Seeing things.....

      My old legs churned out a total of 21 miles last week but, to be honest, in only 16 of them was I actually running. On three mornings, long before sunrise, I ran a 4 mile circuit over and around Castle Hill. Maybe I was hallucinating, or not quite awake, but I'd a funny experience on Friday.

Friday's dawn run - along the ghost path    (Click pictures to enlarge)

As I struggled steeply upwards a few yards from the perimeter path I glanced up and saw a man in a long grey coat walking along in the breaking light. Seconds later he'd completely vanished!

Some of my dawn friends

Sunday was glorious. We awoke to a cloudless sky that pleased my wonderful partner as she was on Yorkshire Dales National Park duty patrolling an area around Mossdale and Capplestone Gate.

I discovered a little lochan.....

        I'd considered going for a short run before lunch, then a bumbly walk in the afternoon. Instead I stuck a Brunch Bar in my bumbag and set off for five hours of walking, running and sunbathing, mainly out of sight, high on Grassington Moor.  

....ran past this shake-hole where rabbits live - with flowers by their door

Deviating from main tracks I discovered little lochans and remains of old buildings I'd never seen before, and didn't know existed.

through wheatear country

What I was really looking for was somewhere sheltered from the arctic wind, somewhere I could strip down to shorts and vest to expose a little more flesh to that healing sunshine. I found a grassy hollow and spent a couple of hours wallowing in ultra violet warmth.  But only my face changed colour, a not very nice shade of red with white rings round both eyes where my sunglasses had rested!

On the way home

      Occasional voices broke my reverie, and a couple went by on horseback, but I was well hidden and unlikely to suffer any human intrusion. Above me the wind rustled through the heather. Curlews were calling in the distance, a startled grouse went kekking across the skyline and a meadow pipit paid me a visit. Maybe I was laid too close to her nest?

past a wee cave - a secret way to sneak under the road

Time to go, but as I stepped from my cosy hollow it was like being plunged into a freezer. I retreated from the icy blast to don tracksters and a jacket before beginning my run for home.

and across the stepping stones bound for home

From 1,500ft it was nearly all downhill, keeping in the shelter of a long wall to drop into the ghyll - where bright wheatears have nearly all returned to their summer homes - and back to the car lined village street. A good day to end a rather good week.
Now then, roll on tomorrow and let me get back to that ghost.....

Lastly, for anyone interested in my 'Examiner' interview, here's the link

30 years on......

      After two operations on my Rt eye, the first in December which went horribly wrong and a second delicate one in February under general anaesthetic to glue a new lens into my eye, I can now see reasonably well again. After countless follow up appointments and administering different drops 4 times a day ever since, I'm able to see clearly through that eye though the cataract in my Lt eye is considerably worse. It too will need an operation later this year, again under general anaesthetic, which I'm not looking forward to.

I can see clearly now - through one eye!
(Click pictures to enlarge)

      It never stopped me running but it certainly slowed me down and drastically reduced my mileage. And less activity resulted in an increase in weight, but I'm working on that.  Last week I was starting to feel pretty good again and managed to run all the way up Castle Hill without having to walk short bits to catch my breath.

Setting an MV55 course record in the 1988 Pennine Marathon - 3:05:47

      Come weekend it suddenly dawned on me I'd been running exactly 30 years. It was April 9th 1986 when I took my first steps to becoming an athlete - though the word 'athlete' never entered my head at the time. Dissatisfied with the overweight, flabby hunk staring from the mirror I decided to do a bit of jogging to get back in shape. Fifteen months later I discovered I could 'jog' rather fast when, on a steamy July day, I won the MV55 category of the 1987 Pennine Marathon in 3hrs 30mins. Life was never the same again.  The following year I broke the MV55 course record.

Receiving MV75 winner award from the legendary Kenny Stuart,
2010 Derwentwater 10 mile road race - 1:21:21

      Many Championship wins on roads, track, fells and cross country, a few course records and 38,407 miles later I think I can dispense with the term 'jogger'!  Self training for races wasn't easy but the rewards and podium finishes gave me a wonderful sense of fulfilment that enriched my life in ways I'd never previously dreamt possible.

