner". I'm not sure how he came to that conclusion but funnily enough, I'd thought the same thing. "He was far too polite to be a fell runner" I'd said to my wonderful partner!  We left Him. I hope he was OK. Back at the Old Dungeon Ghyll car parking area I was a bit embarrassed when two gentlemen addressed me by name while I'd no recollection of ever seeing either of them before. They knew me because they live in the same town as me and both members of the same athletic club as me, Longwood Harriers, and were familiar with my exploits. Even when they told me their names I'd to shamefully admit I'd never heard of them.  I hate getting in those situations when people seem to know all about me and I'm clueless about them.
     

   

Lakeland icons - Pike o' Stickle and a Herdwick sheep...

  In spite of an early departure to avoid traffic the journey home was very much a stop/start affair, and very annoying it proved to be. Miles and miles of highway had been coned off, and a 30mph limit imposed, when nothing at all was going on in the way of work, nor any hint of work ever having begun. Nearer home there was another mile long queue of traffic at a set of traffic lights where again, nothing was apparent in the way of work.  Maybe they're just practicing, getting ready for the usual holiday disruption. After all, it's not very long to Easter.....   

       Instructions given to me by nurse on leaving hospital was to drink a glass of water every hour to flush the system, something I'd very much neglected to do while sweating around the hills all day with just a half litre of electrolyte juice in my sack - which I hardly touched.  I reckoned that was a perfectly good reason to visit our local hostelry in the evening to restore the status quo with some of the best water I've ever tasted. It's refinement is due to the expertise of a certain gentleman called Timothy Taylor who has a processing plant somewhere in Keighley.  I'm not sure what he does to it but it's much nicer than the ordinary insipid stuff and slips down the throat much easier. Before, during and after a delectable roast beef dinner I reckon I made up for around eight hours worth of missing fluid. I'm sure nurse would be very pleased with that......

Rehabilitation.......

Returning from a three mile run in the sun today..........

     I take back what I posted last week, implying I wasn't going to be running for quite some time.  My hospital sojourn wasn't as traumatic as I'd been led to believe it would be, thanks to the expertise of the Consultant Surgeon (Mr Nicolas Bryan) and reassuring skills of the anaesthetist (Dr Keith Judkins).  It was an operation they might normally have been reluctant to perform on someone of my age but according to Mr Bryan I've the body of someone thirty years younger. I hope that means I'll live up to thirty years longer!  Drips and catheters were all out at the end of the second night, the old man was out of bed, stomping up and down the corridor, ready to be taken home - all inside 48 hours. My parting 'million dollar question' to Mr Bryan, an hour before discharge, was "When will I be able to start running again?" The answer I was expecting was 'in 4 to 6 weeks' so was pretty flabbergasted when he said "As soon as ever you like, but take it easy for the next 24 hours or so". To err on the safe side I gave it 27.  I'm lucky in being able to step out of the door straight into a wide open field with a good sandy path along two sides of it and well trodden turf (by dog walkers) at the other two sides.  And that's where I ran for the first three days after my discharge - four circuits on Friday, six Saturday and eleven Sunday.

.......and a bumble bee enjoying the sun too

      I've been wearing anti-embolism (compression) stockings and told not to remove them for any longer than 15 minutes (long enough for a shower) until reaching my normal level of mobility. Dunno whether they think I might be susceptible to DVT but they even gave me a spare pair to bring home (and the nurse rang yesterday to check I was doing as I was told). I'm afraid they came off for a little longer today. The sun was shining, it was warm and I wanted to wear shorts without the embarrassment of being seen running around in long white stockings. I'm no Juantorena! Instead of circuits round the adjacent field I set off towards the village and turned into the cemetery for a few laps and zig-zags among the sleeping residents. It's reasonably flat so I could breathe easily while hardly breaking into a sweat. It was difficult limiting myself to three miles on such a gorgeous day but stopped my watch on the dot after 33 enjoyable minutes. Nothing special, but quite a bonus considering I wasn't expecting to be running at all for another month or so.
       I've decided that deserves a glass of wine....

