What a difference a day makes.......

From one day to another I never know what to wear, but usually opting for as little as possible.  On Wednesday we'd beautiful warm sunshine when crocuses in my garden opened to their fullest extent, their bright faces soaking up the life-giving sun. As was mine as I sat outside in a warm corner, reading until late afternoon.

Sun-worshipping crocuses...    (Click to enlarge)

 On Thursday I awoke to freezing smog, as our local radio station called it, which got thicker as I ascended the few hundred feet onto Castle Hill for my morning circuits. A couple of dog walkers were there before me, one of them a lady who, until recently, used to run seven circuits of the hill each morning before breakfast. She'd been injured, she said (haven't we all?), but hoped the doctor would give her clearance to start running again in the next couple of weeks or so. "Excellent" I said, "I might have someone to run with then". Thinking about it afterwards, it dawned on me she was an awful lot younger than me and probably ran at twice my speed. I don't think her old Alsatian dog would be very keen on the idea either....

It was mainly cloudy for the partial eclipse of the sun, but managed to catch this odd shot of it....

 Saturday dawned clear but bitterly cold, 3ºF but well below that in a blustery North wind. Stopping to buy meat at Keelham on our way back to the Dales we were almost blown off our feet in the car park. It felt wonderful to climb back into a warm car. Back in Hebden we lingered long over morning coffee before donning several layers to go our different ways, my wonderful partner for a sensible low level  run around Appletreewick, me for an 8 mile circuit onto Grassington Moor and over Bycliffe Hill.

Saturday's dreary scene on Grassington Moor....

Running north for the first 4 miles I would get the worst of it over with at the start, but it was like running through a wind tunnel as I set off up Hebden Ghyll and I'll admit to taking an occasional walk to get my breath back and ease my aching legs. It was heaven to reach the turn-around point at 'Casino Royale', to run with the wind and feel the sun on my frozen chest as I climbed to the high point at 1,570ft. A large bird of prey was quartering the moor to my right, in the way Hen Harriers do, but I was too cold to spend time investigating. I was hell bent on getting back home as soon as possible.
Hot soup was calling.....

Lambs enjoying the sun on appropriately called Sunday...

 Sunday was totally different. The wind had dropped and there wasn't a cloud in the sky as I walked to Chapel for the early morning service. Sitting in a warm pew I was soon regretting having donned an extra Damart layer, thinking it would still be cold, and began day dreaming about stripping down to shorts and T-shirt for a run up on the moor. To the Minister's consternation I announced the wrong chapter for my reading, but fortunately read the right verses for her sermon, much to her relief!
It wasn't long before my day dreaming became reality, for soon after the service I set off to repeat the previous day's route. 

Faster, higher, stronger - my octogenarian motto......

Gosh, what a difference. And how good it felt. I'd donned a skimpy pair of shorts, to get as much sun on my disgustingly white legs as possible, with a thin thermal under my vest that I could stuff into my bumbag if it got too warm. Or I could just roll up the sleeves.  I love to feel the sun on my body, as much of my body as is decently acceptable, though in places where I run I rarely meet anyone else. By the time I reached Casino Royale (so called because the opening scene of that film was shot there) I was over-heating and glad to find a patch of snow where I could dowse my face and neck. I lingered on Bycliffe Hill, hoping I might spot the previous day's bird of prey, but it was gone.

Cooling off at that patch of snow......

I lingered again in a particularly warm spot by Cupola Corner, sat on the mossy turf with my back against a rock, watching a pair of rabbits cavorting around, chasing each other, jumping into the air and obviously full of the joys of Spring. I like rabbits, preferably in a casserole with carrots and onions, after the first frost.  

A skylark sang, joined by all the other members of the moorland choir, clear and vibrant in the still air. It felt fantastic to just sit there, to watch, and listen and feel that delicious warmth caressing my bare legs, and arms, and face before jogging gently back home.

I'm glad I made the most of it. Snow is forecast again for Thursday of this week.....

