Making friends with rabbits.......

As if I'd any choice....on the road to Castle Hill (Click to enlarge)

      What I remember most about last week was the wind, particularly on Tuesday morning when the tail end of Hurricane Gonzalo came hurtling across Yorkshire at a great rate of knots. "You're a very brave man" one of the morning dog walkers shouted above the roar as he battled his way along the lane at low level. I was jogging home after a series of loops around the leeward end of Castle Hill. On the exposed side it was impossible to run a straight line along the path. I tried but was blown all over the place and decided that, fun though it might be, once was enough. It brought to mind an ascent to the CIC Hut on Ben Nevis along an icy path in a raging blizzard when, in spite of being weighed down with a heavy rucksack, the gale was constantly blowing me off my feet and smashing me to the ground. I arrived at the hut feeling like I'd fought ten rounds with Muhammad Ali. Another frighted soul sought shelter in the hut after his Force Ten tent had been ripped apart. Gonzalo was a summer breeze compared to that.
       The next two mornings were relatively calm but cloudy and cold with none of those fiery heart lifting sunrises to get me 

Fancy a race then mate?

Battling against the wind back o' Grim'ith.....

reaching for my camera. Dog walkers had either stayed low or stayed in bed. Resident rabbits were still unchased and stayed at their feeding grounds each time I passed. A kestrel hovering by the tower was hunting smaller prey and a buzzard mewing somewhere in the distance was too far away to cause alarm. I wondered whether rabbits are intelligent enough to distinguish between friends and enemies? Whether they've grown accustomed to the crazy figure who jogs past them on numerous circuits of the hill and no longer view him as a threat? I'd like to think so. Likewise with the beasties that graze the lower fields through which I run. Certainly the young calves aren't as skittish now, their mums just stand and stare and the old bull probably has other things on his mind.
      Each of those three morning sessions put a little over five miles in the bank - far enough for an old codger to run before breakfast with just a coffee and biscuit inside him. Two more runs at the weekend brought the weekly total to a fairly respectable 24 miles. Saturday's run was an exploratory 5 miles to Grassington bridge, and back, to determine what state field paths had deteriorated to after some persistent rain. The answer: a muddy mess, worse in fact than we'd ever seen them before. We wont be running that route again for quite some time. Probably not until Spring. Sunday's run was a flattish 4 mile circuit of Grimwith reservoir that nearly didn't happen.
     

Autumn tints where Blea beck flows into Grimwith...

       I'd returned home in the morning frozen to the marrow after our Chapel heating had failed. And whilst Communion elements of bread and wine might refresh the soul their combined calories raise the temperature of the body not the slightest fraction of a degree. So it was lunchtime, and several cups of coffee later, before I'd thawed out sufficiently to face those other elements of wind and water round the exposed shores of Grimwith reservoir. And oh boy, was it windy. Scudding sail-boarders were just a coloured blur on a picture I took of them. Sailing dinghies were constantly keeling over and it couldn't have been much fun dragging wet sails from the water, righting the boat and getting under way only for the process to be repeated again, and again. In the chill buffeting wind I was glad I was a runner and relatively dry, and even more glad when the day's run was over. Having put back the clocks, meaning summertime is officially over, it felt wonderful to enjoy a long relaxed evening by a warm fire with a glass of wine to hand and nothing more taxing than a crossword, codeword or good book to while away the hours.

As fit as me? Don't make me laugh.....

      After the stresses and strains of last week's Track & Field meeting I'd every intention of having an easy week

Thursday: Dawn run on a misty Castle Hill. (Click to enlarge)

to recuperate and unwind. It didn't quite work out that way. On three mornings, as the alarm went off at the ungodly hour of 6:30 in the morning, I was rolling out of bed, dragging on my running gear, having a strong cup of coffee and a Brunch Bar and out the door by 7am. As I jogged through the fields, in the dark, hoping the bull wouldn't suddenly materialize in front of me, my mind was harking back 28½ years, wondering whether I should thank or curse two Vibram Mountaineering Club mates who'd first suggested I join them in a local Fun Run. It was only five miles, a distance that required little or no effort at all for Munro-bagging mountaineers, but it became a bit competitive.

