Spring watch

According to Ted Hughes:

Curlews in April

Hang their harps over the misty valleys

A wobbling water-call

A web-footed god of the horizons......

    Well, this wonderful harbinger of Spring was trailing his wobbling water-call across Grimwith reservoir a couple of months earlier than that this year along with whistling Teal, a raft of bugling black necked Canada geese and the happy piping of early Oystercatchers strutting by the shore in their best tuxedos. Frogs have already gathered in a reed-bound pond for their annual orgy. Lambing fields at Bolton Abbey are heaving with new life whilst lawns and garden are bright with Spring flowers - snowdrops, crocuses and yellow daffodils. Here's a very short poem of my own that sums up this exciting change:

Sandy track for fast repetitions on Castle Hill

FIRST KISS

Silently, the world sleeps

Deep in winter hills.

Stealthily, vernal youth

Folds back her blanket.

Suddenly, earth pants, and

Ah love, Spring has come.

    From depths of winter melancholy we're suddenly reborn into another glorious new year. We come alive again. Spring is easily my favourite season for running, when each foray into the great outdoors provides a new thrill. It's a season of 'firsts' to note in our diaries - first celandine, primrose, wheatear, ring ouzel, pewit, skylark, new-born lamb - but it's always the return of the Curlew that is most uplifting for me. From mid February onwards I'll visit their wild haunts day after day to catch that first thrilling sound. For me, it heralds Spring's awakening just like the first Swallow, for many, presages the arrival of summer. 

Curlew country - Grimwith reservoir

    In other respects it's been a wild and windy week, though there were benefits to be had from this, particularly during bouts of speedwork high on Castle Hill. On my horse-shoe shaped route the wind was behind me from whichever end I chose to do my repetitions. I was experimenting with a metronome to optimise my cadence at 96 (Rt foot plants) per minute. It's not easy when doing fast reps. Sometimes I'd swear the confounded implement was slowing down whereas it was actually me speeding up and getting ahead of the beeps.

    Conversely, on a ten mile jaunt around Mossdale on Saturday an almost gale force wind somehow managed to be head on both out and back along the trail. I'm not sure how it managed that but it sure slowed me down. I didn't care. It's my longest run since December, so all is going well for my 12 mile event in two weeks time. I just hope I can get rid of this lingering cough by then.

Metronome

    Just after the Curlew had called to us yesterday a miracle occurred. Last August while walking (note) through long grass high above Conistone I caught my foot in a rabbit hole, fell over sideways, and badly twisted my Rt knee. It's pained me ever since, so much so that long runs have been preceded by large doses of painkillers. On Saturday, for instance, I washed down 600mg of Ibuprofen an hour before running around Mossdale. A physiotherapist I'd visited said there was nothing he could do about it (though he still took my money) suggesting I see my doctor, get it X-rayed, and possibly be referred to our local hospital for an arthroscopy. X-rays were 'clear' so I was about to ask my doctor for an MRI scan. However, at the end of yesterday's run there was a fence to climb. As I swung my leg over I clumsily clouted the inside of that self-same Rt knee which resulted in a shot of pain that soon subsided. While preparing breakfast this morning it suddenly dawned on me I'd walked downstairs in a perfectly normal manner rather than the crab-like sideways shuffle, one step at a time, of the past six months. Jokingly, I suggested to my wonderful partner that Saturday's dose of Ibuprofen seemed to have taken a long time to work! But as I write this, nine hours later, my knee is still free of pain. Hallelujah!

Struggling

Up the ghyll

   I've been struggling this week. Snow that shrouded our hills last weekend quickly disappeared during a rapid thaw, but then it froze again and a biting NNE wind made running a chilly affair in the resultant wind-chill factor. For the past couple of weeks I've been running with a cold, hoping I'd sweat it out of my system. It hasn't quite worked and the freezing cold air streaming into my lungs as I ran an otherwise very pleasant 25 miles this week has left me with a barking cough. I've been advised by my wonderful partner to go to bed with a hot water bottle clutched to my chest - but I'm not very good at things like that! Anyway, it's forecast to get warmer in the next few days, up to 17ºC, so hopefully my chest will respond positively to that.

Flooded path by the river

    Melt-water pouring off the hills during the short thaw had raised the height of the river, flooding the path till water was lapping round my ankles on a run back from Howgill. But the sun was shining, birds were singing and all the high tops stood in bold relief in the clear air. The 8 mile route was the farthest I've run since the beginning of January and I'm pleased to say I ran it a little quicker - if only by a minute. It's a step in the right direction. By March 10th I've got to raise my game to 12 miles to take part in the Troller's Trot - an annual 25 mile event through some of Yorkshire's most beautiful countryside - though I'll only be running half of it.

Stile at Cupola Corner

    After soaking feet by the River Wharfe we decided to keep high on Sunday's run until the flood water had receded.  After morning service at St Peter's my wonderful partner ran with me for a couple of miles up the ghyll before going our separate ways, each of us on our own preferred route. I climbed the stile at Cupola Corner and ran north as far as the dam on the edge of Grassington Moor. At 1,300ft it offers spectaculer views across Wharfedale which I never tire of gazing at from this remote spot where I rarely meet another soul. Again, there was a bitterly cold wind but in sheltered hollows, or on leeward sides of rocky outcrops, sheep dozed in the sun's meagre warmth. There are places on earth we hold sacred, where God is in His heaven and all's well with the world. This is one of mine.

    I told myself I'll take things easy this coming week and cut out the running until remnants of my cold and irritating cough have totally subsided. But have I got enough will-power? Well, if it's any help, it's raining.

