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| Some friends join me on a run.... |
So I set out on a run along some familiar paths, kitted out in my trusty Brookes off road training shoes, with a bottle of water and a power gel just in case I get too lost, to venture over the hill to Whitchurch and back.
My first steps are tentative as I make my way along a tight country road, there's no pavement so I'm already running on the crumbling edge of the broken tarmac next to the grass verge against the traffic ensuring that any oncoming vehicles are aware of my presence on what is their domain.
Before I turn off onto the much anticipated footpaths I have to navigate a crossroads, once again I'm having to apply the basic road skills I was taught by my mother some fifty or so years ago.
The day is warm and the sun is still low in the sky as I make my way out before the predicted heat. The hedgerows are filled with ripening blackberries which look all too tempting, but no time to stop, not yet at least.
Just before I turn from the road I say a quick hello to a group of cyclist who are also making the most of this late summer weather. Its funny that had I met that same group walking down the High Street of the local town we would have passed by our heads down without an acknowledgement that either existed. But out here in nature we are at peace and have time to wave even during exercise.
At the footpath sign I turn left, over a rickety bridge, ducking the brambles their thorns like tiny hands seem intent on keeping my cap, I slow to make sure its still firmly on my head with memories back to my first school days where caps were mandatory (it wasn't posh by any means just stuck in the past).
The path is dry, we've had hardly any rain in Buckinghamshire for at least six weeks, I keep a close eye on the ground to avoid the cracks, some hidden under the fresh cut hay, waiting to snare me like a unfortunate rabbit set for the pot.
A stile awaits as I cross the field of spiky stubble left by the gigantic combined harvester that I'd seen a few weeks before, the yellow monster stripping the heads of wheat or corn like a hungry dinosaur that fascinated me as a child.
I'm keeping up a good pace not wanting to drop from the 5 min per kilometer benchmark I'd set myself before setting out, although the stile takes up some precious time as I make my way up and over it searching for the signpost as I slow to reset my bearings as the path opens up towards an upcoming hill.
Overhead five crows or they could be rooks defend their territory from a wheeling Red Kite, the six of them dogfight in the clear blue sky. The black birds seem tiny compared to the kite but it's their numbers and persistence that sees off the intruder.
The birds remind me of humanity wanting to keep the status quo, the crows intent to maintain their land against the recently released kites, not seen in these parts for many a year, if ever. Why is it we want to exclude, alienate and ostracise those who are different... Fear I guess, fear of the unknown, fear of losing out, fear of not enough.
I've taken a wrong turn, I had intended to follow the 'Aylesbury Ring' until the main road at Hardwick but instead I'm running across a recently ploughed field, thankfully it's not too muddy, the clods that could have stuck to my feet are hard as rocks but it still makes the going all the more slower.
I come to a gate, thankfully not locked but the latch is complicated and once again I'm frustrated that I'm losing precious seconds as I fiddle with the rusty clasp ensuring that it's fully in the position I found it before running on with a little more venom to gain the lost time.
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| a view up to Whitchurch |
This path was a well worn out route for an afternoon stole with Maz and the boys but its a walk with two of my youngest boys that fills my head, being chased by some cows and my middle son threatening to return home the way we'd come rather than running the gauntlet between the black and white beasts.
Up Mill Lane, at least its a tarred road, and one that I also know well. When the boys were young we'd race a homemade go cart down this steep hill, accidents were common but its the memory of my nephew careering into the stinging nettles that most reminds me of times gone by.
As I near the top I see the grassy hill that once supported a great castle, Oliver Cromwell put pay to its existence, however the surrounding houses were built from its rocky remains so everything was recycled even back then.
The castle mound was the scene of another of my runs, probably the last time I'd actually run around this part of Whitchurch, way back in the late 1980's as a young married man I managed to hold off all comers in the annual May Day race. The event couldn't have been more than a couple of kilometres long but I remember with fondness that I beat the local vicar and his eldest son who were great sportsmen in their day.