     

....and the view towards Emley Moor 15 minutes later

A certain amount of training was called for, if you could call it that, and knowing the Fun Run had a long steep hill at the three mile mark, where better for me to train than up and down Castle Hill. It worked and on the day I finished way ahead of my two rivals in a quite reasonable 38 minutes. Furthermore, about 80 places behind me was an athlete who ran the very first 4 minute mile. No, not Roger Bannister, he was the first sub 4 minute miler. It was our own Derek Ibbotson, a Longwood Harrier who ran some exceedingly fast times in his era. But his racing days were long past and in the Fun Run he was jogging round stretching his legs and enjoying the camerarderie. Nevertheless, I still regarded it as a feather in my cap having finished ahead of one of Huddersfield's great heros.

      My two mountaineering rivals have long since thrown away their running shoes in favour of more sedate

Same morning - holly berries brightening the lane on the run home

pursuits. But here am I plodding through muddy fields in the dark, before breakfast, in an assortment of weathers, risking life and limb running the gauntlet of lumbering bovine beasties and recalcitrant canine critters, or zig-zagging across moors full of menacing mine shafts in ankle deep bog and knee twisting tussocks - at 82 years old! Never mind that one of my growing list of Consultants that keep me ticking over recently said I might pass as a rough 50 year-old, I suffer the same aches, pains, piles and prostate problems as most other male octogenarians.

Friday:  an enjoyable 9 miles round Grassington Moor

I've a medicine cupboard stacked with pills, potions and pain killers to deal with almost every eventuality, most of them taken on a regular basis and, I must add, all of them legal. I've medications to counter side effects of other medications, pills that bung me up and lactulose to loosen me up again. Most of them are on prescription, some my doctor doesn't know about, and would perhaps groan if he did. But the thing is, they all contribute towards keeping me running, though on some days it might only be as far as the loo. So I've had to smile when numerous people in the past - all of them younger than me - have remarked "I wish I was as fit as you". In truth, most of them have the potential for achieving meaningful things in life, maybe not in running but in some other sport or pastime that necessitates getting off their backsides to exercise and exert a wee bit of energy. And you never know, after 25 years, or so, they might even start to enjoy it....

Success and failure......

Where I was today - but not in the Long Jump (Click to enlarge)

      In spite of being shaken by a heavy fall on our very first run in Menorca I later came to the conclusion I was running rather well and began to wish I'd entered the Yorkshire Veterans Track & Field Championships, scheduled to take place at Spenborough on September 28th. I'd missed the closing date for entries but wondered if I could run as a guest. I wasn't the least bothered about medals. All I wanted to know was where my times would feature in the British M80 rankings. Championship events have electronic timing, so all are perfectly legitimate. Not having raced for 15 months, and never having been anywhere near a track for over 2 years, I figured I'd be pretty low down the list.

      Running through the list of contacts on my iPad I came across the name of one of the main organisers of

Eric was there - supporting dad in the Hammer and mum in the 800m

the Championships, Tim Cock, and sent him an email from Menorca asking if I could enter as a guest on the day. "You're in luck" he replied, "we've had to postpone it until October 12th so I'll enter you in the Championship if you tell me which races you want to run. You can pay on the day". I replied asking him to enter me in the 200m, 400m and 800m, which he did. Later, and at my time of life I really should have known better, I decided to include the 1500m. Big, big mistake. I hate to admit that after the second race I was in no fit state to attempt the other two. My ego took a real bashing and could take some time to recover.

There were a few Internationals too....

      The problem was (excuses, excuses!) after running a reasonably good 400m in 90.57 I was called to the start of the 800m race just 10 minutes later which was insufficient time to get my breathing back under control. It was one race in which I was particularly anxious to clock a good time. Along with the marathon, 800m was always one of my specialities and I can't recall ever being beaten over that distance. So I was prepared to give it everything I'd got. I'd done my homework and noted that a Sevenoaks runner, Richard Pitcairn-Knowles, was top of the British rankings with his time of 3.53.57 - which I thought I could beat. R-P-K became my mantra as I set off round the first lap at a metronomic pace. At the bell the timekeeper shouted 1.47 which I calculated was nearly 10 seconds up on Richard's pace, but could I keep it going? The answer, I'm glad to say, was 'Yes' and I crossed the line in 3.34.39 to go top of the rankings. Richard will not be pleased!

A couple of 'Golds' for my efforts.....

