Cracking time at Crantock....

Old man in the sea....a sight rarely seen!  (Click pictures to enlarge)

      We've been camping at Crantock for quite a few years now and have yet to tire of it. The campsite at Higher Moor is a runner's paradise with a plethora of routes to suit all levels, and so beautiful as to be irresistible. It's one of our warm weather training camps and this year it turned exceptionally warm, the best it's ever been. I got so brown I wasn't sure whether it was a healthy tan or whether I'd got scorched!  Hot sunshine even drove me into the sea at Polly Joke, a most unusual occurrence. I'm a runner and cold water has never featured in my list of favourite things, neither for swimming, drinking or washing up. Because it's highly unlikely anyone will ever see such an occurrence again, here is a picture of me posing in the sea (though I did actually swim around for a wee while, trying to enjoy it).
      

'The Route'.  Five beautiful miles...

     Unbelievably, we'd almost uninterrupted wall to wall sunshine for the first ten days of our two week vacation. The next two days produced some torrential rain in the mornings but cleared by lunchtime allowing us to enjoy a walk or run in the rain freshened landscape later in the day. We ran on ten of our fourteen days, a total of 49 miles, mostly on a five mile circuit linking an undulating coast path with a bird and butterfly rich flower be-decked common which we affectionately call 'The Route'.  It starts with a vicious 25% tarmac climb from the gate of the campsite before crossing the West Pentyre road and dropping down through fields to join the Cornish Coast Path above Crantock beach. From thereon the route is all off-road along sandy paths or springy turf with wonderful views and a fast downhill finish over Cubert Common back to camp.  We ran this circuit five times, often meeting other runners en route, mainly members of Newquay Running Club who were much faster than us. And much younger....

      

River Gannel at Crantock

      My last attempt at this route turned out to be quite traumatic. I'd set off alone whilst my wonderful partner was exploring pastures new, somewhere in the opposite direction. I'd sailed up the initial steep hill feeling really good in the early morning sun, dropped down towards the sea and established a comfortable rhythm along the coast path. A steep ascent by Pigeon Cove is followed by an equally steep descent before some steps leading almost down to the beach. I tripped and took a headlong flier, landing with a real bang, bashing my Rt knee and tearing the skin off it, knocking up two toes of my Rt foot (which turned almost black), cutting the thumb of my Lt hand and nettling most of the Rt side of my body amongst all the stinging nettles lining the path. My metal framed spectacles flew off too and somehow got twisted out of shape. It really knocked the wind out of my sails and it was a good couple of minutes before I forced myself back onto my feet and set off gently to complete the next 3½ miles of the route. After feeling so good at the start it turned out to be my slowest ever time to complete this circuit. Surprise, surprise....
      

      Next day it poured with rain until lunchtime, for which I was thankful. I was feeling a bit stiff and wouldn't

Poppies and corn marigolds at Polly Joke

really have enjoyed a morning run. We went shopping - for morale boosting things like Cornish pasties, Cornish cream to spread thickly on our fruit scones before topping with strawberry jam, and an exquisite Australian Black Label Merlot that went exceedingly well with a sirloin steak the following evening. Rain bated as we ate our pasties, the sun came out and cleared away the clouds, we could hear birds singing again and smell the freshness of flowers and trees. As I lingered over the aroma and taste of a rich Italian coffee my wonderful partner couldn't resist going for a walk in the improved conditions.

    

The beauty of Vugga Cove....

     "Where to?" I asked, vaguely interested.
     "Just up the road and round the coast to Vugga Cove" she replied.
     "Well, I might see you there, or I might not" said I, still feeling stiff and limping a bit after the previous days fiasco. In truth, I just needed a few more minutes rest before taking a short cut and joining her there - as she most probably knew I would!  And I enjoyed it, limping at my leisure along orchid paths with that wonderful smell of vegetation after rain, by fields filled with blood red poppies and bright yellow marigolds, wafted by butterflies, scolded by a pair of stonechats from their home among the gorse bushes, and even saying Hello to an unusual saffron snail sliding along a bench I nearly sat on. 

