It just dawned on me......

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

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

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

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

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

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

  

Autumn tints on Castle Hill side...

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

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

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

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

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

  

Clifford in his heaven - salmon fishing on the Tay

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

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

Magical Menorca....

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

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

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

On our first morning run to the Tower

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posing on the Cami de Cavalls....

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

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

The beautiful Cala de Rafalet...

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

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

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

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

A view from the bar at Happy Hour...

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

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

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

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

A marina at Mahon

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

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

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

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

Resting on the rocks at Cabo Fornells...

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

 

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

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

A week of ups and downs....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Riverside path ripped up by fallen tree....

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

Two different runs.....

Shades of purple on the Mossdale track....(click to enlarge)

     Although the sun had stayed in bed and the forecast was dire from lunchtime onwards, conditions on Friday morning bordered on perfect for a short run up Castle Hill.  A very pleasant 63ºF, and a tolerable 8mph east wind to keep the sweat at bay, meant I stayed within my comfort zone for the whole of the run. After six hilly miles the previous day and a tough ten miler planned for Saturday, I decided a gentle four would be enough to sandwich between them. Slapping aside inquisitive cows cluttering up the field path I was running easily past Clough Hall and along the level trail to Ogley before striking uphill onto the level plateaux of Castle Hill. Maybe the forecast had kept people away for I'd the whole place to myself. Heaven. It's only 900ft high but views are so extensive, it's like running on top of the world. I never tire of the ever changing landscapes in all their seasonal moods.

 

      Cloud was low enough to slice off the top half of Emley Moor transmitter, Yorkshire's

....and on the moor, my wild garden

tallest building, and totally obliterate the wind farm over towards Haworth. It was one of those magical mornings when I was 'running out of myself', totally absorbed in my surroundings with little or no conscious thought of what my legs or feet were doing, my body circling the perimeter path on automatic pilot whilst my head was somewhere up in the clouds - metaphorically speaking. On the last of these circuits a glance across the valley revealed the whole of Holme Moss had disappeared under a great cloud of rain - and it was heading towards me! I free-wheeled down, passing the ever present cows, and stopped my watch on exactly 4 miles. Or so I thought. On downloading to 'Garmin Connect' I was greatly surprised to learn I'd run precisely 5 miles. I can only surmise I'd been experiencing something of a 'runner's high' during that extra phantom mile.

     

Atmospheric view running towards Great Whernside

      There was no such occurrence the following day on a blustery 10 mile circuit of Mossdale. The temperature was only a couple of degrees cooler but the wind had swung round to the west and increased to 17mph, maybe gusting to 20mph during the short, sharp showers that had me donning a rain jacket on occasions to maintain some body heat. But I couldn't resist. Heather is currently in full bloom and on Saturday I was determined to feast my eyes upon it, smell it, photograph it and enjoy it to the full as it lights up the moor in its brief annual display. I wasn't disappointed, though the suns disappearance each time I reached for my camera was frustrating, to say the least. I could hardly sit around waiting for the right conditions when I was supposed to be running, especially at 1,500ft where wind and rain showed no respect for my lightly clad body. It was a stop/start affair that bore no resemblance to the previous day's easy rhythm or out of body experience. But I'd done what I set out to do and jogged home contentedly with the heathery smells in my nostrils and the pictures in my camera. All's well that ends well.....

One of those days.....

Crossing the retaining wall into wild country...(Click to enlarge)

     I shouldn't listen. I really shouldn't listen. When my wonderful partner casually mentions she's thought of another interesting route to inflict upon her U3A Walking Group I should have learnt by now to turn a deaf ear, refrain from showing the slightest interest, or feign some serious illness - a punctured lung or the onset of the dreaded Ebola virus from leaning too close to that nice African lady on the train. But I fell for it again.  "It's about 11 miles" she said, "but there's no need to run all of it, we're familiar with the last few miles". She was right about the last bit. It's on trails I still regularly run round Mossdale, but the first five miles was over wild, remote country I hadn't ventured into for many years. Ah well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

      It was cold, cloudy and blowing an 11 mph sou'westerly as we set off up the crag path, pushing aside

Through tall thistles and dense reeds

head high bracken as we laboured skywards towards Scar Top House. Unlike the previous week when I'd been running topless in 75º I'd donned tight shorts, thermal top and a buff as the temperature dropped down the scale. On the exposed open moor I was wishing I'd brought gloves too! The path along the holding wall of Mossy Mere was once a joy to run, or linger along while watching the sun set over the water, but is barely traceable now in a riot of reeds. Running was reduced to a jog, or even a walk in denser areas - a portent of things to come. After crossing the dam's outflow a machete would have been handy to hack a way through bracken, thistles and nettles to the stile beyond - the climbing of which proved to be one of the easier parts of the route so far.

