New Year's Eve and the snow is falling, though we are getting blase about such wintry conditions. Jack and I set out to Humbledon Hill with our sledges, checking out every hill en route to the prize descent of Humbledon Hill. I have a brand new red sledge which Jack gave me for Christmas, it is my pride and joy. I try to convince him that red sledges are faster than blue, he denies this and is in fact proved right on the exhilarating ride down the slopes.
Happy New Year
Thanks to Chrys and Kenny for organising a great Christmas training session on Tuesday night. Chrys had managed to find somewhere not too icy and very safe to do sprint reps; the hidden molehills proved entertaining, especially when Coach Chrys took a tumble into the snow. Unfortunately the frosty conditions meant some folk couldn't make it as they were snowed in.
Kenny had arranged for hot mince pies and mulled wine at the clubhouse, enjoyed by all as we dried out by the fire. Entertainment was provided by Sarah who arrived to show everyone her bruised and bulging leg....fascinating. Plenty of remedies were suggested with Sarah favouring rest and consumption of mulled wine.
Happy Christmas everyone, training as usual on the 29th.
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Nat, Dolly and I meet at 7am, its dark and frosty. We steadily pick our way between patches of ice through the silent streets of Wooler and up into the hills. No sign of vehicles at the Duck Ponds, we decide that the Bracken Babes have probably stayed in bed instead of braving the chilly hills. Its a slow paced run, we are cautious on the slippery ground after Sarah's dramatic fall last weekend. The ever changing colours of her knee to thigh bruise have provided the main topic of conversation lately. The anticipation of Sarah appearing and dropping her trousers to show off her injury has kept many of us on edge all week.
All three of us do fall during the outing today, but luckily sustain no more harm than the denting our pride. The wind is bitter cutting through our many layers, but the glorious sunrise warms our souls. As we return along St Cuthbert's Way we spy more runners; of course it is those Bracken Babes frisking along having breakfasted on mince pies and coffee at the hillfort by Harehope Hill. Now why didn't we think of that...
Sounds like its been pretty busy in the hills this weekend, all sorts of strange folk running in the mist on Saturday and a record breaking attendance at the Simonside Fell Race on Sunday.
Sympathy and cake needed for Sarah who slipped on icy ground, mid-conversation, on the slopes of Harehope and now has a bruise the size of a melon (watermelon mind, not a smaller variety) on her thigh.
Congratulations to the 6 valiant runners, Kenny, Nixdown, Ronaldo, Jack, Glen and Adam who all did extremely well at Simonside. Hoping Adam might tell us what its like to be a hero, leading the field, 2nd runner to cross the line, in a wooler vest, wow.... what must that feel like??.....haven't the foggiest.
]]>Wednesday morning dawns and I'm sure I'm getting a cold, but I'm not at work and its a frosty, clear December morning so I have to run.
I start at Kilham, hard to believe this was once a bustling community of 200 with a smithy, bakery, and joinery. Today its quiet and deserted as I set off along the disused railway line that runs parallel to the Bowmont Water. Its a gentle introduction, which is just what my reluctant body needs before the climb up Kilham Hill.I cross the lower fields, the sheep pause in their grazing to stare at me and the crows rise in a raggedy flurry their raucous calls bleak in the still, cold air.
A steady plod up to the summit cairn, the sunlight is glowing over the Newton Tors bringing a welcome warmth. To the north and west is Scotland and to the south the familiar bulk of the Cheviot. I continue along the undulating ridge to Longknowe Hill, the distinctive gap in the wall is clearly defined against the clear sky. As I reach the summit I realise I am not alone; a bulky figure leans on the trigpoint. It is Old Geordie Rumfella of the College Valley well muffled in a grey woollen scarf contemplating the hills and settlements below.