  In truth, the reason I'd entered the 1500m was to displace Richard from the head of the rankings over that distance too. I'd reckoned on a good day his 7.56.9 should be well within my capabilities. I've recently been running miles faster than that, but I'm afraid after two hard races in quick succession I was in no fit state to attempt it, or the 200m, and decided to call it a day. As I've said, my ego got severely dented, though I'd a pleasant surprise when I got home and checked the M80 400m rankings. From nowhere at all I've jumped into 2nd place behind John Seymour of Southern Counties Vets who's a little under 3 seconds ahead of me with his time of 87.63. So that was a nice little bonus. I reckon those two results deserve a celebratory dram - each! But I'll need a couple of commiseratory drams too for my miserable failures. God, that's going to take some living down.....

Misty morning....

Breaking dawn.... (click to enlarge)

Rabbits playing 'Chicken'........

Here are a couple of pictures taken on last Tuesday's run. I'd awoke to thick mist and could hardly see across the lawn when I looked out the window at 6.25am. It was touch and go whether to change into running gear, or go back to bed. I was a teeny bit worried that running in all that moisture might affect my breathing, or harm my chest. It didn't take long to dismiss the negativity, pull on my shorts and vest, drink some coffee and get out the door into the eerie silence. Dawn was slowly breaking and before I'd run a mile I could actually see where I was planting my feet!

Trees and telegraph poles, cottages and cows,  brambles and barbed wire gradually materialized from the murk, though the sun was still tucked away in its blanket below the eastern horizon. One of two horses I pass each morning whinnied a welcome as I ran along the lane. A startled pheasant clattered off into the distance. Rooks had already decided it was breakfast time and cawed noisily across the fields. Rabbits played 'Chicken' on the path ahead of me, daring each other to be the last to run away as I approached. I could almost have kicked one of them. Still conscious of the effect heavy mist might have on my breathing I decided 4 miles was enough and was back home, stretched, towelled down and tucking into a well earned breakfast before 8am. I didn't see any other runners that morning......

More fartleking about.....

      The season of mist is well and truly upon us. This morning our local hills were shrouded in the stuff. It was

Misty morning.....(click to enlarge)

raining too with wind tearing at the trees, temperatures plummeting to single figures and rivers starting to rise. Time to turn on the central heating. Well, almost... "It's what us pensioners have to do to keep warm" I'd joked to a hooded figure I jogged past on Castle Hill last week. I doubt if he heard me for on each of the four times I past him he'd a phone clamped to his ear. His dog had deserted him and headed off in pursuit of rabbits, but he didn't appear to have noticed. And I couldn't help wondering who he could be having such a long conversation with while strolling alone on top of a freezing cold hill when it was barely daylight? Or whether his wife knew? Then again, he may well have been pondering why a bearded old git was prancing around in a pair of shorts in such a place at that unearthly hour......

     

Sunrise on Castle Hill - worth getting up early for....

I was fartleking, that's what, though it was quite unplanned. On Wednesday I'd set off for a steady three mile run before breakfast but became so entranced with the gorgeous sunrise, a hint of frost on the grass and the landscape lighting up as I ran, I'm afraid I got a bit carried away. Reaching a slight slope I started airplaning, picking up speed as I went, and careering along joyously for around 130m. It felt good, so I repeated it on the next circuit, and the next, and the next......  Between times I began accelerating along a 200m stretch I used for repetition runs in days gone by when training more seriously with races in mind. Without ever running eyeballs out I was enjoying the faster spurts in the sharp, frosty air. So much so that my planned three miles got stretched to 5.18. I didn't really want to go home.

      After breakfast I plugged my Garmin into the computer to record the run and was happy to learn that

Michaelmas daisies - autumn colour in the garden....

whilst the slowest 200m burst was a not to be sniffed at 6.50 pace, my fastest 130m run was an astonishing 5.22 pace (not that I always trust my Garmin!). Another point about the run was that at no time had I felt the need to walk - in spite of 420ft of ascent - and I'd finished feeling fresh. I repeated the run on Thursday morning but kept all the faster bits to what I considered a respectable 6.45 - 6.50 pace. And again on Friday morning, though I didn't get to bed until turned midnight after my computer crashed, all the icons disappeared from the desktop and emails disappeared into thin air never to be seen again. I managed to restore the icons but spent a stressed and sleepless night trying to figure out how to restore the errant emails. I never did.

     

On Grassington Moor - winding up for a fast mile....