First win as an MV80 in the 2012 Ilkley Trail Race - 1:27:27

      I love the way the sun rises in different places as the days roll by so make no excuses for yet another another photograph of a dawn run over Castle Hill, taken last Friday. I decided it might be fit for publication so emailed it to our local newspaper, the Huddersfield 'Examiner'.

Another dawn run over Castle Hill - and still enjoying running,
after 30 years and 38,400 miles

      The editor was soon on the phone wanting more information for it wasn't the sort of thing your average 83 year old gets up to and might make a good story. "Is it alright to send a photographer to take more photographs and do a short video?" he asked.  Affirmative.  How could I refuse?  Fame at last, I joked!
Watch out for the article later this week.
It might be a good laugh!

A pre-dawn run.......

      Owls were calling from deep in Mellor Wood as I ran through frosted fields towards a red light hundreds of feet above me, the beacon on top of the tower on Castle Hill.  Dawn was still far away as I reached the summit in almost total darkness but for a thin red line across the eastern horizon. There was a dark shadow in the grassy kite flying area so I moved onto the path to avoid it and almost collided with a tripod set up to film the sunrise. The shadow was a photographer sat amongst all his paraphernalia, waiting, expectantly.

Back home at breaking dawn   (Click pictures to enlarge)

After a quick circuit of the hill I ran back down, sliding over mud in the breaking light, branches brushing my face, blackbirds beginning their morning matins and a fierce redness spreading ever further across the morning sky.  Before the sun rose, before neighbours had stirred from their beds, I was home again, feeling good, smug, satisfied - and hungry.  It was my first pre-dawn run for many a week and boy, did I enjoy it..

Along muddy Tinker Lane on Sunday

 With Sunday morning's lack of sunshine to open up early wood anemones around Appletreewick, we set off in the opposite direction in search of wheatears in the ghyll. 

Young ferns growing from the moss on the Miner's Bridge

Past a green haze of hawthorn hedges, where chaffinches, robins and dunnocks will soon be nesting, we crossed the old Miner's Bridge bedecked with young ferns and ran up the stony track into wilder regions. "Look, there on the wall" my wonderful partner whispered excitedly, "that's a wheatear".  Sure enough, before we'd reached Bolton Ghyll, we'd spotted our first of the year.

A stile, so must be on route.....

 We carried on running, up the 'slag heaps' where another wheatear crossed our path, on towards Yarnbury serenaded by curlews, lapwings and skylarks, across fields where hungry sheep thought we might have something interesting for them to eat, and back to the village through sodden fields - the last one boggy enough for a pair of mallard to have taken up residence.

....but off route among the sheep

We arrived home spattered in mud, with filthy shoes and soaking wet feet.  As we stripped and bundled dirty clothes into the washing machine I was jokingly accused of leading my wonderful partner astray, of taking her off-route through places we'd no business to be.  And I was thinking to myself 'but we're fell runners and we'll run wherever we jolly well like!'   Then again, it might be time for a re-think.   We can't run as fast as we used to do!

Easters aint what they used to be.......

      Easter would have been a complete washout if it hadn't been for the pheasant and the lamb, the wine and the whisky, some good company and, of course, Easter Eggs. There may have been other things, but I forget....

Ceremony for Best Rural Pub - Lionel Strub 2nd from right (Click to enlarge)

The truly mouthwatering pheasant had been cooked to perfection by Lionel Strub, resident French chef at The Clarendon Hotel in Hebden, which recently beat strong opposition to win the coveted Oliver Award for Best Rural pub at a ceremony sponsored by Evening Post newspapers. If our dining experience was anything to go by the accolade was well deserved, not just for the excellence of our meal but for staff friendliness and cosy all round ambiance. After we'd turned the radio off....

Simply the best.......

