3 posts from November 2009

Sunrise Humbledon Hill

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Well done to Glen for organising a one-off race up Humbledon Hill on Saturday. A select group of runners; some local some from further a field braved the chill day to tackle the ascent of the hill. Good to see a few junior runners too. I was sorry to miss the race as I was involved in the Christmas Fair, however I managed to run earlier in the day. It was a frosty start with mist lingering in the valley. Despite the grouse telling me to "Go Back, Go Back", and the temptation of toast and tea I happily ran a 7 mile circuit. There were various other groups of runners out and about at Chillingham and in the hills.

On Sunday the second Border Cross Country race was held at Lauder, hopefully Adam will have some good stories to relate. Early reports tell of sleet, rain, mud and more mud..... 

Stones and sunburst

A fine morning dawned, cold, but sunny, ideal for running. I got dropped off at West Newton with the intention of following where my feet lead me, eventually returning to Wooler. An easy jog to begin along the track past The Straw, where the dogs gave their usually serenade of wild barking. Initial route choice was determined largely by avoidance of frisky looking cattle, probably quite benign, but as we all know more injuries occur from encounters with cows than with sharks; especially amongst fell runners.

As I approached the two stones on the shoulder of White Hill I saw the outline of a familiar figure, it was indeed Old Geordie Rumfella of the College Valley. He shook his head gently as I ran up to him, perhaps he seemed a little thinner than earlier in the year, but there was still that vital spark in his eyes that softened the lines on his face. "First frost" I called out by way of greeting. " Aye, Bonnie Lass" he assented " Its a lazy wind too, it'll nowt go round you, but straight thro' ". We both adjusted our headgear, mine a dove grey, fleece beanie with pale pink trim, his a woollen cap of indeterminate colour that had possibly once been green. We stood and gazed across at the mass of cloud on Cheviot, the sun pouring over Newton Tors warming us a little. I sneezed. Old Geordie rummaged in his surprising and capacious pocket and produced a hankerchief. As he untangled it from a piece of baler twine, two acorns on a twig and a feather, I noticed it was a large, originally white square of cotton with a letter G embroidered in navy on one corner. I had a sudden memory of my grandfather offering me the comfort of a similiar hankerchief many years ago.

I patted my nose with the proferred hankerchief. " Keep it lassie, keep it" said Old Geordie with a smile. "I'll bring it back" I promised. I trotted off down the hill towards Hethpool, turning once to wave the pale flag of the cloth in farewell. Then I carefully stowed it in my bumbag for the run home. I couldn't tell him I have no need of a hankerchief when running. I have now perfected the art of using a sleeve, a glove and the "one finger on one nostril, blast it out of the other" technique.

The sun continued to shine as I paced my way home to launder and iron Geordie's hankie.

Trossachs scenery

Just returned from a delightful if damp week in the Trossachs. I waited patiently for a clear day for a long run in the hills, finally deciding just to go for it despite low cloud. I got dropped off at Ledard Farm by Loch Ard whilst the boys continued to play golf at Aberfoyle. The initial ascent to Ben Venue was muddy but scenic, the path wending upwards past waterfalls through golden forest. I was surprised to see two runners slowly descending and stopped for a chat. One of the lads had an impressive amount of blood spurting out of a hole in his knee, I at once adopted Ray Mears mode and offered to find sphagnum moss to staunch the flow. This was declined as was the offer of a pain killing poultice made from stag droppings and a rare hallucinogenic lichen known only to myself, Ray and a few old hippies.The injured runner claimed he would be alright and seek conventional medical help later. " Ah yes" we agreed  "Hard men can hop through the pain"

Onwards and upwards with the chance of views fast disappearing as the mist rolled in. I chanced upon a couple of feral goats moodily gazing down at Loch Katrine, not at all disturbed by my presence. The summit of Ben Venue was veiled in thick clag, only able to tell I had reached the top by the absence of anything higher to climb. I then descended to the col and left the path to follow an old fence line to Creag a Bhealaich before picking up another fence along the ridge of Beinn an Fhohharadh. Although an invaluable handrail I had forgotten that these old fences go straight through lochans and bogs, so it was a tough battle with tussock and peat hags. How grand though to be moving through a wilderness with red deer for company. time to think, time to be.

Finally I descended from the cloud to Aberfoyle, jogged to the golf course and tucked into sandwiches kindly left by the golfers with gusto. More joy..