Phew....

A bit hot on Tuesday....I'd to take my vest off!

     I was rather surprised to read the other day about a fellow blogger, in his late 70's, who'd been out running in a temperature of around 95ºF. I was struggling a bit last week when my Garmin recorded 75ºF on a couple of occasions while I was plodding round the hills. On the first of those runs, on Tuesday, I aborted a planned six miles and toiled back home in the mid-day sun, dripping wet, after only three. In the short space of time I'd  been out, I must have shipped an awful lot of fluid, in the form of sweat, because since breakfast-time that day I'd managed to lose a good 2 lbs. Mind you, many moons ago when running up to 22 miles on mountainous marathon training runs it wasn't unusual to shed up to 6 lbs - and I well recall the look of disgust on my wonderful partner's face at the pool of water on the flags when I wrung out my sweat band!

      

      Although I find it terribly difficult to motivate myself to get out and run before the sun has warmed the

My happy stomping ground....Castle Hill

flags, on Thursday and Friday I felt rather chuffed to be out running before 10am - and right good it felt. On both days the 350ft climb onto Castle Hill felt an absolute doddle and during the descent on Friday my Garmin recorded one of the fastest miles for quite some weeks. It wasn't quite like the 5½ min/miles I used to run in my prime (in fact, it was nowhere near) but quick enough to get me thinking about resurrecting an old 1-1-1 training run again. I came across it some years ago in Joe Henderson's book, Better Runs, and it became a training method I used regularly in racing days. The idea is to run one mile one day a week at one minute faster than normal training pace. Or better still, one minute faster than 10K race pace - but it's 12 months since I last ran a 10K so haven't a clue what that pace might be!

       

Jogging home up Edge Lane after the 'magic mile'....

   So Saturday was 1-1-1 day and I shamelessly persuaded my wonderful partner to accompany me for some moral support. Unfortunately, for various reasons, it was late morning before we set off up the ghyll and the temperature was already climbing well into the 70's. In little over a mile the sun felt hot on my neck, the back of my vest was soaking wet and there was some slight chafing round my arm pits - in spite of applied Vaseline. My Garmin was on auto lap to record each mile, so I jogged around a little until 3 miles came up, then accelerated over the next mile. My wonderful partner had set off to do her own thing down Moor Lane while I was 'faffing around' waiting for my watch and was already well on her way. Initially the track is rocky for a couple hundred metres before smoother and more runnable tarmac is conducive to a faster pace - all the way to the junction with Edge Lane where I was frantically waiting for my watch to trip to 4 miles so I could slow down and get my breath back!  After what seemed an eternity, it did, and I was pleasantly surprised at the figures that shone from its tiny face. 7.46 is what it said. I was happy with that and jogged home wondering whether it's time to start racing again?.

      

      I suffered the next day, feeling distinctly wobbly struggling up steps into Chapel. "It serves you right for

Stone Man and Mossdale track - where Hallelujah, it rained.....

going out running in all that sun yesterday" said the door steward who'd passed us in her car as we were setting off on our run the previous day. To make matters worse, I was reading the lesson, doing my best to stand still and concentrate while my ears were trying to pop and I felt badly in need of something to hold on to. I wasn't drunk, honest!  I wobbled back home, had two cups of strong coffee, changed into running gear and set off for my longest run of the week, an eight miler over Bycliffe Hill with 900ft of ascent. It was sunny to begin with but as I ran up the ghyll clouds were gathering and I began to feel a wonderful coldness on my skin I hadn't felt for many a week. As I climbed onto the open moor the wind increased. Then it began to rain and the feeling bordered on ecstasy as the cooling drops dotted my bare shoulders, my face, my arms and my legs. It was one of those Hallelujah moments when God's in His heaven and all's right with the world.......and a fitting conclusion to another glorious week.   

More to life than running....

Relaxing at sunset.....

      Here in God's own county it's been another glorious week of sunshine, with some cloudless skies, warm winds and temperatures flickering towards the mid 70's. Needless to say, I've been revelling in it, running topless through lush countryside, lying among flowers in the garden with bees and butterflies for company, or sitting in my sunny corner with a chalice of choice wine and a few squares of dark chocolate to catch the last of the evening rays. What more could a man wish for in his dotage? Summer is easily my favourite time of year, the hotter, the better, when shorts and sandals become the order of the day, enjoying the luxury of ultra violet on as much skin as I dare to expose - and ah, vanity of vanities, achieving a wonderful summer tan.