            After a timeless stroll I dropped into Vugga Cove, and there she was. We sat together

Ever hopeful - fisherman at Vugga Cove....

on the rocks enthralled by the incredible colours of sea, sky, rocks, lichens and flowers surrounding this ancient amphitheatre where fishermen plied their trade many moons ago. As if to vaguely carry on the tradition a lone fisherman was patiently casting his line from the rocks below us, ever hopeful of catching a supper sized fish on the incoming tide. Two men in an Indian type kayak paddled gently by hardly making a splash. I was envious. Although I've an aversion to cold water I have to agree with a statement made by my wonderful partner's late father who apparently preferred his whiskey neat. "All water is any good for is going round boats" he said, sipping his single malt. And I think I knew what he meant as I watched the happy paddlers disappear round the headland....and not just about his choice tipple!

Zapped.....

Billions of good guys to replace the bad...

    The devil (in the guise of old age and decrepitude) has been conspiring against me lately, but he'll have to go a bit.  Seventeen days of two different types of antibiotic (Metronidazole and Cefredine) have zapped just about everything, not only the offending bugs but all the good ones too. They almost zapped me! For quite a few days I was wandering around not quite sure whether I was on this earth or Fuller's Earth! Feeling tired and weak I even struggled to walk the half mile to the village and back for odd bits of shopping. I felt dizzy if I tried to run, so abandoned that idea for a while. I'm still trying to work out the significance of my doctor getting up from his comfy chair, shaking hands and wishing me good luck as I left his surgery with that deadly prescription in my hand. He's never done that before! But I trust him. He's sport orientated and has a pretty shrewd idea of how my body works and how to fix it when it's not working.

      I swallowed the last two bug-blasters on Friday of last week. It was a beautiful summer day with hardly

My comfy NB MT10GY minimus trail shoes....

a breath of wind, the type of weather I love to run topless through wide open spaces, allowing hot sunshine to caress my body and saturate it with healthy Vitamin D. I'm certainly in need of it at the moment, and all the minerals it fires into life to promote healthy intestinal absorption. I was eventually lured out of the house for a steady three miles of a supposedly rehabilitation run. I was wearing lightweight New Balance MT10GY shoes which are fairly minimalist with only a 4mm drop from heel to toe. In the past I've only used them over short distances but on Friday I'm afraid I got a bit carried away. Such was my joy at finding I could run again.

I decided to do some hill reps - but not many....(click to enlarge)

     I started off running directly up the steep nose of Castle Hill from where, after a circuit round it's flat top, I'd intended to jog back home. But my legs were feeling strong again so I cut across fields for a mile or so to Farnley Hey, then on towards Farnley Tyas before dropping down steeply to Roydhouse wood. Looking back up the field from the stile into the wood it struck me it might be a good place to do one or two hill reps. So I did - until my body declared enough was enough. My minimalist shoes still felt comfortable as I jogged down through the wood, over fields and into Mollicar wood before crossing the beck and a long ascent for a second time onto Castle Hill.  Sunshine had brought out the sight-seers so it started to feel a little too crowded for my liking. I turned tail and jogged home feeling pretty pleased with myself. I stopped my Garmin at exactly 6 miles which, with 683ft of ascent, wasn't too bad for starters.
      

      I'd a wake-up call at Sunday's Church service when Rev Heather Houlton began her sermon with the words "Are you drinking enough water?"  Well, I most certainly aren't - other than in tea, coffee, fruit juice, the odd glass of wine or, quite rarely

My kind of water - in strict moderation, of course....

nowadays, as a soothing treat of mellow malt whisky. I dislike tap water and, being a Yorkshireman, am far too tight to buy expensive bottled stuff.  I've considered buying a filter, but that costs money too, and I'm not convinced it would filter out all the nasties. But Heather's words came along after many other people had recommended that I increase my intake, amongst them my physio, a consultant surgeon, nurses who treated me in hospital and a few running friends. Not to mention all the advice shelled out in the running press that has half the population of modern day runners cavorting around the streets clutching bottles.. In all my marathon training I never carried water though I always topped up with an electrolyte drink at the end of a long run. However, when the question arose in Church it kind of had a divine ring to it and prompted me to give it a little more consideration. Which is why I missed quite a lot of how it tied in with the rest of Heather's sermon!