Finally, here's an aria that wont leave me alone - Jose Cura's rendering of "I've never seen a woman like this".
If anyone should hear funny noises erupting from Castle Hill or Grassington Moor.......just turn a deaf ear while I get it out of my system.

A surge of Spring

My weekly mileages always tended to be higher in the longer hours of daylight, tailing off a wee bit in winter. But over the last six months, since I adopted this quite out of character habit of rising in time to watch the sun rise, summer and winter mileages have stayed more or less at the same level. Ideally, for a runner of my vintage, an average of three miles a day is about the optimum to stay fit and healthy and injury free - though inclement weather often dictates these figures average out over a month rather than a week, especially in winter. Anyway, with only a few more days to the vernal equinox, last week was probably the last time I'll be up early enough to watch the sun rise for at least the next six months.

Maybe my last sunrise picture for quite some time  (Click to enlarge)

 Getting up at 6am last Wednesday I'd all on to drink a cup of coffee then run round the other side of the hill in time to see the raging fire lighting the eastern horizon. All very dramatic. From henceforth it will be up even earlier, so I'm afraid it will have to perform without me.  Question is, will I still want to get up at 6am if there's no sunrise to watch?  Over the past six months that morning spectacle has lured me out of bed like nothing before. My cunning little brain is already suggesting it might be time to enjoy a little lie in.....and procrastinator is my middle name

I may be pumping iron, but I've a long way to go before I look like my eldest son, Alasdair, in his prime

Over the past couple of weeks I've exceeded my optimum mileages, 24 last week and 26 during Troller's Trot week, so deserve some easy ones to restore the status quo.  Besides, I've been pumping iron too, a silly thing to do on my own, I know, but I've felt a bit lacking in strength lately. Normally I use very low weights with lots of repetitions for such things as upward rowing and bicep curls, but last week I was rushing upstairs during adverts between Cheltenham Festival races to 'clean' 53lbs (2 x 20 on a 13lb bar) in sets of 5 or 6 (I didn't count them). By the end of the afternoon I'd probably done around 30 lifts, which was quite enough for starters. There's no way I'm going to add 'jerks' to all these cleans. Those days are long past!

Plodding up the long wall, well wrapped up, past the noisy frog pond

 Saturday was a bitterly cold day, particularly in the wind chill at 1,500ft, when I'd made the mistake of wearing shorts instead of lagging my legs with something warmer. My wonderful partner was far more sensible and set off up the ghyll wearing nearly as many layers as an onion. But Spring was well and truly in the air. Hebden's first new-born lambs looked sorry for themselves, tottering around on wobbly legs, keeping close to their mums, hungry for warm milk. Faint splashes of yellow among rosettes of grainy sage-green leaves heralded our first primroses sheltering by a wall near the ford. Frogs were back to their pond up the long wall, and spawning, loudly, enjoying their piggy-backs. Curlews were calling. Lapwings were wheeling around in the wind like tatters of black and white cloth.  Nearer Mossdale, golden plovers piped their notes of utter loneliness across the open moor. I love that sound.

Shooting Hut in a cold, snow dappled Mossdale

 Throughout the eleven mile run I passed but one solitary hiker, muffled up and too miserable to speak, or even grunt. Did my greeting sound a bit too perky, or was it just that he declined to speak to idiots prancing around in shorts on the moor in sub zero temperatures?  Grouse didn't sound too friendly either with their constant "go back, go back" calls.

One of the many hundred traps set by our over-keen gamekeeper

 Unknown to many there's a heathery ramp starting behind a wall to the right of the main track, leading gently down to the Shooting Hut and new bridge over Mossdale beck, far below. I call it the runner's path - because I've never seen anyone else on it - and it was down this that I swept into Mossdale on Saturday, leaving my wonderful partner to go her own slightly shorter way. Sloping northwards, parts of it were still thick with snow. Below it was a vast swamp where the beck had overflowed, helped by melt-water, which I'd to contour round to reach the bridge. Somewhere in there our local gamekeeper has a 'stink pit', surrounded by snares to trap marauding foxes, which I was going to check on, but I'd no desire to wade through all that water.