Ice is nice

.....to Threshfield Moor

    Last week an email arrived from a running friend I hadn't heard from for maybe a couple of years, a chap called Doug Tilly who lives in a beautiful part of the world on the edge of our English Lake Distict . "I hear you're shortly to become an old man" he said, referring to my upcoming 80th birthday in three months time at the beginning of May. People shouldn't say things like that in case I start thinking it myself and actually become an old man. So I ignored his comment.  Nevertheless, I'll shortly have to change a word in the sub-title of my Blog, from  'Septuagenarian' to 'Octogenarian'. Or maybe completely revamp it to something like 'Random jottings of a geriatric jogger'.  Or maybe not!

On a slippery slope

   It's been another productive week though mileage dropped to just 20 miles in the freezing conditions. Speedwork was out of the question for two reasons. Firstly I wasn't going to risk running fast with cold leg muscles - and in the sub-zero temperatures I just couldn't get them to what I considered warm enough: and secondly because the section of sandy path where I do my intervals had become so icy as to be bordering on dangerous at anything faster than normal cruising speed. So I chickened out and ran some easy enjoyable miles.

Some of the residents

    But we'd an exciting day on Saturday. On March 10th we've opted to run a 12 mile off-road event over some wild, boggy country so decided it might be a good idea to recce the route while the ground was frozen. Big mistake. The Yorkshire Dales were still plastered with frozen snow which, on upland trails, had been compacted to solid ice. Every wall, fence and signpost on Threshfield Moor was coated with shiny verglas and festooned with icicles. Glassy stiles had to be climbed with great care. We wore Yaktrax on our trail shoes to better negotiate the ribbon of ice that masqueraded as a path through the heather where a few sheep and grouse eked out a bare existence. My wonderful partner was not happy as she slid and twisted, struggling to maintain her balance but quite unable to run in her normal style. After a couple of miles or so the cry went up, "I want to go back", a sentiment I'd also been considering as I sensed my body temperature dropping as we ascended higher into the Arctic air.  

Try climbing over this....

    But rather than retrace our footsteps we studied the map and agreed on a shorter route that would cut out a couple of miles and get us back to our car a fair bit quicker, hopefully before we froze to death!  Strangely, from that point onwards I noticed she was running faster and more confidently although underfoot conditions were precisely the same. I must work on this!

    Sunday morning saw me honing my ice running skills on a six mile jaunt along the riverbank where weekend walkers hung onto walls, trees and fences in an effort to stay upright on sheet ice as I breezed past them. The yard at Woodhouse Farm, which the right of way passes through, resembled a vast skating rink which walkers found most intimidating . After a few tentative steps most of them retreated to find an easier route. With Yaktrax I pranced across with ultimate ease, as gracefully as Robin Cousins performing his skills to strains of Ravel's Bolero, enjoying the experience and wishing the current freeze would last a little while longer.

Enjoying myself

     On leaving Church later that day our circuit Minister, Rev Richard Atkinson, said "I don't suppose you've been out running in these conditions". After assuring him I had, his reply was a syllable less than the Bible's shortest verse - "You're mad" he said.

   So there you are, I began the week with the inference I was rapidly turning into an old man, and ended it being pronounced mad! 

   However, when I got home, another email had arrived that partially restored the status quo. It was from a Dutch running friend who lives in some unpronouncable village/town outside Amsterdam (or is it Rotterdam? I forget which). His message began with the words  "Hello youngster, I hope this finds you in good spirits.........".  Now that's more like what I want to hear. That brought a smile back to my face. Thankyou Theo, I'll buy you a pint next time you're over this way.  

All white on the day

Galloping down Castle Hill to escape a nithering north-easterly

    Weather-wise, it's been a week of contrasts in the wilds of Yorkshire, from clear skies and bare landscapes to thick snow, misty horizons and biting winds.  I was out in all it's changing moods, savouring every minute as I romped over hills, by twisting trails, through rutted fields, silent woods and quiet riverbanks for a weekly total of 24 eventful miles. 

    Wednesday was intervals day on what is normally the leeward side of Castle Hill, but not so on this occasion. A nithering north-easterly had me donning my jacket before launching into eleven faster runs at an average 6.26 pace. They'd started off at a conservative 6.48 pace but got progressively faster as I hurried things along to sooner escape the biting headwind that was stinging my face on each run. At 900ft above sea level I call it altitude training, though that might be stretching it a bit! Eight miles away, across the valley, Holme Moss rose a thousand feet higher and was plastered with snow. In the clear air it appeared but a hop, skip and jump away.

Friday's fiery sunset - from my garden

    On Thursday and Friday the temperature hardly rose above freezing. I kept low for most of the time on gentle runs through sleepy Mollicar and Roydhouse woods, across clarty fields of winter wheat where mud built up on my trail shoes till I was almost running on stilts! Crossing tarmac lanes I was able to kick most of it off before final circuits of Castle Hill (again) to complete what were mainly pleasant, but sometimes laborious, five mile runs.

    Due to wind-chill the temperature on Saturday plummeted even lower. Getting out of the car at Keelham, a hilltop Farmer's market, to buy meat on our way back to the Dales, was like stepping into a wind blasted super-freezer. The lowering sky had turned an angry grey, presageing snow, so we drove home with all haste, fed the stove, donned our thermals and went for a swift six mile run around Appletreewick.  On the inky water of the River Wharfe a male Goosander was displaying his startling white plumage to doting crested wives while on a mid-stream stone a Dipper was in full song - each of them seemingly oblivious to the icy blasts that had us hurtling back along the riverbank as fast as our legs would carry us. The first flakes of snow came fluttering from the sky as we ran through Burnsall, a couple of miles from home, and continued throughout the day and all night. 

