Another island holiday.......

A little corner of heaven, showing the beach by our campsite   (Click pictures to enlarge)

One of my great passions in life is visiting different islands. So far I've been to Mauritius, Seychelles, Crete, La Palma, Tenerife, Fuertaventura, Gran Canaria, Menorca, Inner and Outer Hebrides, the Orkneys, Jersey and Guernsey, Lindisfarne and possibly a few more I've already forgotten in my dotage. Over the past couple of weeks, along with my wonderful partner, I've been re-discovering another island dear to my heart, St Martin's in the beautiful Isles of Scilly. It's thirteen years since we last camped there on a site owned at that time by Christine and Christopher Savill, but which passed into the very capable hands of Ben and Caroline Gillet in 2008.

Our cosy corner

I'm not sure what Caroline thought of us when we opted to tote our camping gear from the jetty at Lowertown rather than have it transferred to the site on her waiting trailer.  But we'd only a rucksack each of backpacking gear which, in the past, we'd toted coast to coast across Scotland on many occasions so ¼ mile walk was child's play to us. Besides, we were anxious to pick a prime position on the site before others arrived, and that's exactly what we did. Loos, showers and washroom, laundrette, carousel for drying clothes, washing up facilities, recycling area - not to mention free wifi - were all within an easy stone's throw of our tent but all hidden from our cosy corner.

At the Face Menir (locally called Billy Idol) with Daymark in the distance.

Being a small island (it's possible to run all the way round in less than 60 minutes) I'd foolishly thought after our pre-breakfast runs I'd be able to relax for the remainder of our days. Wrong, wrong, wrong. There was a ton of shopping to do, a gallery to visit, Adam's fish and chip restaurant, Little Arthur for coffee, a bakery for fresh bread and goodies, walks to White Island (at low tide), a couple of standing stones to be photographed, birds to watch and exotic flowers to put names to - and all a fair distance away. My Garmin registered 44.7 miles of running but that distance was exceeded by far with the amount of walking we did. Needless to say, on returning home we'd both lost weight.

This 6 mile route took a pathetic 79 minutes to run....

In 2002, aged 70, I could easily run the 4 miles to the Daymark and back in 28 minutes. This year, running to the Daymark every day, I failed to break 40 minutes.  Hugging the coast paths with a character called 'John' those thirteen years ago I ran an estimated 7 miles in 54 minutes. This year I really showed my age taking 79 minutes for a measly 6 miles.    Anno Domini is not being very kind to Old Runningfox, I wish he'd go away and leave me alone for a little while, or preferably for the next 17 years until I've got my telegram, or whatever, from whoever happens to be sat on the throne writing them.

Ben starting his run....

Our amiable and much younger hosts, Ben and Caroline, are triathletes and took part in a race on the neighbouring island of Tresco while we were there. On a beautiful summer day we went over to support them and shout a bit of encouragement as they toiled through their disciplines. Must admit though, we failed to identify them coming out of the water in full body cover and only managed to spot them in the final transition from biking to running when their numbers were easier to see.

....and Caroline finishing hers

After watching both of them begin their 5K runs we darted round to the Finish (by a shorter route) to photograph them finishing.  76 athletes completed the course, the winner, Jack Plummer, setting a new course record of 1.07.14. Ben finished a creditable 25th in 1.26 with Caroline 37th in 1.29.  I couldn't help wondering how our local Brownlee brothers would have performed?

The pair of us approaching the Daymark on a pre-breakfast run....

...and oh, what bliss, recovering in the sun on Par beach in the afternoon

Great Bay and Little Bay from Top Rocks

After being mainly lucky with the weather it decided to rain for our last day on St Martin's. There was a thick sea fret and the foghorn was sounding 4 times every minute as we set off on a final run to the Daymark at 7am. For the only time during our stay, we wore rain jackets over our shorts and vests. Shrouded in mist it was a while before the distant Daymark came into view. We hurried towards it, did a quick circuit in the blustery conditions and headed straight back to camp. Mission accomplished and a fitting end to a brilliant holiday on this truly beautiful island.

Shouldering our packs ready to depart...

Our thanks to Ben and Caroline for their wonderful hospitality, efficiency and expertise at running what we consider the best official campsite in all of Britain.

El bloguero britanico....