Blackthorn winter.....

Wednesday, bright blossom and blue sky on Castle Hill..

       It seems likely my actual running activities are going to be put on hold for several weeks but if I can think of anything running related that might be of interest I'll try to keep my blog active and updated. Though I've been mainly winding down, relaxing, putting my brain into neutral, I managed three enjoyable runs last week amounting to a healthy 19 miles. The first two, a six and a five, were run in warm Spring sunshine and it felt really good to be running in shorts and vest again. The third, an eight miler on Sunday, was totally different. The dreaded blackthorn winter had set in.  We'd awakened to blue sky, a few fluffy clouds and a gentle breeze twangling the wind chimes below our window. Gulls and geese were already about their business and having a few arguments by the sound of them. By breakfast time the breeze had become a jostling wind, the sun went back to bed under a thick blanket of cloud, mercury dropped and barometers heralded the return of low pressure. After jogging round the village delivering Parish newsletters my wonderful partner was glad to get back to a hot shower and reviving mug of coffee. 

       Realising it would be my last run for quite some time I forced myself into running gear, pressed the Start button on my Garmin

Blackthorn - harbinger of cold weather....

and set off up the ghyll with no idea where I was heading. I just kept going.  I'd been advised to stay low but felt I needed something more challenging - and I certainly got it!  Some first early primroses peeped from their bright green foliage to cheer me up the lower part of the ghyll. At Hole Bottom new born lambs were staggering after their mums on wobbly legs. At Cupola Corner a skylark was in full song as it soared higher and higher, regardless of wind that had reached gale force away from the confines of the ghyll. I was lucky at that stage, the blast was behind me as I jogged onto the open moor, though it froze the back of my neck.   My brain was on automatic pilot, my senses acutely attuned to everything around me. Golden plovers piped their plantive notes, staking claims to prospective breeding plots. Startled grouse flew low to more substantial cover. And all the time the wind grew stronger and colder. On turning uphill following a faint sheep trod it struck me full frontal.  My eyes watered and I struggled to maintain any forward momentum towards an unnamed pothole I use as a marker at around 1,500ft on Bycliffe Hill. My chest felt it had a block of ice inside it, my bare legs were tingling cold but, strangely, I felt incredibly exhilarated having reached a real high - in more ways than one.

Sunday, all doom and gloom looking back down Grassington Moor.....

     Photographs were out of focus because I couldn't hold the camera still! Also, my camera has an aversion to really cold weather and refuses to open up. I gave up trying. At the Stone man I could hardly stand up but lingered a couple of minutes, savouring the experience. From there it was a bare couple of hundred metres downhill to the lee of a long wall leading to less windy conditions in the ghyll. As my body warmed up again my stride became more fluent and over the last three miles my feet hardly touched the ground, or so it felt. Quite unexpectedly I returned home a very happy runner indeed, refreshed and invigorated, as if my old body had undergone a thorough Spring clean. No records were broken. It was all about enjoyment....
       Later, in Church that afternoon, our minister referred to a passage from Genesis I'd just read for her, when God told Abram "to go to a land I will show you".   "I wonder if Gordon on some of his runs ever gets to places he hadn't intended to go?" she pondered.
       Funny she should say that!

Spring.....

      Replacing my ancient Nokia PAYG cellphone (that cost me all of £10 a year to run) with the latest state

Spring lambs....

of the art Moto G was probably not a good idea. I love the look of my new toy, and I like the feel of it, but when it it comes down to more practical matters, such as actually using it, I'm pretty clueless. It has a mind of its own and its little electronic chip performs considerably faster than my much bigger brain. And it does things I don't want it to do - like downloading a few thousand pictures from Picasa and clogging up most of its storage space. I spent a mainly sleepless night figuring out how to get rid of them.  After successfully solving that problem I decided it might be a good idea to dispense with many of the old 9,000+ pictures stored in Picasa, my picture editing programme, to free up space on my computer hard drive. Unfortunately, I found out rather belatedly that deleting pictures from Picasa also deleted pictures from my blog - including a page wide banner at the top and the little Runningfox above my profile. My blog was in tatters with an awful lot of empty spaces. But, surprise surprise, those latter two pictures and one or two others turned up once more in the bowels of my new iphone so I was able to replace them. I spent an awful lot of time repairing the damage but afraid I ran out of patience so many previous postings will be permanently without pictures. Lesson learnt.....