Lamb has just got to be on the menu at Easter - hasn't it?  Well, it's traditional according to Dr John Sentamu, Archbishop of York, who appeared on television cooking a Cordon Bleu feast for none other than Mary Berry whose appreciative remarks rang with superlatives. So much so that my wonderful partner was inspired to experiment with her own version of Dr Sentamu's recipe but omitting the half bottle of wine which we preferred to drink separately! Truly delicious.

Al fresco Easter gloom - rain sweeping over Hebden

 It may have been noticed that the above treats, along with the afore mentioned malt whisky, chocolate easter eggs and some limited socialising, all took place indoors. Al fresco, the weather was pretty diabolical and though the wind  and driving rain was fair dinkum for hardy yachtsmen ploughing back and forth across Grimwith reservoir, it was no country for old men. I much preferred the comfort of a rocking chair not too far from a warm stove, and preferably with a glass of something interesting to hand.

Yachtsmen enjoying the choppy water at Grimwith

We did manage to run round Grimwith, again, on Saturday and back to the car before the weather gods actually spotted us. There glee was probably focused too much on the chaos they were inflicting with Storm Katie a bit further south. We could see the rain smirring the hills across the water, moving towards us, so didn't hang about.

Beating the rain round Grimwith

Greylags, perhaps anticipating the coming storm, were taking cover among the reed beds while a raft of Whooper swans, thirteen in number, held centre stage out on the water.  There was a vast number of Oystercatchers too, a solitary pheasant, some interesting twitters high in the treetops, but precious little else in the way of bird life.

Flags across the soggy bits by Scar Top

A shaft of sunlight across the garden on Sunday lured us outdoors for a toddle up the crag and across the sodden moor to Mossy Mere, looking for anything of interest. Gliding majestically across the water were thirteen Whoopers, presumably the same raft we'd photographed at Grimwith the morning before.

Whooper swans - a baker's dozen

We'd no sooner spotted them than it began to rain, heavily, and we began to run, as fast as we could, back down the crag. Predictably, it bated and the sun came out  as we staggered into the village, breathless, knackered and very wet. "Yeh, got you that time" I suspect the weather gods were shouting.

Breaking into a run to beat the rain - but failed

      On Monday my wonderful partner was anxious to record the first wood anemones and suggested we run to Appletreewick where we might find some. I had a better suggestion - that she should go on her own while I kept the stove well stoked and the coffee pot ready so the cottage would be nice and warm when she got back. The plan worked admirably. She found her anemones while I enjoyed a gentle snooze!

Peter squinting through his snowy windscreen.   Easter's grand finale

The morning after, as I travelled home, the weather gods played their trump card. "I think it's time we took the winter tyres off the car" my wonderful partner had said at breakfast time. As my bus left Grassington we were hit by a snowstorm of blizzard proportions. In little more than ten minutes the landscape was transformed into a white wonderland with contrasting clumps of Easter daffodils in roadside gardens. Windscreen wipers were struggling as the driver, Peter, squinted through the snow.  I'd a very short email when I got home. "Forget about winter tyres" is all it said.
      I hope everyone had a Very Happy Easter.....

Things just get better.....

      Spring marches on. It wont be long before the lawn mower is dragged from the shed to deal with rampant grass. My pocket handkerchief lawns, already scarified and spiked, should shortly become sunbeds in my annual quest for a healthy tan.

Catkins and half a moon against the boundless blue  (Click to enlarge)

 I'm told the previous occupant of this cottage was a naturist who sported (if that's the right word) an all-over tan. I haven't quite got to that stage though my shorts were recently referred to as 'that loin cloth of yours'.

Same day, same wondrous blue sky, different catkins...

 So far as running is concerned I'm struggling to get going again. Two hours plus under general anaesthetic during that last eye operation knocked hell out of my 83 year old engine and I'm still shaking off the effects. The first thing I heard on recovering consciousness was a nurse saying to a colleague "He's very fit for his age, he's a runner".  I still laugh about that!