 Running into the headlines.... (Click pictures to enlarge)

   It's been a shock for my old bones, the temperature dropping around 20ºF since that 2½ hour flight from Menorca to Manchester, but summer is hopefully just around the corner. Despite some sneaky nithering winds it's felt good to be back running in familiar haunts, locally along bluebell paths, through vanilla scented gorse, by trees ladened with apple blossom.  Or, on mornings when running didn't feature on the agenda, to hear curlews lilting over the fields, pheasants crowing down the lane and doves cooing in the laburnum, all from the comfort of a warm bed .

Back on a familiar path up Castle Hill with gorse in bloom....

 My errant Achilles tendon has been slow to heal but is behaving itself a little better now. It stiffens and aches if I rest for any length of time (like 10 minutes) but quickly loosens again when I run. To my shame I only ran 59 miles throughout the whole of May, but that was 15 miles more than in April after I'd been ordered to rest. Since then I've been gradually ramping up the miles to get back to my pre injury average of 21 per week.

...and back to the beautiful Yorkshire Dales

 Last week I stuck in an extra run that took me to 26 - which probably accounts for me feeling like death warmed up today and toying with the idea of an afternoon nap rather than typing this! After three early morning runs amounting to 15 miles, Saturday's 5 miler was a real battle against a goodness knows how many miles an hour wind that buffetted us all over the place en route to Grassington Bridge. But oh what a joy it was to have it behind us on the way back. I felt I was flying.

Collapso.....on Sunday's orchid run

 Sunday's 6 mile run, in search of orchids, seemed to have far more of the uphill stuff than it did last time we ran it. My bloated nether regions weren't too happy about it either, which made for some uncomfortable interludes. But the sun shone, birds sang and the sought after purple orchids burst upon us in all their glory, as did bird's eye primroses and tiny yellow tormentil.

Bird's eye primroses...

Oh, I almost forgot (liar!), shortly after arriving home from Menorca an interesting email plopped into my inbox from a gentleman called Carlos Quetglas who'd read my blog report and passed it on to the editor of his local newspaper in Menorca. Result was, I hit the headlines whilst my wonderful partner and I both featured in a full page article inside illustrated with five photographs. It was all written in Spanish, of course, but Carlos kindly sent us a rough translation for our amusement. I'm not sure my octogenarian antics will do anything to boost the local tourist industry!

Running and mooching around Menorca.....

Our Hotel - the Xuroy, right on the beach    (Click to enlarge pictures)

      We must like it because we've been again. Indeed, such is the popularity of the Xuroy Hotel on the island of Menorca that a number of clientelle have been visiting annually for well over 20 years. Unfortunately, we didn't discover this idyllic spot until 2014 so I'll be well over 100 by the time I can boast as many visits. But I'll try, for one couldn't dream of a more beautiful setting, at the head of a sandy inlet that's ideal for safe swimming or snorkelling. Council workers, we assumed, cleared the beach of flotsam and seaweed each morning as we watched from our breakfast table.

The illuminated pool by night, from our balcony.....

      Rooms are basic but mainly adequate for our simple needs. No television (thank God), no fridge (one thing we'd like), no bedside cabinet or table to write on - just a wee shelf at the bedside for an alarm clock, a few shelves for snorkelling gear and sun cream, a wardrobe for the few clothes we need, along with immaculate shower and toilet facilities. Air conditioning consists of a whirring fan which, in the cooler month of May, hardly gets used. Much to my surprise, and unlike last year, I was given a Wi-Fi code for the whole of our holiday.

..... lounging at the pool side by day

      We'd asked for a room overlooking the pool, and got it. Perfect for lounging on the balcony, chilling out with a glass of wine as the sun was setting, watching stars gradually fill the sky before underwater lights illuminated the pool. Unfortunately a new rule, introduced this year, made use of the pool strictly verboten between 8pm and 10am. We got shouted at by management on one occasion for infringement, but managed to sneak in again on other mornings, after our run, when they'd forgotten to lock the doors. Albeit, I'd to slide in silently, like an otter, and swim with hardly a ripple.