Where the beck disappears under Mossdale Scar

In the five miles back home I struggled to keep a steady rhythm. My legs can normally stand a fair amount of cold but, in the freezing north east wind chill, came close to getting cramp.  So I hurried along slowly(!), past Mossdale Scar, across Kelber and down the lane to Yarnbury, anxious to drop down into the ghyll as soon as I could, hopefully out of that vicious wind. I think I'm going soft in my dotage. Or my head is!  Morning coffee was a little late on Saturday...but getting my hands round it bordered on ecstacy.

Cold looking lambs in Hebden Ghyll. Please, send us some sun

On Sunday morning I'd great difficulty straightening enough to get out of bed, let alone hobble down the stairs.  After breakfast I was cajoled into running 4 miles around Burnsall, by way of a loosener, and asked whether I wanted to go before or after morning coffee? After swilling down 600mg of Ibuprofen to ease the pain I reckoned it best to go before and get it over with.  I changed into running gear, this time with tights instead of shorts.  On automatic pilot I couldn't possibly describe the run, what we saw or what we heard, other than it was still numbingly cold.  My feet may have been moving - just - but my old brainbox, coccooned in a thick woolly hat, was at a frozen standstill. Someone once said - can't remember who - that he'll believe running is enjoyable when he meets a runner with a smile on their face. 

Good job he didn't see me on Sunday.....

Trollers Trot, March 7th, 2015

It must be a couple of years back when my wonderful partner and I came to an agreement that from thenceforth we were never going to race again over distances longer than 10K. At our time of life, we opined, any distance above that would be counter-productive to our health and fitness. Indeed, we thought it best to maybe abandon the idea of racing altogether and stick to low key Park Runs where there'd be no pressure to 'win' and no danger of over exerting ourselves. So what the heck were we doing last Saturday lining up for a 12 mile race on a cold and cloudy day through some of the best bogs in Britain?

The 12 mile Troller's Trot route.....(Click to enlarge)

 Well, enjoying ourselves as things turned out. I'm not sure what strategies my better half had in mind but I was determined not to push things to the extent it would hurt, just let it flow nice and easy, maintaining a comfortable rhythm while keeping my breathing under control. Apart from slowing to walk a couple of hills, and putting my foot on the gas pedal when in danger of being passed on the final stretch, I largely kept to my game plan. So I was rather surprised to find I was only 5 minutes slower than on a previous occasion, three years ago, when I was actually 'racing' it.

Profile with undulations amounting to 1,023ft ascent - according to Garmin

With over 400 walkers and runners taking part, car parking around Threshfield school had become something of a problem by the time we arrived, rather later than planned, and the long colourful crocodile queueing for race numbers left us little time to strip for action or visit the loo - the latter being a rather urgent necessity. Having only registered at the last minute we were surprised to find that race numbers had all been overprinted with our name and age category, something we could only remember happening once before in a World Masters Mountain Running Championship. 12 mile runners had red numbers while 25 mile runners had black numbers. It was all brilliantly organised by Paul Shack and his incredible team.

My three pacemakers pioneering the way across the bogs.......

At a little after 9am we were off, nearly 350 runners the vast majority of which were in the 25 mile race. We would run together for the first 6½ miles to the checkpoint at Rylstone Church where the long distane runners would start their climb onto Barden Moor. Thankfully, for us running the shorter 12 mile route, all the serious climbing would be over except for a final little sting in the tail just before the finish. As befits a mature gentleman I'd taken a place near the rear of the field where I soon latched on to three Ripon Runners pacing themselves nicely for the full 25 miles and travelling at the same pace as me. They were rather expert at dodging the black, glutinous bogs and I was equally expert at following them - though they somehow managed to keep their legs cleaner than mine.