Sunday - running by a snowy riverbank - wearing Yaktrax

    We peered out the window on Sunday morning into a blinding winter wonderland. The snow plough and gritter had cleared main roads during the night but villages were pretty much snow-bound, including ours. I was sat by the fire, going over the lesson I'd been asked to read in Church that morning, when the phone rang. The service had been cancelled. Our Minister was reluctant to attempt the 2½ mile journey to our village in decidedly dodgy driving conditions. Just as well, for some of our congregation that live farther afield wouldn't be here either.

The Wharfe at Loup Scar

    So, for the first time this winter, we fitted Yaktrax to our trail shoes and ventured out into our other Church - that great outdoor world which, on this February morning, was dressed in all her shining white finery, like a bride ready for her groom, to borrow a biblical analogy. It was very much a stop/start affair as we ran from one vantage point to another, clicking away with our cameras, hoping for the perfect shot but, such is the contrast between black and white, modern cameras find snow scenes difficult to cope with, even on all the relevant settings.  

    After four miles we returned home, stoked up the stove, made cups of strong coffee and downloaded our pictures onto the computer. Totally disappointing!  Ah well, our digital images might turn out a bit blue and fuzzy but at least they remain sharp in our minds. Problem is, I haven't yet discovered a way to transfer pictures directly from my mind into my Blog, though an artist friend of mine with a photographic memory can recall scenes and draw them just as he saw them 20/30/40 years ago. Some people are really gifted. All I can do is run!

An excellent week

The Clarendon sign in a snowy Hebden - last winter

    For everyone involved with the organization of Hebden's annual Sports Day that takes place on August Bank Holiday Monday, a sumptuous dinner was held at the Clarendon Hotel last Wednesday night, courtesy of our genial hosts, Ashley and Hayley Crampton. This popular Yorkshire Dales hostelry has an excellent reputation for the quality and perfection of its fine menus and traditional well kept ales.  I'm afraid to say, I availed myself somewhat greedily of both and retired to bed rather late in the evening feeling considerably heavier than when I set out!

Dam on Grassington Moor with snow clouds in the distance

    I'd like to say I went for a 'run' round Grassington Moor the following morning, but that would be gross exaggeration. Floundering would be a better word. I'd made sure I took my camera to have lots of excuses for numerous stops - when I seemed to take longer than usual to focus and arrange my shots. Most of them turned out to be a load of rubbish! My six mile jaunt lasted nearly one and a half hours but I really enjoyed the laid back pace, the solitude under a dramatic sky with snow clouds in the distance, the company of ubiquitous grouse, whistling teal and the wind whispering through the rushes by the dam.

Time to stand and stare - waterfall in Hebden Ghyll

    All in all, I ran a respectable 27 miles last week, by snowy hills and slushy lanes, along sunny riverbanks and past glittering waterfalls - all at a comfortable pace with lots of time to stand and stare. After all, running is supposed to be enjoyable. The other day I came across a wonderful quote by Lucy Smith. She said:
'To be a lifelong athlete you have to, at some point, get over the need to win every race and learn to accept that the journey is the goal'. I'm beginning to understand the logic of that as I grow older.

Linton Church and sunny riverbank - Saturday's run

    Inevitably, since the introduction of a deep fat frier (or chip machine, as I prefer to call it) and breadmaker to my list of kitchen utensils, my weight has risen by nearly 4 lbs to 143.6.  Even as I type, my breadmaker is switched on and churning out another delectable wholemeal loaf. I can hardly wait to cut off its warm crust and smother it with butter and honey. At this time of year I'm not worried about being a few pounds heavier. My old bones need a little extra lagging. I feel stronger for it. And so long as my body fat percentage stays within normal limits (it's currently 17.3) I reckon there's nothing to worry about. I'm not fanatical about being as lean as possible to be able to run faster. I'm not training for the Olympics - though I wish I was.

    This coming week, chip machine, breadmaker and weather permitting, I'll drop the mileage and concentrate on a couple of quality speed sessions with a view to easing back into racing in the not too distant future. Bring it on.

January gales

In days gone by - out in any conditions

    Due to lashing rain, gale force winds and hardly any proper daylight in the the Pennines, where I live at a height of 650ft, mileage got somewhat reduced this last week. Gone are the days when I'd sally forth in all weathers, bagging Munros, stomping coast to coast across Scotland, camping in snow or front-pointing up near vertical ice in a blizzard on the Ben. It's not just advancing years that's made me soft, mainly I blame it on our local Council for installing gas fired central heating in my exposed north facing home. In wintertime the contrast in temperature on the inside and outside of my front door has to be experienced to be believed. Being on top of a hill my gable end takes the full brunt of westerly gales that do their darndest to lift the roof, roar down the chimney space and sap my energy by keeping me awake for nights on end. That's why I haven't run very much this week.

Angry sky over Castle Hill on Sunday

   Actually, I got out three times for a total of 18 miles and though lacking in quantity I tried to introduce a wee bit of quality, by way of a change! I even wore my Garmin 205 so I could load data onto my computer to find out just what I'd been up to. The results were both surprising and pleasing. I ran the same six mile route on each of three days, Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday. 

   On the lee side of Castle Hill there is a smooth sandy path that measures around 193m between two wooden posts. On Tuesday I ran 10 intervals between the posts @ an average of 47.4secs, on Thursday 10 @ 47.2secs, and on Sunday 10 @ 45.3secs. Jogging home I always open up between two 'Watch your Speed' signs c.402m apart. On Tuesday my time between the two was 1.42, on Thursday 1.40 and on Sunday 1.32. If my maths are correct (and they usually aren't) my speed sections amounting to 1.42 miles per day tumbled from 6mins 37secs per mile pace on Tueday to 6mins 14secs on Sunday. I'm happy with that, even if it's wrong!