      Running-wise it slows me down a bit, but I don't

One of the magical places we run...

mind that. I've no races planned at the moment, not even a Park Run, so in no serious training. Occasionally I'll do a few hill reps or put in half a dozen faster bursts just because I happen to feel like it, but in the summer heat I'm quite content to jog along at a manageable pace, enjoying the beautiful surroundings and stopping frequently to point my camera at various things that catch my eye. Running is no longer the be all and end all of my existence, though one might think so when I'm ill or injured, but an integral part of the complete outdoor picture. I don't get like this any more. It's a means to an end rather than an end in itself. It gets me out into fields and woods, hills and dales, moors and mountains, remote islands, coast paths and sea shores where I can wallow in all the magic such places hold, where I become a part of it all and experience that warm sense of belonging that draws me back to the same places time after time after time.

Barden Bridge - haunt of kingfishers....

     Clever people may already have deduced, from that lengthy preamble, I didn't do very much in the way of running last week. The previous week's 21 miles got chopped down to just 17, although one of my runs was a respectable 11 miles which is the farthest I've attempted since goodness knows when. For various reasons, taking photographs, chatting to people along the way - not to mention running out of energy in the last half mile - it took rather a long time. So long, in fact, that my wonderful partner got it into her head I must have done myself a mischief somewhere along the way and came looking for me. I'd chosen a fairly flat, easy route (though it didn't stop me falling and breaking a rib on an earlier occasion) from Hebden, following the River Wharfe as far as Barden Bridge, then back again. The temperature was up in the 70's and I daresay there were more people in the river - swimming, kayaking, paddling, tombstoning or floating around in dinghies - than actually walking on the bank.

      As I jogged along in soaking vest and dripping headband I'll admit to being more than a little envious of

Suspension bridge - that puts the fear of God into some people

those cooling off in the water. I stopped briefly for a chat with a wildlife photographer who was hoping to get a shot of kingfishers that nest at Barden Bridge but, so far, they hadn't put in an appearance. I wished him luck and jogged back along a very flat and pleasant flower-lined path to Howgill, still 4 miles from home and into the heat of the day. From Howgill the track undulates a little towards Burnsall, not much, but enough to make it harder to run in the heat. I was glad of a short rest at the narrow suspension bridge where some rather overweight walkers looked frightened out of their minds as they gingerly puffed their way across, clinging onto the wire cables for dear life. In spite of the rest I still had to walk parts of the steep hill back into the village where I was intercepted by my wonderful partner who had words with me for having taken so long.  I took the door key and ran - probably a fair bit faster than I'd run all week!  

Getting talked about.....

Throw 'em away?  They've only done 600 miles

      After all the excitement of Le Tour last week, nothing very newsworthy seems to have happened in the seven days since. Well, not in my neck of the woods, so I'm struggling to find any remotely interesting titbits to update my blog with. I've been running, of course, though I was almost barred from doing so when my wonderful partner discovered the state of the New Balance MT 101's I've been happily wearing for the past 600 miles or so, and was about to wear again.  I've mentioned previously they're my all time favourite shoe which NB discontinued some time ago but, by public demand, are re-instating again early next year. I've been trying to make an old pair last until the advent of the new ones but was instructed to throw them in the bin before I did myself a mischief. It's hard to say goodbye to old friends but thought it prudent to do as I was told. After all, there wasn't much tread left on them and holes at the side were almost big enough for my foot to slip out of!

Back in my garden, a bee feeding on the astrantia....

      So, for last week's three runs, amounting to 21 miles, I ran in a half abandoned pair of Inov-8 Roclites that felt a bit clumpy after the more minimal 101's. To add to that minor discomfort, it was hot too, in the mid 70's, resulting in vest and headband becoming totally saturated with good old fashioned sweat (I've heard of people consulting their doctor about such things). On Saturday's five mile run I removed the soaking vest and tucked it into the belt of my bumbag for the last couple of miles back into the village. It later transpired my bare-chested figure had become a topic of conversation at a locally held garden party later that afternoon. I hope their comments were favourable ones!

      Sunday was another hot day. Or is it that in my dotage I'm less able to cope with rising temperatures?  I'd to remove my jacket in Church amidst much mopping of the brow which sadly affected concentration on

Wild thyme - brightening my day as I ran up Hebden Ghyll....

an excellent sermon by our newly ordained minister - Rev Heather Houlton. Yet some of her words - about freedom of the Spirit to undertake tasks God created us to do - stuck in my mind as I jogged up Hebden Ghyll on a ten mile circuit to Mossdale an hour later.  It was stifling for the first confined couple of miles but a welcome breeze cooled my body as I plodded over open moorland to the 1,500ft contour near the half way point. From thereon I was able to unleash quite a fast pace over the next three miles, down into Mossdale, over Kelber, past Bare House and along the rocky lane to Yarnbury where the old legs eventually ran out of steam as the temperature rose again.  Embarrassingly, I'd to walk a few short sections over the last mile or so but managed a late burst of speed back through the village, as far as our back door, in case anyone happened to be looking. When clad in shorts and vest I feel self-conscious about being seen walking!

Marathon trophies - seven category wins from eight races...