Once upon a time Sunday's long runs stretched from 18 to 22 miles. Nowadays I seldom reach 10 and 6 has become more the norm. Because of the shorter distances I feel I ought to inject a bit more quality into them - which is why the 4th of 6 miles last weekend became a so-called magic mile. In truth, it wasn't very fast at all. I can still produce speed over short distances but I can't maintain it for very far. The wheels are still OK but the engine is getting a bit knackered! Anyway, whilst my wonderful partner was wandering around Barden Moor on National Park duty I decided to have another go over last weekend's route to try and improve that appalling time. I failed again - or I think I did. What actually happened was, I pressed the wrong button on my Garmin at the end of the fast(er) mile so I'll never know how long it took. I'd like to think it was about 4 minutes but I don't think anyone would believe that!

      All in all I clocked 26 miles last week, running all the way. Well, except to take a few photographs of those amazing sunrises.

It just dawned on me......

   After such a wonderful holiday in Menorca, bathed in glorious sunshine, bedazzled by scintillating

Sunrise by Emley Moor transmitting station.....(click to enlarge)

seascapes and bobbing white boats, the last ten days have been somewhat anti-climactic. Coming home to routine runs in old familiar places seems a teeny bit boring after the rocky trails around Alcaufar. Tripping over a rabbit on Castle Hill doesn't quite compare with the excitement of discovering a tortoise wandering across the path in the early dawn. My garden doesn't have the luxury of a pool to dive into when I get home from a run drenched with sweat in the 75º heat. Nor does it have the blazing bougainvilleas, oleanders or hibiscus to brighten my days. And the fact it's been raining almost every day in the Balearics since we came home is no consolation. It was beautiful whilst we were there and the memories are treasured.

   A little reluctantly last week I crept out of the house while most of the village was still in bed to ease the old legs back into some sort of running routine, though some lines of Shelley kept coming to mind (I can't remember which poem they're from):

....and I, I know not if to pray
still to be what I am, or yield and be
like all the other men I see...

In other words, whether to run or pack it in, but decided there is still some mileage left in the old dog (though probably not very much!) and until I find a new pipe and slippers under the Christmas tree I'll try to carry on running.

  

Autumn tints on Castle Hill side...

    While on holiday we ran every morning just as dawn was breaking, while it was still reasonably cool, though I'm not, or ever have been,

a morning person. Nor can I run on an empty stomach so I'll have a quick coffee and maybe half a cereal bar before venturing out to sniff the air. In a masochistic sort of way I came to enjoy those morning runs and decided to try some after I got home. Oddly, in the 36 years I've lived here, I've rarely seen the sun rise, mainly because my house faces due north. Last week I saw it four times - and have photographs to prove it. Furthermore, in spite of the early hour, I seemed to be running very easily so finished up turning some steady runs into fartlek sessions.

   I'd some urgent need for speed on one occasion when I came across a newborn calf lying on the path shielded by its

Bull fight - Big Daddy versus an heir presumptuous...

mum. Except mum had a raggy tuft hanging from its belly and a funny shaped little udder with no teats. It was in fact a proud dad who lowered his head and advanced towards me, a move that prompted a quick change of pace whilst simultaneously calculating if I could reach the next stile before this lumbering half ton of beef? Thankfully, he decided not to make a race of it. He'd done his duty and returned to the sleeping calf. However, I didn't hang around to get a picture of this unusual bull and calf scenario. When returning home, mum was back in charge and dad was fighting off an heir presumptuous.

  

Clifford in his heaven - salmon fishing on the Tay

Even at that early hour the dog walkers were out on Castle Hill, and a couple of runners came by as I was talking to the wife of an old friend of mine who lives on Castle Hill Side. I should say 'lived' because sadly, that very morning, he was being moved to a nearby Care Home suffering from severe dementia that his wife, or any untrained person for that matter, was able to cope with. Eight months older than me, he's always been an active outdoor person involved with hunting, shooting and fishing. I remember times when I'd return home to find a goose hanging in the porch, courtesy of Clifford. Or he'd open the boot of his car to reveal neat rows of Pink-footed and White-fronted geese and invite drinking mates at the old Castle Hill pub to 'take your pick'. Fond memories flowed through my mind as I jogged home. And some sad thoughts too...

   Each of those four dawn runs was a little over five miles, and very enjoyable they proved to be. Not so the fifth run after Church on Sunday. To finish the week I ran a six miler that included a so-called 'Magic mile' to assess my current state of fitness or, as it turned out, unfitness. I was so disillusioned with the readings on my watch I wouldn't repeat them to anyone, not even my wonderful partner. I tried another fast run and that was even worse. Shelley's lines came back to me yet again. Maybe it is time for that new pipe and slippers after all....