Stepping stones on the way to Mossdale....

     I put the kettle to boil for a stimulating cup of coffee while changing from Church clothes into running clothes. Half an hour later I was jogging up Hebden Ghyll en route to far-off Mossdale with warm sun on my back and a cool breeze blowing on my face.  God, it felt good to be running free again and reckoned my legs were strong enough for a good ten miles. With the first 4¼ miles mainly uphill it wasn't exactly easy but, at least, I was doing it and far from noticing any discomfort I'd a big smile on my face and feeling rather chuffed.  Wheatears, curlews and lapwings all scolded me noisily for venturing too close to their fledglings. Strangely, though running through the middle of a grouse moor, I never saw/heard a single grouse. After passing the 1,500ft contour it was a pleasant, run down into Mossdale before turning back over Kelber, through the sleepy hamlet of Yarnbury and dropping back into Hebden Ghyll to follow the beck down to the village - and home. The animal was happy!

      As part of a recuperation process I'm currently piling lots of probiotics back into my depleted gut both

Waving dumbells about - and trying not to do any damage!

with active yogurt and with Acidophilus capsules from Holland & Barratt supposedly containing 3 billion active cultures. Who counts them? To flush and cleanse the system I'm drinking lots of fluids (even a few cups of water), waving dumbells about to regain some upper body strength, cutting back on coffee to reduce caffeine intake and, when I remember, doing a few stretches. I'm also using the Stick to roll out any knots in my muscles. I find the Stick particularly useful for restoring the length of hamstrings that always seem to shorten when I'm running. Hopefully, I'll be firing on all cylinders again when we motor down to Cornwall on Sunday for our annual two weeks camping holiday at Higher Moor, Crantock. Until we get back at the end of the month no more posts will appear here.

A right hole to be in....

      We decided to run somewhere different during the Spring Bank Holiday period, a route we'd never run

The long up-hill past Threshfield quarry (click to enlarge hole)

before. Of all the beautiful places we could have chosen in the Yorkshire Dales we opted to run around and through a 100 year old abandoned quarry! My little brain can't conceive what a hectare is but Threshfield quarry covers 52 of them which makes it one heck of a big hole. A Project Officer is to be employed shortly to develop and manage the construction of an art and heritage trail through its vast recesses. Already its three lagoons have become a sanctuary for endangered white-clawed crayfish, though a pair of oystercatchers nesting on nearby shingle may have other ideas for their future!

Photo stop among the orchids....

    After leaving the car on the main road at Skirethorns we ran steadily uphill for two miles climbing to a height of 1,230ft around the perimeter of the quarry to its northernmost point. Leaving the gravel track we passed through a stile into open fell country where underfoot conditions were much more to my liking. Tussocky grassland, springy turf dotted with mountain pansies and occasional limestone outcrops were a joy to run. For the first time in weeks I felt strength returning to the old legs and I couldn't resist some faster bursts and uphill bounds. A clump of early purple orchids interspersed with birds eye primroses at the halfway mark brought us to a temporary halt as we reached for our cameras to record the colourful collection. Thereafter, a faint track led us back to the quarry and a fast run down past the lagoons to complete a very pleasant 6 miles. The sun shines on the righteous as they say, but as we returned home the heavens opened and kept us indoors for the rest of the day.

      However, it shone for us again on Bank Holiday Monday as we ventured out for an early morning run to

On the Dales Way above Grassington...

avoid the tourist hoards along the Dales Way. We began our run at the 700ft contour in Grassington with a gentle but unrelenting climb over the first couple of miles to 1,000ft, dropped to 635ft at Conistone after 3½ miles, then climbed back to 960ft in 5 miles before an enjoyable 1½ mile downhill run to the finish. The Garmin registered 6.47 miles with 800ft of actual ascent. It was a beautiful morning, sunny with cotton wool clouds and just a hint of a breeze as we ascended flower bedecked limestone pastures with curlews calling and happy skylarks singing incessantly. Uphill it may have been, but nevertheless we could honestly say "At this moment in time we would rather be here than anywhere else on earth".  We live for such moments.