Same three on slightly drier ground towards Winterburn reservoir

Threshfield Moor was alive with golden plovers, so much so I first thought their multiple pipings was someone's mobile phone ringing, or some HGV reversing. Curlews were warbling away too and a skylark joined the choir at one stage to give a heart-lifting solo performance. They cheered us on our way across the worst of the bogs until Winterburn reservoir came into view, then some easier running down to the village of Hetton where cyclists became the main hazzard, flashing past at great speed on the short stretch of road to Rylstone. They frighten me, mainly I think because I tend to run with my head down, watching my feet, and don't always see them coming, especially at that speed! Maybe they were in some sort of race too. Or they'd been taking something.....

Linton Falls at the 'Tin bridge'

I was glad to reach the checkpoint and get some water inside me. I grabbed a couple of biscuits too and munched away along Chapel Lane to Cracoe, hoping the sugar would give me a boost. From there on I was on my own with no other runners in sight, which was just as well because it could possibly have interferred with my rhythm in an effort to catch them. I passed a couple of walkers on Thorpe Lane, one of whom kept breaking into a run to improve her finishing time, but it wasn't until after I'd crossed the Burnsall road and making my way through fields to Linton Falls that I spied three runners in the distance. It was too late to try and catch them, even if I'd had the energy.

All smiles.......2nd L65 and 1st M80

Hens were clucking around on the road at Linton, being friendly.  The falls were in spate, making a fine sight as I crossed the 'tin' bridge over the Wharfe and turned left along the riverbank for home. Coming out onto the road there's another bridge to re-cross the river, then a short steep hill to the Finish in the school. Almost at the top of this hill I became aware of a voice behind me, and seeing how I hadn't passed anyone recently it didn't take long for the old brain to sense danger and switch to flight mode. For the first time throughout the race I enjoyed a brief sense of speed as I surged to the Finish a mere second ahead of Kirsty Pomfrett, 1st Female Open (non-veteran). "I've been trying to catch you for ages" she said.

...and a certificate to register the achievement

 I was 1st in the M80 category because I was the only runner over 80 (!), so didn't really win anything. I was happy with my official time of 2:23:50, and my 39th position from 55 finishers. My wonderful partner ran a great race to finish in 2:31:22 although beaten into 2nd F65 by Norma Smith of Blackburn Road Runners. All finishers were presented with a certificate, bearing the runner's name, to mark their achievement. So, a good day was had by all. The only navigational problems encountered was in finding our way to the dining hall in search of all the post-race treats. Once found we possibly did more than our fair share of carbohydrate loading. Well, I did.

Full 12 mile race results here.
 

Racing the sun.....

For the past few months I've been racing the sun up Castle Hill, on each occasion getting to the top before the sun peeped over the eastern horizon.  As I mentioned in a previous posting, it's a habit formed last September whilst on holiday on the Mediterranean island of Menorca. With morning temperatures quickly rising towards 80º we were up at crack of dawn and out running the Cami de Cavalls, looking for wild tortoises, before the broiling sun rose over the parched landscape. In 28 years of running, prior to that holiday, nothing on earth would have lured me out of bed to go running at that unearthly hour, though my wonderful partner has been known to do so - before she met me!

Sunrise at 7am last Friday.....  (Click to enlarge)

 However. I reckon this practice may shortly come to an end as sunrise becomes progressively earlier. Last Friday, I'd hardly reached the perimeter path before the sun shed it's light upon me. It was spot on 7am. I could imagine it saying "Aha, nearly caught you that time, you'll have to get up 2 or 3 minutes earlier every day from now on if you want to beat me to the top".  It's a prospect I don't really relish, especially when the mid-summer sun is up at 4am.... 

The bridge at Howgill on Saturday's run......