For 'Diane' - R.I.P

   There was a spray of white flowers on Castle Hill in a sheltered recess among the gorse bushes overlooking Hall Bower and the vast sprawl of Huddersfield Town. Being of a curious nature, I Googled our local rag, the 'Examiner', and learnt there'd been a fatal accident on the road below. Two cars driving through sleet and snow had been involved in a nasty head on collision that resulted in the death of one woman, named only as Diane, and severe facial injuries to the lady driver of the other car. Rest in Peace Diane, and a speedy recovery to the other unfortunate lady.

   There are more cheerful flowers. Purple crocuses, trembling white snowdrops and mauve-coloured pom-pom primulas are brightening up odd corners of my garden. Best of all, every time I walk into my kitchen my nostrils are assailed by the intense fragrance of three purple hyacinths that totally over-ride other wonderful smells of freshly baked bread, Italian coffee and herby casseroles. At the moment, between runs, my kitchen is certainly a very nice place to be, and a jolly sight warmer than the weather outside. Maybe I should install a treadmill there!

Frost

Track to the hamlet of Yarnbury

      For some days now the temperature hasn't risen above freezing in the Dales. Skies have been blue and cloudless with hardly a breath of wind. Days have been sandwiched between spectacular morning sunrises and gorgeous sunsets. Up on the moor bankings are festooned with icicles, the ground iron hard and pock-marked with frozen puddles.  On lower ground, in icy fields and frost-bound gardens, bushes and shrubs are stooped under grey rime, like hoary old men. But not this old man! 

Earth was hard as iron.....

     Thankfully, energy levels have risen slightly since my last posting, partly I suspect on account of all the delicious culinary delights my wonderful partner and I have been treated to by kind friends who must have thought our winter bodies looked a bit under nourished!  In fact, I'd been thinking along similar lines too, so much so that after a mounting urge for some proper chips, as opposed to those horrid oven thingies, I purchased a deep fat frier to give my old body some occasional treats. Next on the list could well be a bread-making machine to further boost the carbohydrate intake. I've yet to find a decent unsliced loaf of bread in Sainsbury's, where I do most of my shopping, so rarely eat more than one slice a day of the essential 'staff of life'. This deficit is about to be remedied.

......water like a stone

     Over the past week I've run another 21 miles, split into four runs, at a slightly faster speed and without the ignominy of having to walk the last hill back into the village. Most enjoyable was a relaxed run on Saturday afternoon with my wonderful partner who was sussing out an eleven mile route along which she's scheduled to take a party of Skipton & District U3A walkers this Thursday. We only ran a seven mile section of it to re-acquaint ourselves with the lie of the land in the remoter parts and to note any possible hazards.

Frosty landscape near Bare House

     The weather was crisp and clear with hardly a breeze as we set off from Yarnbury to run by the long wall and up onto Grassington Moor where only an occasional startled grouse exploding from the heather broke the ice-bound silence with it's 'Go-bak' cries. The only unpleasant bit occurred when once again my left foot was caught in one of our local gamekeeper's numerous fox snares, almost bringing me to earth. Fortunately, it was in an area around a stink pit where I expected snares to be, so was deliberately treading carefully. We hope none of the ageing U3A members will be so unlucky on their forthcoming walk. 

     We arrived back in Yarnbury as the sun was setting behind distant hills, colouring the evening sky with raging fire on the horizon and deepening pastel pinks extending overhead. A perfect end to a perfect day.

For the record

One of the results of high winds in Hebden last week

    For some reason, since Christmas, I've not been firing on all cylinders. I've been a bit wobbly and lacking in energy which is most unlike this aspiring octagonarian. Apart from going a bit overboard with the Champagne and bubbly stuff on Christmas day there's been no more over-indulgence either food-wise or drink-wise. My weight has not risen above it's usual 140 lbs and my resting pulse remains at a constant 42bpm - so nothing wrong there. I'm hoping this is a temporary blip and not the onset of  'old age and decrepitude syndrome'!  However, although I struggled a bit in high winds and rain, and twice had to walk up a hill I normally take in my running stride, I managed to churn out another twenty miles this past week. So, the old legs are still turning over even though the engine is currently feeling a bit clapped out! On a good note, my morale was somewhat boosted this week by some news on a subject I referred to in an earlier Blog.

   In November last year, while surfing running related material on the internet, I happened to log into the 'Yomp' website where details of the Full Yomp (23 miles, 4000 ft height gain) are described thus:

'Starts at Kirkby Stephen Grammar School and heads South out of town and past Wharton Hall, continuing over Wild Boar Fell and on to Swarth Fell before swinging off the tops down to Aisgill Moor. Climbing back from the valley via Hell Gill onto Mallerstang Edge the route passes over High Seat and High Pike and drops down to the Swaledale road near the top of Tailbridge Hill. The final stage is the ascent to the Nine Standards, and then down to Kirkby Stephen'.

    It's over fifteen years since I ran this wonderful scenic route, way back in 1996 when I was 64 years old. I recall it being a glorious day with reasonably dry underfoot conditions and I was pushed all the way by my sometimes training partner and arch-rival, John Ely, who is thirteen years younger than me. I remember slowing a little as I refuelled on the ascent of Hell Gill, only to go into panic mode at the realisation John was little more than 25 yards behind me. He had a clever knack of keeping a very low profile behind clumps of heather, little protruding rocks, or hiding behind other runners as he surreptitiously crept up on people. Fortunately, the adrenalin kicked in and I pulled away along Mallerstang Edge, over Nine Standards Rigg and down into Kirkby Stephen to finish six minutes ahead of him. As fastest runner O/60 that day I was presented with the 'Nine Standards Veteran's Cup' and told, unofficially, that my time of 3hours 42minutes could well be an O/60's course record.