Magical Menorca....

Our hotel on the beach - the Xuroy    (Click to enlarge)

    We're back home from what we considered to be the most beautiful corner of the island of Menorca. Our hotel, the Xuroy, sits on a beach of light sand in a narrow sheltered cove of unbelievably green sea where pleasure boats bobble around in the ever so gentle swell. No matter how hard we'd tried, we couldn't have chosen a choicer place. Marine life in the clear water makes it a haven for snorkelers as I found out swimming among shoals of exotically coloured fish that seemed totally unafraid of my flailing arms only inches away.. I suppose they knew they could outswim me any time they jolly well liked. Elsewhere, divers reported an abundance of jelly fish but I never saw one. Another snorkeler had seen an octopus, smallish, but big enough to make his day.
     

       We ran on 13 mornings, mostly short runs amounting to fractionally over 40 miles, mainly

On our first morning run to the Tower

along the Cami de Cavalls (the Way of Horses), a type of Bridle Path that circles the island for 116 miles. It's believed to have existed since the 14th Century and created for the movement of mounted troops between the various watchtowers and fortifications.  In places it's an exceedingly rocky path which in the south of the island is made up of raised lumps of pitted limestone which I'm surprised horses could ever cope with. It was my misfortune to trip and crash heavily to the ground on our very first run to a nearby Martello tower, knocking up my Lt thumb and lacerating my Rt knee and elbow. My old body didn't seem to like it and I was on the verge of passing out half way through breakfast. But a couple hours rest, 600mg of Ibuprofen and a smearing of Arnica had me out and about again by lunchtime.
      

One day he could be faster than me....

     I was more careful after that, lifting my feet higher as I danced over the raised clints. We gradually extended our runs, from 1.40 miles to 7.50 miles (on a morning we took a wrong turning!), and always before breakfast when temperatures were in the low to mid 70's. Later in the day it climbed to high 80's, perhaps higher, when even the Spaniards were complaining about the unseasonably hot September weather. On two of our runs we came across wild tortoises, well spotted by my wonderful partner, and assumed they were out scouring the rocky hollows looking for water. The thought struck me that in not very many years hence the little blighters might well be able to outrun me! Cattle, horses, donkeys, pigs and sheep - and feral cats - somehow managed to scrape an existence from the barren looking landscape without their ribs showing too much. I couldn't really see what state the tortoises were in, but if their shiny carapaces were anything to go by I reckon they were OK!
     

       Meanwhile, back at the Xuroy, there was no such sparsity. Food was unlimited with dishes to

Siesta time - resting from all the running and eating...

suit just about everyone. Although limiting myself to a bowl of muesli and croissants for breakfast with salads and fish for dinner, I suspect it was the irresistible puddings and ice cream that did the damage. Or maybe that sugar loaded Coca Cola on the way back from our morning shop at the S'Algar supermarket? Or was it all the lounging around, inactive in the broiling heat? Whatever, in spite of buckets of sweat, I still managed to put on an unwanted 3 pounds over the course of two weeks, mainly around my waistline where it looks pretty disgusting. I've got work to do.
      

Posing on the Cami de Cavalls....

      Walking was a bit limited from our vicinity. Apart from access along the Cami de Cavalls many paths are private and there are notices all over the place telling people to keep out. I laughed at one that said 'Guarded by Jack Russell Security'. I like Jack Russells and get on really well with most! The Xuroy caters mostly for over 50's clientelle, some of whom have been going there each year since time immoral, and it seemed their walking was mainly restricted to Punta Prima (2 miles south), S'Algar (1 mile north) or, in the case of more elderly or pleasantly plump individuals, the Montello Tower just ¾ mile away. At 82 I suppose I must be bordering on old age but did manage to get a little further on one or two occasions.
      

      A little over a couple of miles away we found a hidden jewel at Cala de Rafalet. Unsignposted, a rocky path twisted

The beautiful Cala de Rafalet...

steeply downhill through thick undergrowth to a tiny secluded beach with vertical walls of limestone rising on either side. Between the walls the sea was deep, green and clear. Men of a somewhat hippie nature swam sans cozzies. We'd sometimes to avert our eyes as they strolled by, naked and unashamed, but all were friendly and polite. Another guy we met was a climber who'd spent the day scaling the notched and pitted limestone walls and suggested I might like to have a go too. "If you fall off, you'll just drop into the sea" he said.  Er, some other time maybe.....
     