Something else happened that morning that's never occurred before on the hill. I actually met a runner who was sociable enough to stop and exchange a few words before galloping off to continue his marathon training. I've met several over the years but none of them ever gave more than a grunt before going their way with hardly a glance. This latest one was different. We even got so far as exchanging names before I continued my clockwise circuits and he his anti-clockwise ones. He was being pulled along by a beautiful Alsatian dog which I suggested he should let off the lead.  "No way" he said, "he hates all other dogs, can't stand men, or my mother, or my two sons. He's not growling at you because you're dressed like a runner!"  Now, on Castle Hill that's fairly unusual too, a dog that likes runners...    

....and the path back through the wood by the River Wharfe

     Weather was pretty diabolical again last week. I managed two 5 milers, on Wednesday and Friday when it was half decent, and a cold 8 mile run to Howgill and back on Saturday morning before the weekend deteriorated. A vicious wind blasted our windows with heavy rain all Saturday night. On Sunday it turned to sleet, then to driven snow by late afternoon, turning the village a ghostly white. So, after stocking up with fuel, our hardest exercise throughout Sunday consisted of getting up from our easy chairs to throw another log on the fire. Even that proved strenuous. We both fell asleep! 

A Mossdale run

Porridge with sultanas, milk and a splash of golden syrup, then toast with butter and marmalade, and a jug of coffee finally got me out of the house to clear the frosted windscreen to drive back to the Yorkshire Dales. The in-car thermometer read 1ºC so the heater got turned to max. Low sunlight from a clear sky dazzled me through side and windscreen mirrors and I didn't altogether trust the road surface through Queensbury where everything to left and right was white with frost.

Head down, steaming past the bent tree near Cupola Corner...(Click to enlarge)

 Back in the Dales it took two more cups of coffee and two carbohydrate filled rock buns to finally get me upstairs to perform various ablutions and change into running gear. Meanwhile my wonderful partner was well on her way, storming up the ghyll for a head start. She was rewarded with a first sighting this year of a flock of lapwings, no doubt bound for their regular nesting sites. I missed them. Serves me right for being so slow.... 

Mossdale run profile....

We'd agreed on a steady run to the wilds of Mossdale which, as can be seen from its profile, is rather hilly and a little over ten miles. Not easy, but for a couple who this year will have accumulated 153 years between us, I think we coped rather well. The sun shone bountifully upon us, though a cooling wind across the open moor didn't exactly encourage us to stand and stare - or take many photographs.Unusually in this quiet place, we passed a couple of walking parties, three mountain bikers and an elderly gentleman whose GPS had led him far astray. Or his brain had!

Enjoying myself, bouncing across Kelber towards Yarnbury.....

  Unlike last week's fatiguing run to Barden Bridge my legs were feeling strong again and I really enjoyed bouncing over the springy turf, down past Bare House and on towards Yarnbury before dropping back into Hebden Ghyll. At the end of this run I didn't feel at all tired and it was reassuring to know I could have gone further. Which is just as well. In two weeks time I might have to....

The Clarendon in summer....

 To replenish stores of depleted glycogen, Saturday night was spent feasting and drinking. It began at our local hostelry, The Clarendon, where a convivial crowd had gathered to offer fond farewells to our genial hosts, Ashley and Hayley Crampton who, the following day, were moving to pastures new. That whetted our appetites for the main event of the evening, the demolition of a veritable food mountain all cooked and baked to absolute perfection by our wonderful neighbours, Charles and Barbara. As a friend of mine was wont to say, "It was a gradely do".

Harbinger of Spring, the curlew   (Photo from internet)

 Sunday dawned cloudy and bitterly cold. After Church it was a struggle to forsake our cosy fireside and don some warm running gear to face the unruly elements. But after yesterday's long run we needed a short one to loosen our legs. Four miles, we decided, would be quite enough as we headed into the wind and sub zero temperature to run to the village of Burnsall and back along the riverbank. Then, as we ran past Ranelands, a wonderful thing happened.  A curlew called - its iconic notes floating on the wind and lifting our spirits sky high. The weather could do what it liked after that, it couldn't take away our joy of hearing that harbinger of Spring that made our footsteps all the fleeter as we went our way.