    Being of a certain vintage, I'd totally forgotten about this little matter of a course record until recently coming across the 'Results' section on the Yomp website where Mr R.Moulding of Blackburn Harriers was officially listed as O/60's record holder with his time of 3.45 set in 1995. Needless to say, an email went hurtling through cyber space at a great rate of knots informing the Yomp organisers that a certain member of Longwood Harriers (i.e. yours truly) had in fact run 3 minutes faster than their Mr R.Moulding.  I'm pleased to report that five days ago, on January 4th, an email from John Andrew of the Yomp Committee informed me that after fifteen years my record has finally been ratified and now appears on the list of all time records. Yippee!!!   For reasons of posterity, and before someone re-writes this record again, I thought I'd have a copy of it on my Blog page.  So here it is:

     I've always regarded this as a 'soft' record and am amazed it's stood for fifteen years when there are so many good O/60 runners around. I'd expected it to be broken long ago which, I suppose, is why I hadn't paid much attention to it, until now. The O/60's record for the Three Peaks of Yorkshire, a slightly longer race with more ascent and descent, is 3.38.33 set by Bill Fielding - 12 minutes faster my quickest 'Peaks' time. So come on, all you O/60 fell runners, the next Yomp is on June 3rd. Be inspired. Get out there and give it a go. After all, records are there to be broken.

Happy New Year

The Wharfe in spate

    The weather is still up to its old tricks. For the past couple of weeks, at least, Britain has been a drab and dreary place. And still we have dire warnings of gale force winds, torrential rain, hail, sleet and snow continuing well into the New Year. Trees and overhead power lines have been brought down, disrupting public transport, while many homes are without electricity. Water is pouring off the hills, fields are saturated, the River Wharfe is a whirling brown maelstrom. While travelling on the Ilkley bus we'd to hurriedly lift our feet when water came rushing inside as we negotiated a flooded section of road near Linton.

     A final run of the old year had me slithering all over the place during a five mile effort through quagmire fields to Grassington Bridge and back. The effort required, just to stay upright, was so exhausting that for the first time ever I'd to walk the final hill back into the village.  Glad I'm not running in the Yorkshire X-Country Championships this coming Saturday! 

Running out the old year

     New Year's Eve celebrations were somewhat subdued. A running friend who'd invited us to share 'nibbles' and drinks was struck down with a stomach bug a few hours before the chimes so, after our traditional Hogmanay supper of haggis, tatties and neeps - not to mention a wee dram - we quietly saw in the New Year alone.  How different from days gone by when we'd stream out of Gerry's hostel at Achnashellach and into the warmth of Katie Ann's cottage for untold hours of music, song and jollity at a good old Scottish ceilidh. Later, we'd finish up dancing in the road, everywhere sparkling with frost, stripping the willow in a starlit ballroom. Those were the days. I think!

     The first day of the New Year, being a Sunday, coincided with the annual Covenant Service at our Methodist Chapel, for which I was on duty both as steward and reader. It began at 9am, so it was just as well I hadn't been dancing the night away. A part of the sermon that caught my attention concerned the three wise men traversing countless miles across trackless desert, without the aid of maps or satnav, to the town of Bethlehem.  "In those dim distant days travellers had to navigate by the stars" our Minister said. On my way out I suggested if we'd had to rely on stars this Christmas we wouldn't have got very far out of the village!

The Wharfe at Linton Falls

     After the sloshing through fields fiasco of yesteryear I resolved to henceforth keep to roads and tracks until such time as the landscape has dried out. So, sensing a short weather window after Chapel, I set off on what should have been a pleasant six mile jog to Appletreewick, then back along the mainly gravelly path by the swollen River Wharfe. All was going well until, just before the suspension bridge, I was greeted by a loose dog which, by way of saying Hello, ripped a hole in my best Gore running tights at the top of my thigh. Had it's teeth struck a few inches to the right, things could have been far worse! He was a beautiful looking dog. Shame he had such an irresponsible owner. Perhaps by way of consolation, she assured me she'd have harsh words with her very naughty doggy. I departed quickly, counting up to ten, before letting out a loud stress relieving Aaaarrrggh!

     So, a bit of a curate's egg really, some good bits, some bad, which I suppose is what the rest of the year will be like. A Very Happy New Year to all my Blogger friends and visitors.

Christmas frolics

Carol singing round the village

     Christmas comes but once a year, and thank goodness for that a lot of us might say. Any more of them and we'd be positively obese! Things started to hot up in Hebden on the evening of the 23rd when a group of us braved the bleak mid-winter to traditionally sing carols round the village, thus proclaiming to anyone who didn't already know that Christmas had officially begun. Time for some ding dong merrily on high! Our scattered congregation were all very appreciative and a grand total of £118 was raised for Manorlands, a well deserving hospice in the West Yorkshire village of Oxenhope. The evening was rounded off with an alfresco gathering around a brazier where the stars shone brightly as we quaffed mulled wine and stuffed our faces with some rather more-ish mince pies.

     It rained most of Christmas Eve but a brief weather window around 2pm had me reaching for my studs and nipping out the door for a seasonal run up the ghyll and over into Mossdale. It was bordering on dark when I got back two hours later, but I'd packed a head torch in my bumbag - just in case. Later, it rained harder than ever, rattling the west facing windows and seeping under the back door. Outside, the wind chimes jangled madly, like some grand crescendo to a Messiaenic masterpiece, almost drowning the Church bells calling the faithful to midnight mass.