     

and an 'interesting' bit in Conistone Dib.....

From the high point we'd a steep, fast run past Bull Scar into Conistone Dib where things got a bit 'interesting'.  Running warily over ankle-twisting limestone cobbles we entered a dark narrow gorge with mossy walls, ferns and leafy, overhanging trees.  We dropped down a series of stony ramps made slippery with recent rain, clinging to anything we could lay our hands on for support, before eventually emerging into bright sunlight again and a less stony path into the village of Conistone. Not everyone's cup of tea but infinitely more satisfying, for us, than a boring, flat ribbon of tarmac that demands music in the ears to make it tolerable (or, God forbid, one of those popular apps telling us when to run and when to walk).

      After a brief chat with some ex-neighbours, now resident in Conistone, we took an ascending track to

Closing the gate on Wharfedale - overhanging Kilnsey Crag beyond...

another stony 'Dib' where we'd hoped to locate and photograph the annual display of bird's eye primroses. Alas, we were either too early or they were flowering late, for not one did we find. This Dib was less vicious and more runnable than the afore mentioned one, initially a short rocky descent before some steep boundable limestone steps back up into Lea Green.  This part of the route affords panoramic views of the Wharfe valley with the iconic Kilnsey Crag towering over it.  Late flowering cowslips greeted us on the fringe of Bastow Wood along with a little cluster of early purple orchids enjoying the warm sunshine as much as us.

      After climbing over a ladder stile it was an easy run over springy turf to rejoin the Dales Way back to the bustling heart of Grassington. Our overall time was slow but en route I'd regularly picked up the pace, danced happily over limestone outcrops, used downhill sections to enjoy the feeling of speed - and all this on a glorious Spring day through some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. Is it any wonder I'm so addicted to this wonderful pastime and never want to stop?

A weekend at Wold Farm....

     

Can't I even have a little bottle of wine?

If all goes well throughout this year the legendary Ron Hill will complete a 50 year streak - meaning he will have run at least one mile every single day since December 1964. Car crashes, operations and minor injuries could not stop him. He would run even if he had to do it on crutches up and down a hospital corridor. Well, so far as streaks go, I've failed miserably. Not that I could possibly have attempted a run after my recent operation - trailing various drips, catheters and other unmentionable accoutrements - and especially after an epidural anaesthetic that left me without legs for a short time. I've had other problems too over the past few weeks that left me weak and woozy so, again, very little running. A cocktail of anti-biotics meant I couldn't even cheer myself up with an odd glass of wine, let alone a wee dram! Hopefully, all is now well and I can start rebuilding again. I'll be eternally grateful to that consultant surgeon and his team, provided I live that long!
     
     One or two short three mile runs, mainly up my local Castle Hill, are all I've managed since that wonderful birthday

Wold Farm campsite under a blue sky...

jaunt along the Dales Way earlier this month. Until last weekend. Early on Saturday morning we took a 90 mile drive to the East Yorkshire coast for some invigorating sea air and a visit to the amazing bird haunted sea cliffs at Bempton. The weather was glorious, warm balmy sunshine tempered with a cooling breeze. Ideal for cliff top walks - and running. We stayed overnight at Wold Farm, a difficult to find campsite. Even our Sat-Nav managed to get itself lost!  It was an ideal location, just 400m from a coast path that runs along the top of 400ft high chalk cliffs that are home to over 200,000 nesting seabirds. Puffins and gannets are the main attraction but razorbills, guillemots, fulmars and kittiwakes all live happily together on adjacent ledges and steep grassy slopes.
     
    

Sunshine and sea air on Sunday's run..

It was our first visit to the area so very much an exploratory one, getting to know the lie of the land, the best viewing points and finding routes to run. As regards the latter, it didn't take my wonderful partner long to scrutinize the map and join up a few lines to make a very pleasant Sunday morning circular through fields of oilseed rape, along the campion clad coast path with the sun on our bodies, wind in our hair and the sound of the sea on the rocks below. It was all very bracing and exhilarating. We could get to liking this place.... Before leaving we couldn't resist a quick walk to the RSPB's viewing point at Bempton cliffs to watch and listen to the cacophonous colony of gannets that nest annually on the rocks below. I love to watch them, and especially when they're diving.
     