Listening to skylarks near Thurstonland, on Thursday's 9 mile jog/walk

Since then runs have been interspersed with walks. Sometimes quite long walks and not very fast runs. But anything is better than nothing, especially on beautiful Spring days under blue skies with larksong tumbling from the air, catkins waving in the breeze, bumble bees buzzing about their business, or the call of a curlew echoing across the moor.

More blue sky on Sunday's run round Grimwith

All those things, and much more, have enriched my forays into the countryside this past week. The sky at times was unbelievably blue, sunshine pleasantly warm on the skin, colours brighter through my new eye, each day offering something new as Spring unfolded. I refrained from shouting Hallelujah as I got strange enough looks in other happy moments when I burst into song!

Reflections - Grimwith reservoir

Something new has happened this year too. I mentioned in an earlier post about greylags in the reeds at Mossy Mere, a place we'd not seen them before. Now, they're all over the place, grazing grassland close to the village, skeins of them flying over at night and a great gaggle of them colonising Grimwith reservoir, formerly a stronghold of Canada geese. Besides being honoured with their presence they're an added interest on our waterside jaunts

Greylag goose, Grimwith reservoir

. They're noisy beggars though....likewise that tiniest of birds, the wren, whose voice is far too loud for his size. Good job he's not as big as a greylag with matching voice or we'd need ear plugs!

Time for reflection - at the end of our Sunday run 

Chaffinches were singing too as we ran round Grimwith. Wherever there are picnic tables there are chaffinches. Strange how they know....

Dandelions are beautiful when they arrive in Spring

So that was the wonderful week that was. I suppose it will rain for Easter!

Spring has sprung......

      At long last there was a wee bit of warmth in the sun last weekend, almost shorts weather, except I didn't have them with me. It's time to dig them out, to make sure they still fit before taking them on holiday.  It was still soggy underfoot as we trogged over the moor on Saturday so it wasn't long before socks and feet were soaking wet.

Saturday's route - 7.34 miles/889ft ascent

 The area through which we regularly run is old lead mining country and a glance at the map would frighten many away. Such information as 'Disused Mines', 'Disused Shafts', 'Area of Shake Holes', 'Swallow Hole' and the like can be fairly off-putting. A local lady had the shock of her life when the ground opened up immediately in front of her. Her dog disappeared into the depths never to be seen again. It could so easily have been her.

Dangerous places

We'd barely run a mile when a pair of Curlews flew over us, calling their welcomes - harbingers of Spring. There was total silence from the frog pond but my wonderful partner heard a skylark singing in the distance, way beyond my hearing range. Flappies were performing their aerial acrobatics, as they do, and a Golden Plover was piping away as we approached the Chimney.

Towards the Chimney

 A significant landmark, the Chimney was built to disperse smoke and fumes from the smelt mill to which it was connected by a long flue from some distance away and much lower down.

Crossing the Old Miner's Bridge

We threaded our way through hoardes of people lured from towns and cities with the promise of a fine weekend, crossed the old Miner's Bridge and jogged home, stopping only to photograph Hebden's first lambs of the season.

Hebden's first lambs

Sunday was warmer and even more Spring-like. I'd put a Helly Hansen under my running top but took it off after sniffing the air. One layer was quite enough, and I really wished I'd remembered to bring a pair of shorts.

Mossy Mere overflow

Sunshine had brought frogs to life and there was a heck of a noise going on as I approached their pond. Like trial bikes being revved up. In spite of all the rain nothing is showing but a patch of reeds, but there must be water in there somewhere. Or they're in trouble.

The path by Coalgrove beck below Cupola Corner

Yesterday's skylark had kindly moved to within my range of hearing, stopping me from running (if you could call it that) until he'd poured out his last note. Curlews were my constant companions and as I got nearer to Mossdale Flappies were wheeling around crying pew-wit-pwee-wit-pwee-wit. It sounds far nicer than the red grouse call of go-bak, go-bak, go-bak - but I suppose it means the same thing!