Returning by the fish farm during Sunday's run....

 We passed a pair of gaudy goosanders idling around on a calm stretch of river and wondered if they were considering starting a family?
Within the hour we were back to the confines of our cheery cottage with warm soup and dancing flames in the hearth to dispel the winter gloom as curtains of sleet and hail swept across the banking outside our window, obliterating the landscape. Time to start the crossword....

Dawn run.......

The temperature in my wee cottage plummeted during the night. I got up too early. The central heating hadn't fired up. Radiators were still cold, and so was all my running gear. I reset the control switch for it to fire a bit earlier in future - then went back to bed until things warmed up. It was 6.30 when I re-emerged from under the covers and after a quick (ish) cup of coffee nearly 7am before stepping out into an arctic wind to set my Garmin and get under way.  Gosh it was cold. Both my neighbours' cars had frosted windscreens and grass was crunchy underfoot through frozen fields. The thinnest sliver of a moon hung in a cloudless sky, a celestial icon over the luminous landscape of breaking dawn.

This morning's dawn run....   (Click to enlarge)

  I recognized the fluted notes of blackbirds, and a robin chirruped as I ran past Clough Hall cottages, but I'd no idea what the other early morning songsters were. Certainly I wasn't one of them, not today in a wind chill temperature of 23ºF. I was on a second circuit of Castle Hill when the sun peeped over the horizon. I forgot to note what time it was, possibly around 7.25am, when the glowing red ball spread a veneer of palest pink over the frozen landscape. A perfect work of art, a burning bush experience that lifted my spirits and sent me home rejoicing - but something very difficult to explain to sceptics who don't, or wont, understand why people run....

Going the extra mile.....

      There are times when I feel so good, I could run forever. Well, the mind does, the body usually has other ideas. Last week mind and body were in total agreement with each other - both of them in 'sod off' mode. Maybe 16½ miles the previous weekend was too much for someone catching up to Methuselah, or maybe my biorhythms were in the critical phase, but I've really struggled since. The weather hasn't helped either, no smiling sunshine pouring out its healing rays, or stuffing Vitamin D into systems of erstwhile sun-worshippers. All we got was cloud and clag hanging over the hills, bringing semi-darkness and making it difficult to take any decent photographs. 

Some Valentine's day things...not the Nytol!  (Click to enlarge)

  It didn't stop me churning out 21 miles over three runs to show complaining muscles I'm still their boss and they've got to do what they're jolly well told, though I'll admit, it hurt a bit at times. My two early morning runs around Castle Hill, each of 5 miles, were tolerable though I'd to spend considerably more time stretching and 'Sticking' before settling down to porridge and toast with Liz Green, our local Radio Leeds breakfast- time presenter.

The dreary scene at Barden Bridge, no blue sky and no sun

 Come weekend we'd planned a long run, ostensibly in preparation for a 12 mile off-road jaunt in the Troller's Trot on March 7th which my wonderful partner appears keen to do. As yet, I'm not sharing her enthusiasm even though, some months ago, it was my idea.  I really must be more careful what I say and start engaging brain before I open my big mouth!  She's very hard to talk out of things once the seed has been planted.

A rare splash of blue along the riverbank path

Saturday was a non-day so far as running was concerned. Half a ton of logs arrived at 10 in the morning and dumped by the roadside from where I'd to shunt them into a coal shed with a doorway only 5ft high whilst my wonderful partner did the stacking. The afternoon was spent resting our aching backs, catching up with various sports (notably England thrashing Italy in the Six Nations) and fasting until our Valentine's day meal in the Clarendon Hotel, our local hostelry.