Cala de Sant Esteve, another jewel in Menorca's crown..

       Cala de Sant Esteve is 5 miles or so along the Cami de Cavalls, down an exceedingly steep and rocky path to another stunning little sheltered harbour under a limestone cliff where sleepy boats nestled in the afternoon sun. It's another perfect place to swim, as some of the boat owners were doing, but we'd walked there without any swimming or snorkeling gear. Nor had we any money to pay the entrance fee into Fort Marlborough, built by the British way back in the 1700's to defend access to the channel leading to Mahon, today's capital. Nearby, we visited another ancient fortification, Torre Penjat, also known as the Stuart Tower, built some time after Fort Marlborough for the same defensive reasons.
     

       By the time we'd finished exploring it was late afternoon, with a long walk back to Xuroy and we may

A view from the bar at Happy Hour...

have panicked a little in case we'd miss 'Happy Hour' - between 6 o'clock and 7 o'clock - when residents get two drinks for the price of one. After four hours or so in the blazing sun we'd worked up quite a thirst. But it's amazing how fast one can walk at such times, or how smooth the rough ground suddenly becomes. We made it with time to spare, to sip our drinks and relax in the evening light, just yards away from the lapping sea. People paddled. A girl threw bread into the sea, attracting hundreds of fish that swirled around in their own little whirlpools. I hoped they'd still be there the following day when I'd donned my snorkel to gaze goggle-eyed into their natural aquarium. It was a perfect way to end the day. I even got round to socializing on one occasion. That's what two for the price of one does to you. Especially after the second round...
      

Carrying the statue of  La Virgen de Gracia  into the Church of Santa Maria

      With neither of us confident enough to drive on the wrong side of the road we didn't see as much of the island as we'd have liked, but we took buses to Mahon, Es Grau and the water sport town of Fornells. At Mahon the streets were crowded for the Fiesta of La Virgen de Gracia, patron Saint of the city, when Spaniards have a hooley of a time singing, dancing, drinking Pomada, jostling around the parading 'giants', slapping the prancing horses and the Lord knows what else besides. It was stifling hot when we arrived just before the parade of unmounted horse riders, Church hierarchy and other dignitaries who preceded the statue of the Virgen from the chapel into the crowded Church of Santa Maria. There was a Mass for the horse riders and some heavenly singing from the gallery. In a lull after that we strolled down to the harbour through streets lined with decorated horses and their handlers.
      

      We never did see the culmination of the morning's activities that had got way behind schedule. We

A marina at Mahon

could hardly move in the seething mass of people and, for me, it all got a bit claustrophobic in the scorching heat. A spacious square, the Placa Constitucio, had been covered with a thick layer of sand for the horses to perform on but, as we left, it was smothered with food wrappers, cartons, plastic bottles and the inevitable cigarette ends. Normally we'd have blamed litter-lout Brits but on this occasion they were heavily outnumbered by the Spanish. It rather surprised us, but on another day we found hordes of rubbish dumped over walls as we walked up from the harbour to the Archeological Museum of Menorca adjacent to the magnificent Church of St Francis of Assissi. However, most places were spotless and graffiti free. At Alcaufar, around the Xuroy, the beach was cleaned on a regular basis and bin-men came to take away rubbish every night.
      

A quiet bay round the corner from Es Grau...

     We hadn't really intended going to Es Grau, but rather to alight at a road junction from which we'd walk to the Nature Reserve at Albufera which, we believed, was a good spot for observing migrating birds. Alas, the bus from Mahon only stopped at one place - Es Grau - which was too far away from Albufera for us to walk. However, we spent a very pleasant few hours strolling by the seashore of this wonderful resort and following another section of the Cami de Cavalls over a rocky promontory and down to an idyllic little bay overlooked by another ubiquitous Martello tower. Much laughter and frivolity emanated from a yacht moored in the pristine water. Two men swam naked in the bay while a Jack Russell guarded their clothes. I like Jack Russells...
      