Spring smile - at the Stone Man....

     In the meantime Spring has sprung. Snowdrops, crocuses and daffodils have brought gardens back to life. Curlews are calling again up on the moor, lapwings are performing their crazy aerial dances over prospective nest sites, frogs are spawning noisily in scattered ponds, new born lambs are suckling their mums in sunny pastures, coltsfoot and celandines are flowering in the ghyll and a mistle thrush in the top branches of an elm couldn't contain his joy.  For the first time in weeks we've slept with the bedroom window open to be awakened by pre-dawn birdsong, a skein of geese bugling across the moonlit sky and a cock pheasant calling from a garden up the lane. A good start to the day.  And for the first time in Britain this year I've been running in shorts, though it was a little chilly at 1,500ft by the Stone Man on Grassington Moor where my wonderful partner was still togged up for the north pole. Either way, it felt good to be there, breathing that reviving uncontaminated air.
      Our lonely 7½ mile run on Saturday was followed by a 6½ mile jaunt around Fewston and

Spring in my step - at Fewston reservoir.....

Swinsty reservoirs on Sunday where, by contrast, the world and his wife were out to enjoy the blossoming Spring. The parking lot was full to capacity so we'd to wait until someone drove away and vacated a space. Runners were out in force, some more serious ones doing two laps of the 6½ mile circuit. Whole families with children, prams and dogs strolled leisurely around, enjoying the warm sunshine, while mountain bikers drove far too fast and were a bit of a menace on the narrow path. We made mental notes never to run there again at weekends!  Runningwise, that was my week, just two runs and fourteen miles/1,560ft ascent. Better than nothing, I suppose......

Ups and downs.....

Stormy arrival at Los Cancajos....

     We didn't have the smoothest of starts to our La Palma holiday - though all ended well. After losing time with a slight navigational faux pas in darkness on our way to the airport parking lot, the automatic number plate recognition device was still asleep and incapable of lifting the barrier to allow us in.  Luckily, a lady's voice inside a metal box with buttons and flashing lights gave alternative means of gaining access so we were soon prowling round looking for an empty space among the thousands of occupied slots. We eventually found one and were soon aboard the shuttle bus bound for Terminal 2.  Our take-off was a bit behind schedule, then further delayed by 100mph headwinds on the flight south, so we arrived a little late.
      

      At Taburiente Playa in Los Cancajos we were allotted room number 438 which, we discovered, was

Hotel verandah awash with rain...

north facing and never got the faintest glimmer of sunlight. We were having none of that and were back down in Reception within minutes demanding a change. After a none too friendly exchange of words we were given room number 413 facing south and overlooking the swimming pools. Next morning we'd thunder and lightning with lashing rain and gale force wind that threatened to tear out surrounding trees by their roots. Our local Tourist Information Office, five minutes walk away, warned of severe weather with strong winds, snow on hills, and consequent closure of all high level footpaths.
      

Waves and white horses...

     Things improved a little next day with warm sunshine between showers, but still a raging wind that had an army of white horses galloping across the sea. Waves crashed against the rocks sending rainbow spray high into the air and flooding the promenade. High hills were indeed covered with snow but wild conditions made our morning run all the more spectacular and exhilerating. Our holiday had officially begun.....albeit a couple of days late.  So what were the highlights?
      