.....and a daily swim in the pool

      A bit disconcerting, for me, was the total lack of northern voices, not one was heard in all two weeks. And with a limited collection of odd rags of running gear, mostly prizes from various races, I felt a bit out of place among articulate southerners, or lilting Welsh, who wore different clothes every time I saw them. I'm not very good at remembering faces but tend to recognize folk by how they dress - particularly if they happen to be wearing anything bearing a Nike, Asics or Salomon label. How am I expected to recognize them if they're always changing?  The 'tsunami man' (don't ask) always wore yellow breeks. I could manage him.....

On a short run to the Martello Tower, watching my feet along the stony Cami de Cavalls

      As on a previous visit last September, we ran in the early morning, every day bar one, while it was still cool. From short 1½ mile runs to the Martello Tower we gradually extended to 6 miles+ around Trebaluger and Binissaida, returning by the Cami de Cavalls - part of the island circular route. There was always something different to see, or hear. One beautiful bit of birdsong I thought was a song thrush was, according to a knowledgeable lady, the wonderful up-and-down fluted notes of a nightingale, a song we often heard on the island. There were hoopoes too, an exotic crested bird, but such a monotonous voice.

We were careful not to tread on these little fellows....

      As always our runs were punctuated with regular camera stops to photograph flowers and shrubs, pigs, cattle and calves, horses and cats, seascapes, distant horizons - and tortoises.
"If you see a piece of rock on the track ahead of you, and it moves, it'll be a tortoise" I said to an elderly white-legged couple who'd just arrived on the island. We could hear them tittering as we ran on - probably wondering what the heck I was talking about - when suddenly an excited cry went up. They'd found one. We photographed four tortoises of various sizes that day - but a snake was having none of it and slithered quickly through a gap under the wall.  A heron flapped over on lazy wings while unrecognizable birds of prey circled high in the boundless blue.

The taula at Talati de Dalt

      It wasn't all running. I was cajoled into other things - being dragged from my sunbed by the pool to visit archaeological sites of which, I'm told, there's knocking on for a thousand scattered throughout Menorca. We didn't do them all. Rather cleverly, my wonderful partner directed me to one of the more impressive ones first - the Talaiotic Settlement of Talati de Dalt with it's huge natural cave that was once a burial chamber, quaint underground living quarters hewn out of rock, a towering T-shaped taula reminding us of Stonehenge, and a tall stone built talaiot we climbed to the top of for an overall view of the ancient village. I wont say I was hooked but admit to being mighty impressed at the accomplishments of those ancient people of around 1500 BC who, with primitive tools, constructed such an inspiring place. But equally memorable, on a scorching hot day, were two cans of cold Fanta from the gate-keeper's hut - one on the way in and the other on the way out.

How did they lift that great stone up there? Another taula with my wonderful partner giving an idea of scale

      During a long, hot 12 mile walk we visited two more ancient sites that day, an early Christian basilica that looked more like a half built barn of steel girders, and the fine Talaiot de Torello which was inaccessible other than by a death defying climb over a high stone stile with narrow steps and rather a large drop off the last one. Oddly, it gave a list of opening hours which I took to be for the benefit of anyone who could climb to 'Severe' standard.

The fortress of Talaiot de Torello

      For me, the most mind blowing features of sites we visited were the colossal taulas (Catalan word meaning table), Stonehenge type megaliths with horizontal flat stones of enormous weight balanced on tall upright plinths reaching nearly 4 metres high. No-one really knows the significance of these structures, maybe they were built for religious, astronomical or healing functions. One theory, based on finding a bronze bull figurine in one of the sites - an animal revered and possibly worshipped by those people - is that taulas represent the horns and face of a bull, on a grand scale. Being born under Taurus, I'll go with that.

The marina at Cuitidella, old capital of Menorca

      Ever restless, my wonderful partner planned other days visiting deep harbours, fusty museums, the incredible Fort Marlborough, convents and cathedrals in the beautiful cities of Mahon (think mayonnaise) and Ciutidella. I tagged along, between times poking my nose into dozens of likely looking shops in a vain search for a plain plaited leather neckband thingy I'd rarely ever wear but which would always remind me of everything Menorcan.

At Cala de Rafalet - a favourite place

More infrequently, we slowed down sufficiently to enjoy the odd cappuccino while watching the world go by. And I recall once (because it was the only time) we loitered long enough in Ciutidella for an al fresco meal and glass of house wine that robbed our wallets of 10 hard earned euros - each.  By gum, we'd think twice about that back in Yorkshire!