Choccies and malt whisky

     It rained throughout Christmas day too, but we didn't care. We didn't have to go out and besides, we'd a few other interesting things to do. I'll unashamedly admit that, apart from one cup of tea at breakfast time the rest of my fluid intake for the day consisted entirely of alcohol. It began before lunch when a charming elderly neighbour invited us into her cottage for champagne and 'nibbles' around her brightly decorated tree. It's essential  to have a man around on these occasions because her fingers are not strong enough to uncork the champagne. I'm more than happy to oblige!

     Then it was back home to delve under the tree and pluck out our own presents while consuming yet more lunchtime nibbles and another bottle of choice bubbly. Our many presents from many friends required many digital pictures to email to said friends displaying our ecstatic faces and exceeding pleasure at receiving such thoughtful gifts. Among mine were three bottles of single malt whisky! Also, an exceedingly expensive Paramo mountain shirt from my wonderful partner which suggests to me we might be spending less time running in 2012 and more time wandering the hills together at a more sedate pace. Curiously, I 'd been thinking along roughly similar lines when I gave her a lightweight Salomon rucksack, a lightweight waterproof jacket and lightweight headtorch. But what I had in mind was RUNNING the hills as opposed to other touristy means of getting to the top!

That bright new jacket

     A bottle of excellent Chardonnay, suitably chilled, accompanied the traditional Christmas dinner, preceded by a mouthwatering salmon and prawn starter and concluded with some rather rich Christmas pudding with brandy sauce. I barely remember washing up, or at what time we crawled up to bed, but I do remember waking in the wee small hours feeling exceedingly dehydrated and in need of some fluid other than alcohol.

     Boxing day was dull and cloudy but mercifully the rain had stopped. We ran up the ghyll together before parting company at Cupola Corner to go our different ways, my wonderful partner heading towards Yarnbury to return home by a shorter route, me continuing on an eight mile circuit of Grassington Moor and Bycliffe Hill to burn off more calories. My choice was a huge mistake. At 1,500ft the umpteen miles per hour gale was raging like a mad thing, all very well when bowling me along from behind, but sheer hell when I turned to face it on the way home. I progressed in fits and starts and a few short jogs over Bycliffe, but it was impossible to run with my eyes streaming water and the wind tearing my breath away.

Stone man - a cairn high on Grassington Moor

      It was the same for the next mile, along the Mossdale track and past the Stone Man (cairn) until I'd dropped a couple of hundred feet to the long wall below Howgill Nick where it was only slightly less exposed.  I stood for a couple of minutes beside the wall, totally knackered, getting my breath back and waiting for some strength to seep back into my old legs for the long run down.  Then, as I set off running again, an amazing thing happened. A raven cronked overhead, riding the wind majestically, perhaps showing me how clever he was at handling the maelstrom. That raven stayed with me like some guardian angel for the next three miles, almost until I was back in the village. It joined me at almost exactly the same place on a previous occasion but left me after a mile or so. On Boxing Day it stayed with me until I'd run over all the rougher, stonier parts of the ghyll, crossed the swollen beck on submerged stepping stones and all the way down to the final ½ mile of smooth tarmac where it gave a final 'cronk' and sailed away.
    I seem to recall reading somewhere (was it Gavin Maxwell?) there's something unlucky about ravens, but I've always regarded them as friendly birds and give them a cheery wave when I come across them up on the moor. They're particularly delightful in display mode, flying together at speed and flipping over onto their backs as they flash through the air like avian answers to the Red Arrows. No, I can't believe a bird that gives so much pleasure can be a harbinger of evil. Quite the reverse, I tell myself, hurtling towards my 80th birthday, occasionally flipping over onto my back as I trip over some projection and go flashing through the air.......... Ho hum!

More snow

White landscape below my house

     It snowed again this week, then the sun shone and the frozen landscape glittered like diamonds under a blue benign sky. Ice crackled underfoot as I ran through familiar fields, past holly bushes bright with Christmas berries, past horses in winter blankets contentedly scrunching dry hay from their rack in a field below the Castle. Sorry I forgot the Polos!
    On days like these it feels like running is the most natural thing to do, the easiest and most enjoyable form of exercise, energizing the body while filling the lungs with the purest of air.  In buoyant mood inspired by the weather I churned out another twenty glorious miles this week. I dread the day when I can no longer run. 

     After recent ten mile jaunts, interspersed with shorter ones of three or four miles, my old legs are starting to regain some strength and I get the feeling it will soon be time to introduce a bit of speed work again. The post Christmas period, following the inevitable wining and dining indulgences, should be an ideal time to start. Father Christmas might even have brought me some foul weather training gear, in which case I'll have less reasons to procrastinate. 

    A quick glance at ClustrMaps today revealed my Blog had visitors from all sorts of interesting places, from Spain, Austria, Australia, Taiwan and various US States - Oklahoma, Indiana and Maryland. Some are regulars and visit every week but I haven't a clue who most of them are. I wish I knew.  Anyhow, to all of you, thankyou for dropping in. I wish you a Happy, peaceful Christmas and a wonderful New Year. If you're runners, train well, enjoy your racing and celebrate lots of new PB's (or PR's if you live in the States).
     PS. There's currently a huge shambling bull in the field you see in this picture who, along with his cows and heifers, snuggles under my garden wall in the wee small hours. It took me a while to work out it's this hot-blooded bovine family that are responsible for my security light constantly switching on and off - depriving me of sleep! 