      So that's about it, except for nothing more than reasons of vanity I'll post a picture that goes back to earlier marathon years, recording achievements for which I'm feeling justifiably proud. In all I ran eight marathons, the first of which when I was 55 years old, and was first in my age category in seven of the eight, a record many runners would be proud of. The eighth, when I finished third, was a bit 'iffy' but I wont go into that. Marathons were my forte and I sometimes regret not having found out sooner. After finishing the first, the 'Pennine' with its 2,000ft of ascent in a comfortable 3:30:04, I felt sure a sub 3 hour marathon was possible on a flatter course. And so it proved to be, though it was six years later when I'd moved into my sixties. After a second London win, in 2:53:04, I decided to rest on my laurels and call it a day for there was little likelihood of ever beating that time. Besides, I was disgusted with the meaningless London medals, received many weeks after the event, neither of which were engraved to record category wins, or with anything at all to indicate what they were for. And that was it. I'm afraid London left a bad taste in my mouth that still lingers after almost twenty years. On the other hand, The Pennine marathon with its rolling hills, friendly people and great prizes was the catalyst that launched a running mindset from which I've never recovered. And I hope I never do....

Le Tour de Yorkshire....

Yellow bikes were all over the place....

    Last weekend was rather special insomuch as our beautiful Yorkshire countryside was beamed around the world on the occasion of Le Grand Depart of the Tour de France. A conservative estimate of 2.5 million spectators lined the route, the cheering was deafening, the atmosphere electric. It brought goose pimples to the 198 cyclists riding the gauntlet of the vociferous  crowds. The reigning Tour de France champion, Chris Froome, said he'd never known anything like it. And neither have I. It was carnival time on a grand scale and I cannot recall any other event in my lifetime that brought so many people out onto the roads, towns and villages of God's own county.
     
      Away from the main razzmatazz, Royalty and Red Arrows I watched it from a quieter spot 50km into the race, at Threshfield in the heart of the Yorkshire Dales

They've gone...

where the enthusiastic crowd was equally noisy as the pre-race caravan came speeding past with horns blaring, lights flashing and occupants of open floats throwing souvenirs and sweets to anyone lucky enough to catch them. I stood among people from London, Cornwall and Edinburgh, hundreds of miles away, but the main viewing points boasted visitors from France, New Zealand, America, Spain, Australia, India - and goodness knows how many other countries. Such is the global popularity of Le Tour. It would be wonderful if the same sense of community and camaraderie experienced in Yorkshire throughout the weekend could be replicated throughout the world - on a permanent basis.
     

The peloton speeding into Threshfield...

       In the tiny village of Threshfield residents had begun taping off strategic viewpoints, arranging chairs, hanging flags and blowing up balloons as early as 6am - though the peloton wasn't due to pass through for another seven hours. People I know had champagne, choice sandwiches and other mouth-watering goodies all lined up in readiness to celebrate the occasion in the best possible style. The irony of it was that the "occasion" (in inverted commas) lasted all of 40 seconds as the peloton sped past in a rush of wind and roar of tyres accompanied by police outriders, back-up vehicles with racks of cycles aloft and the noisy clattering of five helicopters casting their shadows over the proceedings. It had all happened so quickly there was plenty of champagne left for me (thanks Sue) to accompany the dainty salmon sandwiches I'd worked up quite an appetite for since breakfast six hours previously.
     
       After the peloton had passed most people rushed a mile or so down the road

Watching Le Tour on the big screen - during a boring commercial!

to the Yorkshire Dales National Park Centre in Grassington to watch the remainder of the race being televised by ITV4 on a large screen before hundreds of viewers reclining on a grassy bank in warm sunshine (my forehead got sunburnt). It was spoilt by two things. Firstly the number of commercial breaks interrupting our viewing when riders were passing through some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. Shame on you, ITV4.  Secondly, the closing stage of the race when Britain's star sprinter, Mark Cavendish, made a tactical error, caught the wheel of Australia's Simon Gerrans and went crashing to the ground 200m from the Finish, damaging his shoulder and effectively eliminating himself from any further stages of the race. It was a sad ending to an otherwise unforgettable day. Taking advantage of Mark's mistake the German, Marcel Kittel of Giant-Shimano team, raced over the line in Harrogate to win the first stage and take the coveted yellow jersey.
     
     

Back to normal - an eight mile run over Grassington Moor....

So that was that, so far as our little corner of Yorkshire was concerned. Le Tour had been and gone and come Sunday everything was pretty much back to normal again. After Saturday's crowds it felt wonderful to be running in the sweet solitude of Grassington Moor with nothing but a soughing wind and plaintive calls of golden plovers to break the silence. In racing days the hills were my stage, the sun my spotlight, and I was the star, determined to outshine my contemporaries. And mostly I did, but sadly, like Le Tour, it all seems to have flashed by in a rush of wind leaving nothing but memories. Ah well, I can still dream.....

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.......