       PICO BEJENADO.  We set off to walk/jog

Mount Teide, miles away on Tenerife....

the classic Volcano Route, regarded by many as the finest day's walk in all the Canary Islands, but we alighted from the bus by the National Park Visitor Centre to see the whole of the Cumbrae Nueva ridge swathed in thick cloud. To the north Pico Bejenado's lofty tree-clad summit basked in glorious sunshine with nary a cloud to be seen. So, instead of making for El Pilar we climbed into a taxi and instructed the driver to head for El Barrial at the end of the tarmac road where a long trail begins its upward journey through a forest of Canary Pines to the 6,082ft summit. Out of the wind it was warm work but we made fast progress in lightweight gear - shorts, T-shirt and trail shoes - so we'd reached the summit cairn before noon.. Patches of snow still lingered on the rocky path whilst over on Tenerife Mount Teide, highest mountain in Spain, rose shining white above a sea of cloud.
      

Happy couple on summit of Pico Bejenado...note that sky.

      In spite of warm sunshine the local lizard population probably still regarded it as winter and were conspicuous by their absense. In summertime they're foraging for titbits around our feet and even probing into our rucksacks. Last year's friendly raven was missing too. It would perch at arms length and take food from our fingers. All we saw this time were two small brown birds we couldn't identify. We spent half an hour or so on the summit, enjoying the incredible views and breathing the clear air while eating lunch. There's a Visitors book in a metal box at the cairn but some thoughtless person had left the lid off and it had more or less disintegrated. A steady stream of walkers, mostly Germans, joined us at the cairn. Time to depart. It was a long walk back to the Visitor Centre where we'd catch a bus back.
      

       THE VOLCANO ROUTE.  Our alarm woke us at 06.30 so we'd breakfasted and quickly on our way

Standing by the Hoyo Negra, literally the black hole...

to catch the 08.00 Los Llanos bus as far as the National Park Visitor Centre. From there we climbed straight into a taxi bound for Refugio El Pilar, the start of our day's activities. The Sunflower Guide advises walkers to be well equipped with hiking boots, sun hat, sun glasses, sun cream, rain gear, warm cardigan, anorak, picnic and plenty of water. I was in my usual lightweight trail gear and never drank a drop of water throughout the 12 miles and 1,600ft of ascent, not until I got back to the hotel some six hours later.  I'll confess to sucking a couple of Polo mints en route but saved a muesli bar until the finish, before boarding the bus in Fuencaliente back to Cancajos. Having walked/jogged the Volcano Route four times previously it holds no fears for either of us. We've done much harder things on coast to coast jaunts over Scottish mountains.
      

Our begging friends, the ravens at Vulcan Deseada...

    We'd the trail pretty much to ourselves for the first three to four miles. A couple who got out of a taxi at the same time as us, and a couple of heavily laden girls who'd probably spent a night in the Refuge, were soon behind us as we strolled uphill through the pines. There'd been a slight frost overnight, there was a nip in the air and the trail was crunchy underfoot. We crossed a wooden bridge and climbed out of the pines into an almost bare, but colourful, volcanic landscape. An impressive black crater, the Hoyo Negra, was well named and maybe it was coincidence that two great black birds, ravens, landed on the path beside us to say hello and pose for photographs. In reality, I suppose they were begging for food!
      

      The steepest part of the route was a sandy, slippery climb onto Pico Deseada which seemed longer than

The lighter coloured dwarf pines...

on previous occasions. Maybe it's because I'm getting older. We paused at the trig point to take photographs of the crater where, lo and behold, the friendly ravens flew down again and strutted in front of our cameras, determined to get in the picture. Leaving Deseada we could jog down the sandy slope, to where a minor path crosses our main highway, the GR 131. A runner caught up with us and showed us a water tap in a rock wall about 25m to our right that ran icy cold for anyone needing refreshment. That was new to us. Soon we were back into the pines, a low growing wonderfully light green variety dotting the landscape towards brightly coloured Vulcan St Martin.
      

      We detoured off the main trail onto the rim of the volcano to peer into its depths and photograph the striking colours before continuing on our way. We were well ahead of schedule for our 2 o'clock bus so had time to linger, revellimg in all the magic and mystery of that incredible ancient landscape. More runners past us, a group of three

Runners emerging from the misty forest...

who moved sure footedly across the rocky, uneven terrain. Most likely they were familiarising themselves with parts of the 53 mile long Transvulcania race that takes place every May and attracts top sky runners from all over the world. If only I'd my time to come over again! In younger years I'd never heard of such things. The Three Peaks of Yorkshire (24 miles/4,500ft ascent) was the only long distance event I knew of - and I couldn't wait to take part in it when I started running at the tender age of 54. It was an easy jog/walk through mist enshrouded forest to the tarmac streets of Fuencaliente and the end of another little adventure.
      