....and Happy Hour back at the Xuroy

      The Xuroy, a family run hotel, is only open from May to October and it's apparent the other six months are spent renovating and decorating. Everything and everywhere is in pristine condition. Like all other buildings in Alcaufar (and in most of the island) all walls are painted white. So much so we wondered if there was a grant for this? The walls of our west facing balcony did not escape and such was the reflected heat during our first week we couldn't bear to sit out until sundown.

On the rocks at Cala de Rafalet

      Along with two other couples who'd arrived from Cardiff the same Friday as us, we were the first arrivals of the year. Not many faces to remember. Three days later another 40 people arrived, including a couple we'd met last year. By Wednesday the place was heaving and sunbeds round the pool were suddenly at a premium as 'whities' became intent on scorching tender parts of their skin into some amusing patterns. My wonderful partner lingered just long enough to sort out the next expedition from guide books, leaflets and maps before leading me away to another heap of ruins. Fortunately, there were no topless ladies.

Starting a morning run but, being 83, I've forgotten where to!

      Seriously, I enjoyed every minute on the island and would return tomorrow if I could. But not so much the long journey home that was tinged with sadness - and other negative emotions. Starting our flight as the sun gouged into the western horizon, all the young kids and babies who formed half the passengers (or so it seemed) burst into unanimous shouting and screaming the like of which we'd never heard on a plane before. And just when I needed it most, my mp3 player gave up the ghost. In good old Manchester my wonderful partner's luggage took 50 minutes to arrive on the carousel, so it was well after midnight when two very tired people sat down for a much needed cup of tea. Next time we fly with Thomson's we might ask for a passenger list and get the times of tea breaks for baggage handlers.......

Sunset, and the start of our flight home

   I can't wait to go back again.

Ah well, I can still dream......

My physio (aka The Magician) has told me to rest, the implication being no more running until my offending Achilles tendon is completely pain-free. So what better to do than put my feet up, close my eyes and daydream of running barefoot along this beautiful shell sand beach on the island of Harris in the Outer Hebrides, lulled by the gentle sush of the sea on a braw summer day....

Luskentyre    (Click to enlarge)

Some June Day

We will drive there some June day

To the furthest place west where the shell sand

Stretches in white miles till it turns to sky.

You'll take off your shoes and splash the shallows,

Joy in the flickering of fish, the dance of crabs;

You'll take my hand and tell me we should run

Fast as we can, fast till we lose our breath. And I

    believing

Will run with you, will laugh too, because of this -

The summer and the blue, the sudden lightness of

   the world

Upon our shoulders. Slowly we'll come back, still out

   of breath,

Drive towards evening to the village for wine and

   shellfish - 

Soft salty lips of the Atlantic -

As a huge orange moon

Peels piece by piece across the sea.

                                        Kenneth Steven 

And an appropriate piece of music; 'Wave after Wave' sung by Joanne Hogg from the album 'Open Sky' by Iona.

       - Music in every sound
         Light beyond each cloud
         Hope in every dream...... 

Woe is me.....

.....for I've been and gone and done it - again.  Friday was such a beautiful morning, dawning crisp and clear, I couldn't resist the temptation to go for a run.  I should have known better for even as I came downstairs a slight twinge in my Rt Achilles indicated things weren't as they should be. Maybe it will go off when I run, I foolishly thought to myself over a cup of coffee. At 6.05am I locked the door and was greeted by a blazing sunrise as I stepped into the lane. Out came the camera for the first unscheduled interruption. A couple hundred yards along the road and I was in some discomfort so turned into the cricket field to decide what to do. Well, take another photograph for starters, looking across to my house which I'd never before seen silhouetted against a sunrise. It had to be recorded.

 I'd never seen my house at sunrise before, not in 37 years! (Click to enlarge)

 I limped back onto the main road and instead of doing the sensible thing, like turning left to walk back home, turned right and jogged towards Castle Hill. The pain, in my Achilles just above the heel, was bearable if it didn't get worse. But I wasn't running smoothly. My Lt leg was doing most of the work whilst the Rt was being half dragged along. On reaching the summit I made an effort to run normally while passing one of the regular dog walkers but ran a different circuit to avoid seeimg her again when I could no longer keep up the pretence. After 4 miles I'd had enough. The pain was much worse than when I'd set off.

Hum, which one shall I read?