     At the last count there were nearly, 8,000 nesting pairs crammed side by side onto every availlable ledge

Gannets, puffin and razorbills...(Picture from internet)

or flat (ish) piece of rock. Whilst half were sat tight on their solitary egg the remainder wheeled around noisily, riding the wind on wings as long as my extended arms. They were joined in the air by tens of thousands of guillemots, fulmar, kittiwakes, razorbills and puffins till one wondered how they could possibly avoid crashing into each other. In all my life I've never seen so many wonderful birds and I couldn't help wondering what they all find to feed upon, how the sea sustains such huge colonies? The Bempton colony of gannets, I'm told, often fly hundreds of miles, as far as Dogger bank, searching for shoals of fish. But where do all the others go, and how much of their time is spent searching for food?
     
     Pondering this question we returned to Wold Farm to pack our tent and begin the long journey home to enjoy a nice glass of sherry and the fragrant aroma of our evening meal simmering slowly on the cooker. No Dogger Bank for us.  Most of our hunter-gathering is done in a quick dash round our local Tesco - though I've sometimes been accused of being a gannet!

82 years young.....

In racing mode, aged 79, at the Harrogate 10K

      A few days ago I received an email from a running acquaintance in South Africa asking if I'd be willing to participate in a project she was working on to determine what causes someone to change from a self-proclaimed running hater into a die-hard running nut?  I'm not sure I ever actually hated running but came pretty close to it when made to run one-off long x-country races during my last two winter terms at school with absolutely no training whatsoever. Only boys ran it. Girls held our coats - which was quite embarrassing because I was among the last to retrieve mine. It's a shame we never had a PE teacher who was interested in some sport other than football for I've often thought, given some specific training, I may have performed rather well.

      

      After leaving school I never thought about running again until almost 40 years later when, due to redundancy, divorce, a somewhat rotund, under worked out of shape body, I felt an urgent need to get back into shape physically, mentally and spiritually before it was too late.  Running came to my rescue, mainly because it was all I could afford to do at that frugal period of my life. Initially, I'd sneak out the door when I figured my neighbours had gone to work or were otherwise engaged, but after a couple of weeks it didn't bother me in the least. Far from being embarrassed I began to feel a smug superiority. Running came easy, very easy, and in less than three weeks I ran the 24 miles/4,500ft ascent of the Yorkshire Three Peaks in a little over 6 hours with no ill effects. Exactly twelve months later I ran it again in less than 4¼ hours. Good progress. In subsequent years I recorded even faster times in the annual race and won the men's O/60 category on three occasions.

      May 6th 2014 marked the occasion of my 82nd birthday and 28 years of running. I've reached a stage where I experience withdrawal symptoms if I go more than a week

In relaxation mode, running on the Dales Way on my 82nd birthday

without running.  It enhances my quality of life and continues to keep me healthy in body, mind and spirit. I've made many wonderful lifelong friends. It's transformed my social, eating and drinking habits into far more sensible ones - and it's given me some amazing memories to carry into my dotage.  From the slough of despond to the metaphorical top step of the podium in marathons, Track & Field, fell, X-country and road racing, running lifted me to heights I never dreamed possible. 

     Nothing makes me happier than running the hills, having covered well in excess of 36,000 miles, though it's mainly for pleasure nowadays rather than serious training for races. My birthday was celebrated running along the Dales Way from Grassington to Bastow Wood with my wonderful partner. Masses of primroses, violets and mountain pansies adorned our route, a cuckoo had shouted his first hello's, cowslips nodded in the gentle breeze, an early purple orchid shone like a jewel in a sheltered hollow while a whole choir of skylarks serenaded us as we ran through the sunlit limestone landscape. I felt incredibly blessed and just hope I can continue indulging this God-given gift for the rest of my remaining years. Not much to ask, is it?

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......