Getting in the mood for Christmas

Christmas starts here

    The first snows inevitably turned our thoughts towards the joys of Christmas, so we've been pretty busy this past week. To set the scene, and get us into the right mood, the tree was hauled out of the loft and duly adorned with sparkly glass baubles and multi-coloured lights. Windows were polished and secondary glazing installed to keep out Jack Frost, making the cottage more cosy for forthcoming celebrations. Seasonal messages were scribbled on festive cards and sent hurtling off to friends and relations all over the world. A few presents were bought and wrapped, though many more have still to be decided upon. There is still ivy to collect, to curl around the overhead creel, and holly to brighten spare corners, but we're almost there.

The desolate track into Mossdale....

    In rare weather windows we also found time to run, over Castle Hill, around Burnsall and even through a snow dappled landscape into the wilds of Mossdale where, in no uncertain manner, the window slammed firmly shut. Rain and hail, driven by gale force wind, rattled the hood of my lightweight cagoule as I trundled along the track towards the huge bulk of Great Whernside which was totally hidden in thick, drifting cloud. The landscape was totally desolate, not a tree nor a sheep, not a rabbit or wild bird; only the bare rocks, tangled heather, mist, patches of snow, moss and weathered walls.

                          ...and the muddy way out 

    I was glad to reach the high point at four miles and 1,540ft where I'd shortly afterwards turn for home. Unfortunately I was also turning into the path of the oncoming storm that slowed my pace considerably for the next couple of miles until reaching lower ground. Near Bare House I passed Nigel, a local dry stone waller, bald headed and hatless, repairing a fair sized gap on quite a high and exposed part of the moor. A real hard man! We flung greetings through the wind, but I didn't stop. There were three more miles to go. 

    It was quite a relief to drop into the more sheltered confines of Hebden Ghyll, cross the overflowing beck and run back into the village where, naturally, I put on an extra spurt for the benefit of anyone who might happen to be peeping through their window! My Garmin registered an exact ten miles. After a few stretches while the kettle boiled I flung a couple more logs on the stove, then slapped my hands round a welcome mug of tea. The animal was happy. Very happy!

Ten

Raging River Wharfe

    After a couple of short steady runs during the week, come Saturday I decided it was time to lay the ghost by repeating the 10 mile route on which I came to grief some eight weeks ago.  Time has healed the damaged ribs, the pain has gone, I can take deep breaths again, I can even sing and do press-ups - though not all at the same time, you understand.

    It was cold, windy and showery as I set off alongside a raging River Wharfe en route for the five mile turn-around point at Barden Bridge. The path was slippery and slutchy and at one point my feet went flying from under me - yet again - but luckily no harm was done. I sprang up and continued running with nothing more than a bruised ego. I was back in Hebden (just as my wonderful partner was setting out to look for me!) in two hours and two minutes. My Garmin registered 10.47 miles, so I was happy with that. After all there are 28 gates to open and shut on the path to Barden Bridge and the same to be repeated on the way back. Plus, I'd stopped to take photographs of various interesting features en route, as I do, to illustrate my Blog. I ached a little, particularly my Rt knee, but it felt wonderful to be back up to ten miles again. From henceforth it will be a matter of build, build, build all through the winter, getting strength back into the old body ready for racing again next year.

Pico Deseada, on the volcanic island of La Palma

    Talking of next year we recently decided that, God willing, we'll celebrate my 80th birthday on the beautiful island of La Palma, off the north west coast of Africa, staying at the same wonderful hotel that fed and watered us so well last February. So, we were a little concerned on reading a news report yesterday which said that just across the water beside a neighbouring island, El Hierro, a volcano has been continuously erupting under the sea for over a month. According to the report, it could even form a new island, or add new territory to the south coast of El Hierro. In spite of around 11,000 tremors over the last four months most of the islanders are not too concerned, though some have suitcases standing by the door packed with emergency food, blankets, changes of clothing, battery radios and torches. The worst scenario, one supposes, is that it could eventually rise out of the water and start spewing volcanic ash all over the place. May God forbid!

First snow of winter

    In total contrast, we awoke this morning to the first snows of winter, blizzarding across the landscape forcing sheep and other livestock to cower under walls for shelter while on the roads traffic was brought to a virtual standstill or, in the case of a local coach we suspected should be crossing the Pennines with a group of geologists, sliding backwards down the hill in front of us! Could make for some interesting running!

A wild weekend

Burnsall and the River Wharfe

     Wild, wet, windy and bitterly cold would be an apt description of last weekend's weather. The storm was building up to gale force as we drove back home from Knaresborough on Saturday afternoon, bending  trees and buffeting our poor little car as we drove with dipped headlights through the misty and inhospitable hilltop village of Greenhow. It was a relief to get indoors, stoke up the stove and warm our hands around a mug of hot tea.  I couldn't help thinking about an intrepid walking acquaintance of mine, Alan Sloman, who was planning to camp with friends, and a dog, high on the slopes of Ingleborough. With winds gusting to 75mph throughout Yorkshire I somehow think there may have been a change of plan so can't wait for him to update his excellent and entertaining Blog to find out what really happened!

Riverside path - a delight to run

     We didn't sleep much on Saturday night, or Sunday morning, as rain rattled against our window like beads of slingshot. Come morning, the sky had cleared to a brilliant blue but there was still a vicious wind. Anxious to start building up mileage again I'd planned an eight mile route, half of which was on tarmac, as far as Howgill, and the rest along a very puddly riverbank back to Hebden. That way I wouldn't get my feet wet until turning for home!  I was accompanied by my wonderful partner who hates wind at the best of times but positively loathes it when it's freezing cold and gusting to umpteen miles per hour. I can tell you, this was a run she didn't enjoy!