The three stone men of Bolton Ghyll...and a threatening sky

     Beyond the wall we were greeted by more tall thistles and dense reeds as we began traversing the vast trackless wasteland en route to the three stone men of Bolton Ghyll. We made a slight faux pas (!) by ignoring the route I used to run in favour of what looked like a more direct route which in the end turned out to be totally impassable. We detoured back to our original route, climbed a wall in exactly the same place I remembered from long ago, and were able to commence running again towards the trio of lofty cairns silhouetted against a darkening sky. From this point we'd planned to cross the top of Bolton Ghyll and follow the Parish boundary as far as Blea Beck. No way! Covering the steep drop into the ghyll was another impenetrable jungle of tall bracken hiding dangerous rocks and goodness knows what other possible pitfalls that neither of us was prepared to risk.

      A Plan B came into operation. Or was it Plan C?  We struck N.E. running parallel to the stream

Showing the strain already - and I'd only run two miles!

that feeds the ghyll, through a vast bog known as The Wolf. I've no idea why it's called The Wolf. Maybe it was once clothed in sheep - but there were none to be seen as we battled through. I reckon they'd more sense. Due to the nature of our wild routes we're all too familiar with sphagnum moss but The Wolf has its very own variety in the form of two feet high hummocks which we'd to either circumnavigate or stride over with knees to chin. We were supposed to be running but The Wolf had other ideas.

It was fun running through these...

      I was mighty glad to climb out over the wall and head towards Blea Beck, though the reeds en route were so tall my wonderful partner kept disappearing among them. It seemed ages before we emerged into familiar territory. Well, almost familiar territory. A cloudburst and subsequent landslide of biblical proportions two weeks previously had totally transformed some areas of the landscape between Kettlewell and Grassington Moor. A sea of water, silt and debris had cascaded down the hillsides flooding becks and cave systems and shifting things to where they didn't used to be. One of the things it changed the shape of was my old crossing point over the beck so there was quite a bit of hithering and dithering before we located it. We leapt across to the far bank and hit the ground running.

      Storm debris was left behind as we climbed onto a ridge

running parallel to a beck known as the Deep Cut for a mile or so across Grassington

...and these

Moor. There was once a good sheep trod along here that was easy to run but it's totally disappeared under rampant heather and grassy tussocks that reduced us to a very slow jog. It's strange, since we fellrunners stopped using the trod, sheep have abandoned it too.  Shortly, there was yet another fast flowing beck to cross, and yet again the midstream boulders had been forced into different positions that called for some nifty footwork to gain the far bank dryshod. In my dotage I'm not very good at balancing and have toppled into the river on more than one occasion! But this time I was lucky.

Climbing onto the ridge...Grassington Moor

      A Landrover track gave easy running for all of 150m before veering right over Bycliffe Hill to allow my wonderful partner to exercise her navigational skills over some fairly featureless terrain before leading her U3A group across there later in the year, possibly in  winter conditions. She led it without difficulty in spite of more flood debris that obliterated the faint sheep trod we'd been following. As we neared our high point the wind grew stronger and colder. A heavy shower blotted out the landscape to our left as we hurried along to the stone man at 1,500ft after which we were much relieved to start our descent in the lee of the long wall. Our original intention had been to carry on round into Mossdale but we'd both had enough and were only too happy to head for home. Two hikers who'd stopped for lunch wanted to know where we'd been. It was a long story that took some explaining!

Completing her navigational exercise. Time to go home...Thank God!

      Then it rained, thankfully nothing of the magnitude of our previous cloudburst but heavy enough for us to don waterproof jackets before heading down into Hebden Ghyll, enjoying the luxury of a smoother surface under our feet to run the last couple of miles into the village. 
      I stretched, gave my legs a load of Stick before relaxing with two mugs of exceedingly strong coffee - Italian, of course - and silently vowed that next time U3A walking routes are due for submission I'll dig out my ear plugs and bury my nose in whatever book lies closest to hand. All in all we'd covered just over nine miles, with 967ft of ascent, but I'll refrain from mentioning how long it took us. It brought my total mileage for the week to around 24 which I'm completely happy with. Next Sunday my wonderful partner will be engaged in  National Park duties so no chance of being coerced into any more madcap meanderings, luckily for me.....