After breakfast I set off to walk two miles into town for some necessary shopping but my offending tendon had other ideas and would only allow me to hobble as far as the nearest bus stop.  So it looks like I'm being forced to rest, which doesn't go down very well at all. There's nothing worse than a runner who can't run! Besides, I'll have nothing to blog about. Ah well, I'll just have to hope it's sunny enough during the day to lie in the garden and soak up some healing ultra-violet, then bury my nose in a good running book at night.
Now, there's another problem, which of the many books?

Or I can sit and watch the birds.....

Lastly, as most people know, I love music, but in most cases the words or tune must have been rolling around in my mind for quite some time before it's real meaning starts to register. This morning I heard one that my brain resonated with from the word go - even though I don't understand the words.  A Facebook friend, Julia Chi Taylor, uses it as an alarm to get her out of bed in the morning. I'd be more inclined to lie awake enraptured by it, then happily fall asleep again. Click here to listen to the beautiful Gayatri Mantra, and enjoy.. 

Gone quietus.....

A rare glance at my biorhythm chart today told me I've been on this planet for an astounding 30,280 days. It prompted me to work out another couple of facts, i.e. how many of those days have I actually been able to call myself a runner, and how many miles have I run since I began in April/86?  The answers were equally astounding; 10,590 days and 37,828 miles - an average of 3.57 miles per day. For 29 years.  Someone recently asked "What would be your number one tip or piece of advice to give to a new runner?" I answered in just one word - Consistency.
The above figures should prove my point.

Where skylarks sing, by the sparkling dam at Cupola Corner

Somehow, last Saturday, I managed to pick up a niggling little ankle injury as I ran back over Bycliffe Hill during an eight mile run. So I've been limping a bit. And moaning a lot. Sunday was an appalling day weatherwise, so I may not have run in that stuff anyway, and today I'd to attend the funeral of a close neighbour - Iwan (John) Sinicki, a grand old man who, in spite of living through a disrupted childhood, then the horrors of a war-torn Poland, lived to the ripe old age of 93.

I hadn't intended limping along to the cemetery for the committal, after a service in Almondbury Methodist Church, but finished up following the procession a quarter of a mile or so to the grave side, and was glad I did. It was a warm Spring day. The sun shone bountifully and during the 'dust to dust', as flowers were strewn into his open grave, a song thrush sang and a blackbird briefly joined in too, adding a touch of sweetness to the dark suited solemnity.
I'd like to think they miss him too.

R.I.P

Now that John has departed only nine people remain in our little block of houses below Castle Hill, and I'm now promoted to eldest - which is a little worrying. Might be time to start writing a few notes to spice up my Eulogy.....

A very Happy Easter......

Easter didn't really begin until the day of resurrection. On Maundy Thursday I'd been prescribed yet another nasty concoction of anti-biotics, peppermint oil, Loperamide and lactulose for my troublesome nether regions, so for three days the farthest I moved was the 20m or so from my rocking chair to the loo, at a speed dependent upon the urgency of the event. All very boring.

Grimwith reservoir......

The Easter morning communion service, followed by a pint of strong Italian coffee, seemed to recharge my batteries for an hour or two. Come 11am I was donning appropriate running gear for a wild 9 mile run by rocks, heather and bog to suss out yet another of my wonderful partner's planned walking routes to slot into her U3A schedule later this year.

Dodging the treacherous sphagnum swamps across Wolfrey Moss

 The first two miles, although uphill, were relatively easy, following a rough Land Rover track from Grimwith reservoir, over Appletreewick Moor, past purpose built shooting butts to the boggy heights beyond. From there on running was somewhat stop/start as we zig-zagged through treacherous sphagnum moss swamps, clambered over rocks and fought our way through knee-high heather to the crag at Great Wolfrey.

Climbing and bouldering at Great Wolfrey......(Click to enlarge)

 On past visits to this crag we've never encountered another living soul, so were somewhat surprised to hear voices as we approached. Half a dozen climbers were honing their skills on a vertical wall, or bouldering on a lesser crag with a huge safety mat spread out below. Most were somewhat uncommunicative but a more social one invited us to 'come and have a go'. We politely declined!

Leaving Wolfrey our next problem was how to cross the rocky moorland stream that cascades down Gate Up Gill. We tried several places but the rocks were either too slimy or too far apart. In the end we opted to reach the other side by a sort of hanging barrier that swung about a bit but was quite good fun.