The New Inn at Appletreewick

     There are three well known refreshment stops on this route, the Craven Arms and New Inn at Appletreewick and the Red Lion in Burnsall, which together attract hoardes of thirsty walkers at all times of year. There were no signs of life at any of them as we ran past on this wild morning, no cars or anyone sat outside at picnic tables gazing at the glorious landscape while quaffing a good old pint of Yorkshire brew. It was a good time to photograph these famous hostelries - if only I could hold the camera still enough! Even the New Inn appeared to be keeling over in the wind!

Pat Proudfoot's memorial

     Turning towards home we ran past Pat Proudfoot's memorial, an 18 year old member of Bradford sub-aqua club who saw in the year 1960 underwater in the River Wharfe but sadly died 5 months later. In the twenty or so years I've regularly passed this way her plaque has always been marked with flowers. The path through Howgill Wood required care as it was thick with fallen leaves that hid jutting rocks and raised tree roots. A shooting party was bagging pheasants across the river - or trying to. In today's wind I reckoned there might be a fair bit of deflection that would work in favour of the flushed birds.

Hebden suspension bridge

     The cold blast stung our faces and blew us about as it funnelled straight towards us down the swollen river.  In an elemental sort of way I was enjoying the experience of battling against it, though wishing I'd brought along a thermal hat and gloves. Next time! Hebden's rickety old suspension bridge was swaying a bit as we dashed across before climbing the final hill back into the village to complete a hard won but stimulating run.  I was happy to be back up to eight miles though my wonderful partner, being of slender frame and therefore buffetted around a fair bit more than me in the draughty conditions, finished quite exhausted. Hopefully the weather will be a little more clement when I go for the ten.

Brightening up my day

    Went for another good run today, a five mile frolic through Mollicar and Royd House woods, through fields of sprouting winter wheat, with a sharp climb over Castle Hill to round things off.

A pheasant came to say 'Hello'

   It was late afternoon when I set off and I'd half hoped the local badgers might be rooting about, or performing their ablutions away from their sett, but no such luck. The countryside was strangely deserted except for a large covey of partridge that flew off into the dusk. It was almost dark when I got home.

    The reason for my late departure this afternoon was this colouful visitor strutting around in my garden just as I was ready to set off. I was so fascinated that I really didn't like to disturb him, even though he was at one time feeding on some of my Spring bulbs. I've no doubt he'll be back for more!

Autumn runs

Woodland colours en route to Castle Hill

    After six frustrating weeks the old ribs are slowly healing so that over the past few days I've managed to clock up some enjoyable miles with seemingly no ill effects. On Wednesday I set off on my Castle hill route - yet again - in some unusually warm November weather that made running a sheer joy. As I've mentioned before, towards the end of this route there are a couple of 'Watch your Speed' traffic signs which, up till now, have always been 0.27 mile apart, according to my Garmin 305.   However, for reasons best known to itself. it has decided to chop off 0.02 mile and reduce the distance to 0.25, a straight ¼ mile.  This is all very well but it means that when I run this distance in the usual 1 minute 36 seconds my pace has dropped from 5.58 to 6.18 - which does nothing for my morale. This infernal gadget is slowing me down. Next time I'll run without it!

River Wharfe on the way to Burnsall and Appletreewick

     Saturday's run was a delightful six miles along the riverbank to Appletreewick, and back. It was another clear day with extensive views and sharp imagery. Only problem was, I forgot to take my camera so was kicking myself every time a likely shot materialized - like the incredible reflections on the still waters of the river, or the dozen or so canoeists paddling downstream, or the lone goosander sunning itself in a calm backwater. The miles passed easily, running at a steady pace while marvelling at all the magic of another glorious day.

     Sunday.  After a convivial evening of wining and dining that extended long into the night it was a somewhat sluggish old Runningfox that set off for Church on Sunday morning. Things speeded up a bit when I realised I'd forgotten my collection money and had to jog back for it, only reaching my pew on the last clang of the bell. But it was worth it as my somewhat depleted batteries were recharged at the communion rail - though I'm not sure it did my knees any good!

Grassington Bridge

     Our minister, Rev David Macha, is a keen runner who completed this year's Great North Run in a respectable 1 hour 38 minutes. Next year he plans to run two of my favourite races, the Burnsall 10 mile road race and the Upper Wharfedale off-road ½ marathon, both of which are tough courses with many hundreds of feet of ascent.  If I run these two races I'll be competing as an MV80 which is off the end of the scale as far as prizes are concerned. I'll have to think about that.

     In the afternoon as mist descended into the valley my wonderful partner and I set off through the fields for a five mile circuit to Grassington Bridge, then back along the riverbank where a few faster spurts made this into a fartlek session. It brought my mileage to 14 for the week, the most I've run since my unfortunate accident. It will be ages before I'm back up to speed again.  But I'm working on it.

Running back from Grassington Bridge along the misty riverbank

     Whilst surfing the net the other day I happened to click on the Mallerstang Yomp website. The 'Yomp' takes place annually over a 23 mile route (with 4,000ft height gain) over Wild Boar Fell, Swarth Fell, Mallerstang Edge and Nine Standards Rigg before dropping down to the Start/Finish point at Kirkby Stephen Grammar School.  I ran this race way back in 1996 and, quite by accident I'd imagine, set a new MV60 course record of 3 hours 42 minutes. Understandably I've been quite proud of this record over the years, so imagine my feelings on discovering that the official website lists a certain R.Moulding of Blackburn as the current MV60 record holder with his time of 3 hours 45 minutes - i.e. three whole minutes slower than my time. Needless to say an email to the organisers, with an attachment of the 1996 results, went hurtling through cyberspace at a great rate of knots with an urgent request to rectify this mistake PDQ.  As yet, my record hasn't been restored but an email from David Prince, treasurer to the organising committee, indicates they're looking into the matter and will be in touch with me soon.  But how soon is soon?  Watch this space!