On the Mossdale track

On reaching the bridge at Mossdale a black bird flew up from quite close by. Close enough, in fact, for me to discern a flash of white on its throat. I couldn't believe it. I'd never before spotted a ring ouzel so early in the year. Ian Appleyard, an authority on Ring Ouzels of Hebden Ghyll, gives his first official sighting as March 15th, but that was quite a few years ago, before all the talk of global warming. Last year it was into April when we spotted our first male.

Two bridges at Mossdale - one of them lethal......

I left Mossdale by a rarely used heathery ramp, possibly only known to shepherds, gamekeepers and fell runners for I've never met anyone else on it. It lifted me quickly up to the main track, the homeward trail - and I still had dry feet! The Stone Man came into sight but it looked an awful long way away without my specs, as did everything else. Fortunately, I knew just how far it was and soon reached it.

Breaking into a run - up to the Stone Man

From there on it was a repeat of Saturdays route, past the Chimney, over Coalgrove beck, past the bent tree and down into the ghyll to join the hoardes again making 11.84 miles/1,271ft ascent. Actually, walkers were a bit thin on the ground when I got back. Maybe they were sampling the Clarendon's excellent pub meals before setting off again. 

Lucky beggars!

A snowy weekend......

It snowed heavily last Friday morning. I'd climbed out of bed before 6am and got dressed ready for a run. Whilst enjoying a cup of coffee I happened to switch on the security light to view the weather. It was blizzarding! The surrounding fields were white and it looked like it was snowing heavier by the minute. My running clothes didn't stay on very long!

Looking out my window at 6.30am Friday  (Click to enlarge)

I put mealy worms out for the birds but they soon disappeared under the snow, confusing robins and blackbirds who stomped around peering through the window, begging for more. They'd have to wait. I wasn't going out again in that stuff!

Where have my mealy worms gone?

By Saturday morning most of the snow had cleared and, to our surprise, back in Hebden the sun was shining and fields were green again. A group of people gearing up as we arrived were runners from the Ripon area about to set off on their own version of the Trollers Trot, a 25 mile trail run, the official version of which was cancelled this year.

Getting wet feet

After lighting the stove and downing a much needed mug of coffee we set off in a different direction to that theTrollers group had taken, following a lively Hebden beck up towards the moor. We got wet feet crossing the partially submerged stepping stones, so no point in avoiding any future wet stuff.

At the parting of the ways

We parted company at a higher stream crossing below Cupola Corner, my wonderful partner bound for Yarnbury and a fast run down Moor Lane, me heading for Blea Ghyll and a steady trog down Backstone Edge.

"Look, a flappy"

We'd no sooner parted than a black and white bird with floppy wings flew over and I shouted across excitedly - "Look, a flappy!!!" Some call them Lapwings, others Pewits, some Green Plovers, but to us they're always Flappies. Excitement over, we went our different ways.

Past old lead mine workings, into the snow dappled landscape

Higher up the moor much of the trail was covered with snow and some ankle deep water.  Not every runner's cup of tea.

Not every runner's cup of tea...

 Elsewhere vast pools had formed from rain and meltwater, transforming the landscape, making it a different and more dramatic place to run.

That gathering storm - and pools where no pools used to be...

 I'd been taking photographs of such things without taking notice of the weather. Suddenly it dawned on me a nasty looking storm was brewing in the North East. The sky looked full of snow, and it was blowing my way. At 1,300ft I suddenly felt rather exposed and vulnerable. I turned tail and ran, back the way I'd come. The safer option, I reasoned.

Running back the way I'd come, the storm following behind

  Most was downhill and it wasn't until I reached the bent tree 2 miles from home that the storm caught up, snow highlighting my hair and eyebrows, invoking visions of The Snowman - and Tarja - that soon had me 'Walking in the Air'. Music is never out of my mind, and I love singing, but a hooded couple trogging uphill with their trekking poles obviously didn't.

Back in Hebden, the stove had been stoked and the kettle boiling as I wiped my feet by the door, looking forward to a hot drink - and that half a pork pie!