      ROQUE DE LOS MUCHACHOS TO MIRADOR EL TIME.  There was some slight indecision

Excited in the clear air at 8,000ft, but had to don a fleece.....

before embarking on this route. After an early breakfast we stuck our noses out to sniff the air and gauge the weather. It didn't look good. Thick clag, poor visibility and a stiff wind didn't bode well for a walk starting at almost 8,000ft with the prospect of snow on all high level trails. I disappeared into the loo telling my wonderful partner "I'll meditate on it". Five minutes later I re-appeared and said "Let's go" before shouldering our tiny rucksacks and ordering a taxi for 8am. It arrived, spot on time, though the driver could hardly believe that the couple stood outside dressed in shorts and carrying a minimum of gear were actually going to attempt such a high level route that wasn't even in our guide book.
     

Snow, cloud and telescopes....

     "Where are your trekking poles?" he inquired. "We don't use poles, we're runners" I explained, though in actual fact we hardly broke into a trot all day. We got stuck in a traffic jam at road works approaching Santa Cruz as the meter ticked over at a seemingly great rate of knots, racking up the Euros. We escaped and zoomed uphill rapidly round the myriad hairpin bends following four carloads of workers who reputedly make this nightmare journey every day to operate and service the huge telescopes at the Observatories. It rained, windscreen wipers were turned on and as we rose higher into the cold air our windows steamed up.  Then, all at once, we experienced a magical cloud inversion that even got our taxi driver excited and animated. We cringed as he turned to us with one hand on the wheel and pointed out different things of interest - mainly Mount Teide which he pronounced tay ee day. Snow was piled by the roadside and icicles hung from the rocks. The air was crystal clear (which is why all those telescopes are mounted up there) with not the faintest trace of mist or haze under a deep blue sky.
     

      The driver got out of his car with us to gaze for a wee while at the incredible sights - seeming as

Setting off down the snowy trail to Mirador El Time....

gobsmacked as we were. At 9.10am it was freezing cold and my wonderful partner feared we might suffer discomfort all the way down - a drop of over 6,000ft to the fleshpots of El Time - so was anxious to get under way pretty smartish. Snow lingered on the trail, making it understandable why our driver had questioned us about trekking poles, but there was nothing we ever considered dangerous or difficult to cope with. And as we dropped down the ridge the wind eased and warm sunshine made walking very pleasurable indeed as never ending exciting panoramas unfolded before us.
      

Pico Bejenado in a sea of cloud across the Caldera Taburiente....

     For me, this route far outshines the more popular Volcano route, though after walking the latter five times it's probably getting a wee bit boring... This one maintains interest all the way down, even on the steep and uneven rocky path over the latter stages where some astute balancing is required to remain upright. It didn't always work (!) but we finished unscathed. There are fantastic views into the cloudy depths of the Caldera while Pico Bejenado towers across the mile deep crater enticing photographers to take endless pictures. On a steeper, gravelly part of the path a German lady strode easily upwards in bare feet, carrying her boots. "It's good" she said, "It's nice". I couldn't have agreed less!
      

      After terraced vineyards and trees ladened with almond blossom we arrived somewhat wearily at

Down the rocky path where balance is required...

Mirador El Time after nearly six hours on the trail and deposited ourselves on the kerb to flag down the 4 o'clock bus. It connected with the 4.30 bus in Los Llanos for the journey back to our hotel. For me, this had been the walk that made all else seem anti-climax. It was time to relax by the pool, to swim, soak up the sun and hopefully acquire a semblance of a tan to ward off the winter blues before returning home in search of Spring.  Oh, I almost forgot. this being a running blog, we did in fact get out running on nine of our fourteen days over a regular four mile circuit round 'the ridge' with 380ft of ascent to strengthen the old legs. And after eating like kings (and queens) with an abundance of mouth watering dishes, we both managed to lose weight. I reckon we should go to La Palma more often.......