A stretch of river by Woodhouse Farm, and misty hills

 Sunday was forecast to be the better day weatherwise but the real meteorological powers that be had other ideas. Hardly once did the sun peep from behind dense cloud while a bitter east wind kept temperatures to around 36ºF. Vastly different from the previous weekend. Three cups of tea and one of coffee wasn't so much to get  well hydrated, more a cunning delaying tactic to avoid facing the elements. It was 11am when I finally got out the door, my wonderful partner having tired of waiting and set off alone. Both of us were bound for Barden Bridge, 5 miles away, but each went different ways so never met.

Almost home......passing Thor's Gill

I'd opted to run there by road, through Appletreewick and Howgill, then back from Barden Bridge via the riverbank. Reasoning behind this was to get into some sort of rhythm at the start then have a little respite from running at the 30+ stiles and gates on the way back. That was the plan and it worked reasonably well, though I'd forgotten how much hillier it was along the road, or how much further - almost an extra mile. Some sort of off-road transport would have been appreciated over the last 2 miles, preferably a microlight to negotiate the narrow suspension bridge! To put it mildly, I was knackered when I got home. I'd a shower, stuffed some lunch down, then promptly fell asleep. At 3 o'clock, when our afternoon service began in the village, I was still in dreamland.  So alas and alack, last weeks sins remain unforgiven.....

Another good day.......

After Saturday's 9 mile run around Kettlewell and Conistone Pie I'd made a special point of stretching well and using The Stick to ease aching calves, hams and quadriceps. My shoulders ached too, it must be the awkward way I run. A short, gentle run was planned for Sunday morning in an attempt to ease away the tension and get things working smoothly again. A runner's 'hair of the dog' so to speak.

Our churchyard is full of snowdrops, can Spring be far away? (Click to enlarge)

 During a sermon spawned by Englands famous victory over the Welsh at Cardiff Arms Park the previous Friday evening our rugby loving Minister, Rev David Macha, urged us all to ponder on the truly great happening in life, to feed our souls on unforgettable memories and meaningful milestones - which was a silly thing to do because my mind immediately wandered away from the rest of his sermon and subsequently lost my place in the service book during Communion.

Onward and upwards, crossing Hebden beck

. I'm very good at pondering and was casting my mind back to one of my own life-changing victories that took place in the Pennine Marathon on July 5th, 1987  when, at the ripe old age of 55, God quite unexpectedly showed me I could run. In 28 years since, I've never stopped running and never stopped thanking Him for this wonderful gift that continues to enrich my life well into my dotage.

Crossing the stile onto Grassington Moor at Cupola Corner.....

  But it took more than Communion wine to stir my old bones into action.. Two strong cups of coffee, each accompanied by one of my wonderful partner's chocolate brownies, finally gave me strength to climb the stairs and change into running clothes. It was another glorious morning, hardly a cloud in sight and only the faintest breeze to stir the trees as we set off on our 'short' run.

Bank of cloud at the 'stone man'

  However, as we fell into a rhythm going up the ghyll, dodging the icy bits and jumping the beck, we began to enjoy ourselves and unanimously agreed to go further, to get some miles in the bank, if ever we're going to enter local Park Runs or other low key events again. We continued climbing, into the sun, to the high point at the 'stone man' - the cairn at 1,500ft - where we turned for home. 

Running briefly towards the sun again on the icy Mossdale track...

  What we hadn't really noticed was a great bank of freezing fog creeping surreptitiously closer behind us which we'd have to run into on our way home. It was amazing how the temperature plummeted with each 100ft of descent into the village. I'd to don a woolly hat and should have brought out my windproof jacket too to preserve a little heat, but what the heck, we'd soon be home. 

Into the rough stuff down the long wall..

 We finished our run (7.38 miles) in totally different conditions to those we'd set off in. Then, quite perversely, as we sat warming ourselves with bowls of soup at lunchtime, the fog lifted and cleared for the rest of the day. And I pictured our Rev David Macha, his work done for the day, setting out on his own training run in brilliant sunshine. The sun shines upon the righteous, so they say. Dunno what we did wrong to deserve all that fog?

The Kettlewell run.....