      The picturesque little harbour town of Fornells caters mainly for watersport activities -

Resting on the rocks at Cabo Fornells...

surfing, kayaking, snorkeling, sailing and diving - none of which we're particularly good at. We'd intended doing a six mile circular walk described in the Guide book but declined on discovering half of it, at least, was along tarmac roads. So we bumbled north along the coast and took a rising path to the Ermita de Lourdes, a little shrine below Torre de Fornells which, if you haven't guessed, is yet another Martello tower, this one open to the public - for a price. We continued our rocky bumble to Cabo Fornells, an airy point from which we could suss out the second half of our previously planned walk. It looked bare and uninteresting so were doubly glad we hadn't done it. Below us a group of kayakers had abandoned their flimsy craft and were snorkeling in the lea of an island. Judging by the amount of time they spent in the water they'd discovered an underwater wonderland. I was envious. We'd an al fresco cappuccino before catching buses back to base.
     

 

Parting shot on our last dawn run, courtesy of a naked photographer....

     We did other things, visited other places, but I've covered all the main things and my brain is shutting down. Perhaps it's remembered Happy Hour in that never to be forgotten sunset oasis surrounding Xuroy and gone into relaxation mode. Or perhaps my alimentary system is waiting for mouthwatering fish dishes, delicious desserts and ice creams (note the plural) to come its way. All in all, a magical unforgettable holiday among unforgettable faces - and things. A couple of hours before being whisked away to the airport we went for a final run along the rocky trail to the Martello tower and took some last minute photographs. A guy sitting on the rocks shouted to ask if we'd like one of us taken together. Affirmative. As he walked over to take it we were amused to note that shoes were his sole item of clothing - which may account for our bemused smiles at such an early hour in this very last picture.

A week of ups and downs....

They're off - in the U/10's fell race at Burnsall  (Click to enlarge).
No's 26 and 27 were boy and girl winners and the
little lad in red socks was first boy U/8

      Serious running last week amounted to just sixteen miles but a fair bit of walking and scrambling will hopefully have compensated for the gaps in my logbook. August Bank Holiday was spent organising, helping and encouraging other runners taking part in the annual village sports at Hebden and Burnsall, the former being the one that involves most work in marking and marshalling the varied fell race routes for U/9's, U/12's, U/14's, U/17's and Seniors on our Bank Holiday Monday fixture. Commencing at the sports field with a bag of flags, route signs and red/white marker tape, wading Hebden Beck, scrambling up the crag, climbing 6ft walls and thrashing through bracken isn't something your normal 82 year old would be expected to do, but our Sports Committee seem to think it's the best place for me to be. Out of the way? The task was completed in not much over the hour. 

      Race day was a big disappointment, mainly due to appalling weather conditions but secondly because most BOFRA (British Open Fell Runners Association) runners had chosen

Yulan Brosse, one of four U/17's in the Hebden Crag race
after competing at Burnsall two days earlier

to boycott Hebden in favour of a championship race at Reeth in Swaledale, many miles away. So our fields were somewhat depleted, to say the least, with just 39 runners in the top four categories - six U/12's, eight U/14's, four U/17's and 21 Seniors. There should have been 23 Seniors but two were still warming up somewhere when the race started a little before its scheduled time - everyone by this time wanting to get the hell out of it to escape further drenchings. After the last of the seniors had been counted over the crag you can take it from me, the course was de-flagged and cleared in record time and the rising beck allowed to go on its way unheeded....  Unfortunately, no results are available for the Hebden races.

Matt Whitfield leading the Burnsall 10 mile race from
Mike Jefferies of Billingham Marsh House Harriers

      Two days earlier, Burnsall were exceedingly lucky with the weather, warm sunshine and a gentle breeze bringing  ideal conditions  for both road and fell races. As last year, I felt more than a twinge of nostalgia as 146 runners set off in the 10 mile road race - without me. I last ran it two years ago when I was 80, the oldest person ever to have completed it and, perhaps unwisely, decided to rest on my laurels. Some of my old friends and acquaintances - M70 Bill Wade, M75 Don Stead, M65 Antonio Cardinale, to name but three - still had the guts and enthusiasm to line up and take part, making me feel a bit wimpish. Maybe next year? The race was won by Matt Whitfield of Bristol & West A.C. in a time of 54.22. I'm told Matt is a serving Squadron Leader in the RAF and, if so, lived up to his rank in leading the race from the start and opening up a gap of nearly 1½ minutes by the finish. Sarah Cumber of Halifax Harriers was an easy winner of the ladies race in 1:02:52. Full results here.