Croaky and creaky.....

      The temperature was well below zero when I left the Yorkshire Dales yesterday and I couldn't help feeling I should have stayed and gone for a run through those beautiful riverbank fields - though I'm not sure my wonderful partner would have agreed with me. For over a week now I've been coughing and aching and talking with a funny, croaky voice, as have quite a few others in the village including the majority of our Church congregation. Three runs in the past seven days, amounting to a mere twelve miles, resulted in me collapsing through the door drenched in sweat and my heart rate up in the 150's.

Togged up for a cold winter run....down Postman's Steps..

      On Saturday, after a six mile jaunt round Appletreewick on leaden legs at a sick snail's pace, I decided enough was enough. It's time to rest and allow the old body to recuperate and regain a modicum of strength before jetting off to La Palma on St Valentine's Day. I'm saying 'I decided' enough was enough, but a certain other person had some persuasive words too, remembering the terrible state I was in last year, confined to our hotel room with the daddy of all colds and unable to move my head from side to side after my neck locked solid. Ibuprofen and paracetamol formed the main part of my diet.

      So, I was ever so good on Sunday, never

And never make the excuse you're too old....

stirring from the house, except for filling the coal bucket to keep the stove well stoked. I'll admit to getting a bit restless in the afternoon but forced myself to stay put, diverting attention from physical exercise by indulging in more mental pursuits of solving crosswords and codewords. I'm not sure which is the more exhausting! I slept well after it, though it could have been more to do with the rather large dram of malt whisky that rounded off our wonderful evening meal. However, when the sun rose on a sparkling white landscape. the old legs started to get a bit twitchy and restless again.  As they do.
      After stocking up on meat, yogurt, fruit and vegetables I returned home  to find a quarterly fuel bill lying on the mat that gave me a bit of a shock - to say the least! There was another irritating letter too stating that having turned seventy (by almost twelve years), it was time to renew my driving licence and questioned whether I was still fit to drive. The cheek of it.  I needed no further incentive to slip into running gear and tootle off for a recuperative three mile run to prove, if only to myself, that I'm still fit for most things - albeit some take a wee bit longer nowadays!  Well OK, a lot longer, and especially when it comes to signing cheques or answering impertinent questions from vehicle licencing authorities!

I ache, therefore I am.......

      A mild dose of man flu curtailed my activities a bit last week (any excuse will do!) so didn't get out as

River Wharfe in spate at Linton....

often as I'd have liked. The weather was pretty grotty too, as no doubt everyone will have read about in the National news, so I've had to rethink my running programme to escape the gales and general nastiness. I'm going soft in my dotage. I considered going back to the dreaded treadmill but the lady I rang at our local Sports Centre informed me it currently costs £3:60 per session to use the fitness suite.  Being a Yorkshireman, with a few drops of Scottish blood, that sounded a bit much, so the idea got put on a back burner until the weather turns really bad!

The amazing Ed Whitlock in flight....

      So what did I do? Well, I've been reading about old  Ed Whitlock, one of my racing contemporaries who holds about twenty world age group records over all sorts of distances, his latest being an incredible 3:41:58 in the Toronto marathon after just turning 82. Not bad that, eh! Does he do his long runs on scenic country routes? No.  Does he visit his local track for speed sessions? No. All he does is walk a couple of blocks to his local cemetery to run 600m circuits round the tombstones for an hour or two, or until he's feeling thirsty. He's done that for years and seems to prefer it to wide open spaces.

      

      Coincidentally, one of my speedier running acquaintances, 43 year old Dave Watson of

Dave Watson, another speed merchant..