After my usual pottering around on Castle Hill last week, 8 miles in snow and ice, it was nice to have a change of scenery at the weekend and go somewhere we haven't been for quite some time. Once again we were sussing out a potential route for members of the Skipton U3A walking group but, of course, we had to run it. We couldn't have wished for better weather, blue skies. exceptionally clear views and warm sunshine that worked wonders on our hard working muscles.

The long climb out of Kettlewell (Click to enlarge)

It was a long, long climb starting from the village car park, up a rough track heading towards Great Whernside before turning south east onto open pasture land with ever widening views of Wharfedale's surrounding hills.

Heading towards Langcliffe pastures

We continued to climb, gently across rolling pasture land with lingering patches of snow and soft turf underfoot. Occasionally there were icy patches, mainly in gateways where water had filled tyre tracks and then frozen.

There were lots of ladder stiles to break our rhythm, usually with compacted snow and ice to step into.

At Capplestone Gate, Great Whernside in the distance

After three miles of running we reached our high point at Capplestone Gate where, after climbing 1,000ft, my wonderful partner decided it was time for lunch - a Mini Mars Bar! To be fair, if it wasn't for her I'd never eat anything during a run, but we' left food and drinks in the car for light refreshment after our run.

Ice on Bycliffe Road

There was quite a lot of snow, deep in places, down the long wallside from Capplestone Gate down into the jaws of Mossdale where we joined Bycliffe Road. There was more deep snow and occasional pools of ice to negotiate, again, mainly in gateways. Although I'd Yaktrax in my bumbag, just in case, there was never any cause to use them.

Much of the snow could be avoided but even if we had to run on it, the sun had softened it sufficiently for our trail shoes to provide plenty of grip.

Conistone Pie - iconic landmark on the Dales Way

 ...and Yours Truly atop Conistone Pie

We followed Bycliffe Road as far as the deep cut ravine of Conistone Dib at the top of which we cut off right to follow the Dales Way back to Kettlewell. Until this point we'd hardly met a soul and had remarked on the total silence broken only by the occasional call of a cock grouse or the cronk of a solitary raven. Approaching Conistone Pie the air became filled with voices, exuberant and excited children on a country walk with their masters.

Sunset over Hebden on Saturday - a perfect end to a perfect day

My legs had begun to ache a little along the three mile stretch of broad pastures, stony lanes, and ladder stiles back to the busy village of Kettlewell which had filled with tourists in our absense. Garmin said we'd run 9.12 miles with 1,160ft of ascent which is considerably more than either of us had run for quite some time,. It felt good to get home and relax after such a wonderful day in the hills. In the evening we were treated to a gorgeous sunset that had me reaching for my camera to get one final shot to end a perfect day.

Map of the days route...

On a slippery slope....

Running clever......trying to stay upright in snow and ice.....

It was jolly hard work running in ice and snow today, trying to stay on my feet without resorting to the use of Yaktrax. After this morning's session I'm aching in muscles that haven't ached for ages, and I only ran four miles, for goodness sake. My usual remedy for this is to dissolve ½ kilo of Mag Sulph in a bath of hot water and soak for an hour while listening to nice music filtering through from my study. Unfortunately, my supply has run out, (Mag Sulph I mean, not music) so must remember to replenish my stores in case these freezing conditions persist. After all, I've gotta keep running if only for the sake of regular readers of my inane jottings.

Speaking of which, of almost 200 independent countries in this big, wide world of ours, people from 110 of them have visited my blog. One can't be sure how many have actually read it, as opposed to

....and dodging those runnels of ice along the lane

having logged in quite by accident, but quite a few must have done because they've been kind enough to leave some very nice comments which are as encouraging to me as I hope some of my ramblings are to them.  Only today someone remarked in her blog "You continue to be an inspiration to me". Well, I'd have her know it's positive comments like hers that inspire me to keep on running and blogging when I don't always feel like it. It works both ways. So thanks to all of you.....