Looking for a way over Gate Up Gill......

 During a bite to eat below the shooting hut at Bullfront Moss we decided to abort the crossing of Goody Stones Moss and Sleet Moor to retrace our steps across the swinging barrier to follow Gate Up Gill down to Grimwith where we'd left the car. It shortened our route by 1½ miles. It wasn't that we were tired but because my next dose of medication was due at 2pm and I had to get home in time for that.  Running the full 9 miles would have taken us over the limit.

The solution, a swinging barrier......(Click to Enlarge)

 A 'keek, keek, keek' alerted us to a pair of peregrines mobbing a buzzard by a gaunt old building lower down the ghyll where we suspected the peregrines were nesting. It was a joy to watch them scything the air on swept back wings. Crossing the dam at Grimwith I'd found myself a little way ahead of my wonderful partner and in spite of my internal problems still managed to break forth into song ('Power of Love') in the beautiful surroundings.

Running along Tinker Lane on a misty Monday morning......

Easter Monday dawned grey and misty. My nether regions were playing up again so I opted for a wild run on my own where there was little chance of meeting any holiday hikers to witness impromptu loo stops! Thankfully there weren't any - loo stops or hikers - as I relaxed into an easy lope along Tinker Lane where brief flashes of sunlight through the mist transformed farm buildings into oil paintings. Dropping into Hebden Ghyll the mist suddenly cleared and I felt the sun's power on exposed bits of my anatomy as I ran for home under a vivid blue sky.

High Garnshaw farm - an oil painting in the mist on Tinker Lane......

 Every Easter Monday Hebden Methodist Church put on catering in the Village Institute to raise funds for chapel maintenance. We went along for lunch and were treated to some of the most delicious spicy vegetable soup we'd ever tasted.  It was more of a stew, very nutritious, and just what we needed to replenish calories we'd burnt off on our individual runs. Thankyou Margaret. The carrot cake was very good too. All of it!

Big Booth -  Alasdair in relaxed mood.....

 Tuesday marked a rare visit from Alasdair, my eldest son, he of the Adonis body who weighs exactly half as much again as his marathon running dad. With his eagle eyes he'd come to help us locate the illusive ring ouzels, once common throughout Hebden Ghyll. So common, in fact, that a book was written about them by an ornithologist called Ian Appleyard who for many years spent lonely vigils recording and photographing their nests and activities.

Pewit's nest by Grimwith reservoir......

 Such is my son's incredible eyesight that we'd barely left the house before he spotted a wren's nest neatly woven into a clump of flowers hanging from a wall. In ten miles of walking we sighted a total of 38 different species which, lest I forget, are listed here:
Wheatear, meadow pipit, dunnock, Wren, grey wagtail, pied wagtail, curlew, lapwing, buzzard, skylark, golden plover, house sparrow, robin, chaffinch, mallard, redpoll, greylag geese, Canada geese, redshank, ringed plover, oystercatcher, teal, wigeon, jackdaw, song thrush, blue tit, great tit, long tailed tit, blackbird, reed bunting, greenfinch, wood pigeon, pheasant, red legged partridge, black headed gulls, starlings, red grouse. Last of all, joy of joys, we managed to find a solitary ring ouzel in a rocky area of the ghyll where they've previously been known to nest. It flew away and though we hung around for a while, it didn't return. But we'd watched it long enough to get a clear view of it's white gorget that distinguishes the species. So thanks Alasdair, without your help we wouldn't have seen a quarter of the birds you found for us, especially the ouzel. You can come again....

Early morning light at Castle Hill......

 On Wednesday I returned to my town residence where, unusually for me, I spent most of the day resting and completing my course of anti-biotics.  On Thursday I awoke at 5.45am raring to go. The Easter activities must have done me good for I reached Castle Hill in quick time - quicker than a group of runners from 'Total Fitness' who were being shouted at by their instructor who'd ridden up on a bike!  I was on another of my so-called progression runs, each of the five miles faster than the previous one. For a recovering patient it didn't go too badly with a 12.02, 11.28, 9.42, 9.39 and a nice 8.40 to finish. I was happy with that. It rounded off our Easter activities very nicely. Roll on May Bank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lambs enjoying the sun on appropriately called Sunday...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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