Holmfirth Harriers, has also taken to training around the dead centre of our village, sometimes in the wee small hours with a headtorch, or by moonlight. Like everywhere else in the Pennines the graveyard sits on a slope so it's possible to do uphill reps for leg strength or downhill reps for leg speed. Dave sometimes does these twice a day - before his longer run over Castle Hill!  He's no slouch and boasts an impressive set of PB's most folk would be proud of - like 5,000m in 14:41 and 10,000m in a respectable 31:46.

      Last week I set off on a short trial run to suss things out. It's only three minutes across the fields to the gates of the cemetery, less when it's blowing a westerly gale, so I was soon teetering round the tombstones exploring the ups and downs and ins and outs of the many intersecting paths. On the second circuit I met a lovely old lady dabbing her eyes beside the well kept double grave of her husband and son.  "It draws me like a magnet" she said, and I understood why. She was grief stricken when her only son collapsed and died while running over Castle Hill. He was 60 years old and she firmly believes he'd still be alive today if he hadn't taken up running. I've tried but can't convince her otherwise. His father was only 64 when he died.

  

Snowdrops at Linton....

    Today I had the misfortune (!) to be leaving the house just as Dave Watson was passing - on his way to the cemetery. "I'll run with you" he said. Needless to say, it was impossible to match his strides, especially while talking at the same time, so it wasn't long before I was reduced to a short walk, come the first incline. Dave carried on his ceaseless chatter and I was mighty relieved when he departed after a couple of circuits and left me to my own devices! I was curious to know what my heart rate had rocketed up to while running with Dave, but on getting back home I discovered I'd forgotten to start my watch at the shock of having to run with him! I don't even know how long the run took, but pretty sure it was a lot quicker than last time!  My aching legs thought so too. Next time I'll make sure the coast is clear before I venture out for a run.....

......and days when I'd rather be home

      It's been a lean week as far as running is concerned. Leaden skies and bitterly cold gale force winds

From my window - the first snows arriving....

brought the first snows of winter sweeping across the valley. From the warmth of my study I watched the wuthering whiteness hurtling towards me, obliterating everything in its path, and decided it was time to turn up the central heating, make myself a bowl of warm soup, then go into semi-hibernation until this perishing cold front passes over and drowns itself in the North Sea.  It could be a long snooze....       

      

This is a path....

   My running diary contains just two entries for last week. The other five days are all zeros. Of those two runs, one was rubbish as I sloshed through waterlogged fields unable to find any purchase or momentum in the oozing quagmire. By the time I got onto Castle Hill, where there are reasonably good paths to run on, I felt too knackered and exhausted to raise enthusiasm for anything quicker. I jogged home after a miserable four miles, made a large mug of strong coffee, sat down and questioned my sanity.
       

      On Saturday we drove to the Dales in

Water, water, everywhere I run....

glorious sunshine with the thermometer registering 5ºC.  Good running weather, we thought. Unfortunately, by the time we'd lit the stove to warm the cottage, had a coffee and got changed, it had clouded over just as the forecast said it would, and by the time we'd jogged down to the riverbank it was spitting with rain. Undaunted we launched into our planned interval session which actually exceeded expectations. Quite by accident, of course. My 4 sets of (6 x 100m) somehow worked out at 31 x 100m - but I wasn't complaining. It doubled my mileage for the week and with a bit of quality there too.

     

My mind is fine, it's my body that says 'sod off'....

    Sunday teemed with rain and sleet from the word 'go'. The lane turned into a fast running torrent and little

lakes of water flooded the main road through the village. People trying to reach Hebden from Wensleydale were turned back at roads blocked with snow. A 150m journey as far as Chapel for our annual Methodist Covenant service was epic enough, sleet soaking my trouser bottoms, wind blowing my brolly inside out and water intent on leaking into my shoes. Even my Bible got wet and it seemed appropriate I should be reading from Jeremiah - the prophet of doom! But the Word failed to get watered down, our minister made sure of that, and I left Chapel refreshed in mind and spirit - though the bread and wine did little for my old body which refused to be spurred into any form of action but remained within spitting distance of the fire for the rest of the day. Come to think of it, I did twiddle my toes and stretch my legs occasionally, but that's hardly enough to cancel the zero in my diary.  Ah well, there's always next week....