       From clapping home the road runners I set off up the fell-side to shout some deserved encouragement at juniors and

Ted Mason, local winner of Burnsall's  'Classic' Fell Race

seniors in the hugely popular fell races culminating in the Burnsall Classic. Compared to Hebden's junior entries there were 30 U/10's, 37 U/14's and 10 U/17's (results here) whilst the Classic race attracted 123 senior runners. Local farmer and Wharfedale Harrier Ted Mason scored his second win in the Classic, leading from start to finish to storm home in 15:01, 59 seconds ahead of William Neill of Mercia Fell Runners. Mel Price, also of Mercia Fell Runners, was first lady in 18:57. (Full results here). The 'Classic' race involves an initial trog up fields of reeds and rushes, a narrow stony shepherd's path zig-zagging to the top of the crag, a steep descent over heather-strewn rocks, a 9ft drop on the landing side of a wall before scurrying back down the rough fields - altogether around 1½ miles with 900ft of ascent. I was only once brave enough to pit my skills against this tough course, back in 1996, and finished 2nd M60 in 21 minutes. I vowed 'never again' and have since left it to hardier individuals....

Meanwhile, among the bracken and bog, a mini epic was unfolding...

      For fear of embarrassing my wonderful partner I'll not say too much about Sunday's six mile run when, for quite some time, we thrashed around in some boggy morass with not a clue where we were. For the very first time in our 23 year relationship we came close to arguing, me wanting to go one way and she the other! Of course, we'd no compass. Who needs one when only a mile and a half from home, if that? We did have a map, a large scale 1:25:00  marking every wall, but the walls on the map didn't match up with the walls on the ground which was odd, given how they were very old walls and our map was comparatively new. Ordnance Survey don't usually get things that wrong. Eventually, after much floundering about, we struck lucky in locating a boundary stone clearly marked on the map, so were able to pinpoint our exact location. From thereon we could confidently set off running again, laughing at our ineptitude... Back in Hebden, nothing seemed different, all the houses were still in the same place and we'd no problem finding our back door.  As I was saying, who needs a compass?

Curious cows, and a load of bull....

That 'bovine bunch' - and a swallow... (click to enlarge)

With the exception of a relatively rare speed session on Castle Hill I stayed lower down for my other two runs last week due to some strong winds that brought down trees and flattened gardens. Animals got a bit frisky too, notably that bovine bunch I've usually got to barge through en route to my high level training ground, but also another great herd of cows and calves squelching around in a muddy gateway bawling their heads off as I approached. Thankfully, they allowed me through without any hassle and didn’t attempt to follow me as I trotted away up the field.  It was a calculated risk but I’d probably have made a detour if big daddy had been bellowing among them.

I was dipping into Alberto Salazar's 'Guide to Road Racing’ again last week and according to him I’ve been

On a more leisurely run....sod those repetitions

doing my 200m repetition runs a little bit wrong.  Not much, but in the past my recoveries have been a mixture of walking part of the way back then slow jogging to the start of the next fast run. Alberto says if I have to walk I’m running my 200’s too fast and I should slow them down until I can jog the whole of the 200m recovery.  So I did, and have to admit I’ve never run such an uneven set of reps in all my life. My average times for the set of 12 x 200m was an embarrassing 49secs each, possibly the slowest I’ve ever run them and a good enough reason for me to decide never to race again. The only redeeming factor was I was getting progressively faster towards the end while still maintaining a jog recovery, dropping from an initial 7.43 pace down to 5.59 at last. Anyway, it did my ego no good at all doing reps at that sort of pace so will revert back to my own method next time. Alberto can stick to training Mo Farah.

Riverside path ripped up by fallen tree....

My low level runs were much more relaxed and enjoyable, though I got the feeling I’d have been much safer braving the wind on the bare, high moors than jogging under the ancient chestnuts along the bank of the River Wharfe. Not only had branches broken off but in one place a whole tree had keeled over and ripped up the path as its roots took to the air. One way and another, towards the latter end of last week, the countryside was a hazardous place to be – which made running that little bit more exciting. It could become even more exciting when we take to high ground again as the grouse shooting season gets into full swing. Already, at times, it’s beginning to sound a bit like WW3 has begun. But it always invokes smug satisfaction when activities of the aristocratic landed gentry are brought to a halt until some wild runner gets out of the way. Not that they always stop, they’ve shot across my bows and over my head in the past. Now there's an idea to spice things up a bit, next week I might do my repetition runs on Grassington Moor...