" I'm glad to see you " I say reaching into my bumbag for the neat square of hankerchief that belongs to him "I have been carrying this around for a while to return to you." Old Geordie turns, his wrinkled brown face breaking into a smile, then he frowns and looks at me shrewdly " What's up Bonnie Lass?" he asks his voice warm with concern. " I've not been sleeping so good " I reply, " I'm worried about the ones I love." He is silent for a while still gazing at the surrounding landscape, " Can you heal if you are sick?" he offers "Can you give solace if you are raging within? Rediscover joy again; for the grass will keep growing and the wind will still blow whatever we do." He gently folds my fingers around the now crumpled hankerchief with his rough weatherbeaten hand. " Ye best keep this now Bonnie Lass" he murmurs " there is comfort in these hills". I leave him standing by the wall tinkering with that smelly old pipe of his and weave my way across the hillside towards Ring Chesters.
On the fast valley road down from Ewartly Shank I pay heed to his words and my feet strike out a rhythmic chant "Hope, hope, hope...."
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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.....
]]>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.
]]>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..
]]>No one told me there were midges in Yorkshire, I was under the false impression that they stopped at Hadrians Wall. We set up camp at Keld on the upper reaches of Swaledale. The damp grass, muggy weather and sweet northern flesh proved irresistible to swarms of the pesky wee flies. In true British family holiday spirit we set about enjoying ourselves. To deter the midges we had blazing campfires and kippered ourselves in the smoke whilst chewing on blackened molten marshmallows.
Enjoyed a couple of grand runs. The first, a gradually ascending ridge run from the golf course at Sedburgh up to Calf Top, empty purple hills, far reaching views and not a soul in sight, wonderful. The lads had an excellent round of golf too, so happy (if smudgy) holiday faces.
The second, a run up the not-so-quiet Pen-y-ghent from Helwith Bridge. I left the lads fishing for trout for tea and set off initially alone. Unfortunately I encountered several groups of walkers on the final steep climb to the summit, so had to keep running up seemingly endless stone steps, smiling and responding heartily to words of encouragement. I'm not sure I gave a good impression of fell runners as I puffed along, mucky, pink face flecked with sticky marshmallow and trailing a heady aroma of woodsmoke and sweat. The lads caught two huge rainbow trout, so it was all smiles and singing on the way back up Ribblesdale....until the engine nearly dropped out of the car, but that is another story.
]]>It was about time I got on my mountain bike again, so to break myself in gently I cycled from Wooler to Hethpool and along the College Valley. Not exactly off-road, but a delight to be peddling on peaceful lanes past hedgerows bright with scarlet poppies. The route up the valley is undulating and quietly challenging, I thought about the account I had read by Margaret Dag of her childhood at Dunsdale in the 1940's. If they needed anything from Wooler, she and her sister would cycle the 13 miles there and 13 miles back sharing the one bike (no doubt not one with18 gears and without the benefit of padded shorts)....they must have been made of stern stuff those country girls.
As I approached the Cuddy Stone Hall I stopped at the Memorial which commemorates the airmen lost in plane crashes in the Cheviots. There was a tell-tale plume of blue smoke rising from inside the stell and indeed when I entered the enclosure Old Geordie Rumfella of the College Valley was seated on one of the benches puffing on his pipe and gazing up at the dark bulk of Cheviot. I sat next to him thinking about the broken carcasses of aircraft I had seen on the Cheviot plateau and the gravestones of young airmen at Kirknewton. " Just think those peaceful hills causing death" I mused. Old Geordie shook his head " Its not the hills, Bonny Lass, its us and our wars. You think we would've learnt by now, and yet its still happening today." I glanced across at him as a tear trickled down his wrinkled weather-beaten cheek, I lightly touched the rough cloth of his sleeve and left. There was a brisk breeze blowing from Mounthooley, stinging my eyes, I wiped them and turned my bike towards Southern Knowe.
Following the Lambden Burn up to Goldscleugh, glad to feel my legs working and the sun on my back, glad to be alive. Along the flank of Cheviot below Bizzle Crags. Off road at last, ascending track and path between Preston Hill and Broadhope. Cursing to myself about my lack of expertise as I skidded and wobbled on rough ground, giggling wildly as I catapaulted myself over the handle bars, luckily into soft bog. Easier stretch homeward from Broadstruther with only Hells Path as a wee sting in the tail. Not sure I'll ever get the hang of this biking lark....
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