I head uphill towards our old family home, we moved into that house just a week after we were married in 1988, a home that had belonged to Maz' grandparents, her father remembers seeing the skies filled with bombers setting off to the battles of World War Two as he stood in the garden in awe of the power and might of those enormous machines.
The house was our home, our fortress, myself, Maz and our three boys, a fortress yes but with an open door and a friendly smile. The cul de sac road had claimed many a fall, off of bikes or skateboards or a trip when chasing a ball. It's a home that shaped us, dreams were shared and plans set for our futures many achieved but still some to come.
The top of the hill was a welcome sight, past the surgery where I'd been advised to leave in haste to the hospital in 2001 was a life threatening lung infection. I could hardly walk the 200 metres from my home to the doctors then but now over 8 kilometers into my run I pass with renewed breath knowing that some flat sections were coming with views across the Vale.
Turning into Oving and past the recreation ground, memories flood in again as I recall a headed goal I scored down the far end in the last minute of a match against the mighty team from CBS records, or pacing the touchline as the player manager hoping that our hodge podge of a team could hold on to a win against our rivals, Quainton, in the Oving Villages Cup.
I spent hours mowing the football pitch to transform it for us locals to play a fun games of cricket in the summer months, each player bowling two overs and having a bat no matter their skill to ensure everyone felt like they'd had a game. It was also the venue of my fiftieth birthday celebrations a couple of years ago, good times now long gone.
Has the spring and summer of my youth passed me by I think as I run under chestnut trees with the conkers ready to burst in the autumn sunlight, I can still run but the days of playing competitive football and cricket have long past, my skills and reflexes wilting and fading like the once green leaves that fall around me.
Down hill yippee, I can now make up some lost time, into the 4.20's I fly, I'm amazed at how my body is able to maintain a pace that two years ago would have seen me gasping for air after a few hundred meters.
After that short road section I'm back into footpaths, a stile, then bridge and stile greet me and then to my wonder a whole field of sheep, but these sheep weren't the type to run off bleating in all directions away from me, no there are more inquisitive and end up chasing after me, I feel like the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
I managed to make it to the gate, the herd of manic sheep still on my tail, although they'd lost theirs and in their place their ears bore a unique number. I couldn't help feel sorry for these precious animals and told them so as I knew of their plight and method of death, a sort of macabre production line where they would end up butchered, packaged, prepped then roasted, carved and cut up to be accompanied with the traditional mint sauce as to provide a mouthful of momentary pleasure to another animal who you'd think would have more sense than to take the life of another.
Through North Marston and past the church, once the third most visited during the day's of pilgrimage I heard, nowadays the well worn paths of pilgrimage tend to be the endless motorways leading to the out of town shopping centres and onwards towards shiney things and further into debt. These modern day pilgrims then spend so much time working to keep the whole system spinning paying off the debt which gives little or no time to enjoy a morning run or walk with family and friends which provide fonder and more lasting memories, at least that's what I think.
The village is eerily silent as I run down the main street, past the pub, a scene of much fun and hilarity the night before but now shut, it's inhabitants and those around taking time to recover before the doors open to welcome the Saturday lunchtime crowd who no doubt will be propping up the bar in a few hours time.
Two women on horseback come trotting towards me, I hope that they've seen me in my bright pink top which if they had taken the time would have informed them that I'd completed the Winelands Marathon in Stellenbosch last November but I don't think they noticed however they saw me and I wave to acknowledge saying a quick hello to the two horses who although sweating even more than I seem to be enjoying their time out.
Now I have one last choice, up and over Quainton hill, which will be a test but might be slightly shorter or carry on down Carter's Lane, an ancient Roman road tis said? My choice is made, I'll follow this well trod path, along begone footsteps of other intruders such as the red kite I'd seen earlier and save the hill for another day.
What have the Romans ever done for us? well they'd at least left a faster straight if not slightly longer route home for this weary runner who's pace was now under that 5 minute per kilometre pace that was the target before I'd set out.
Turning right and up and over a short rise I could see our van parked behind some stables not far off across a couple of fields. My run was nearing its end but I still had to navigate over two cattle grids, obviously designed to keep cattle from straying and providing just enough trouble for a worn out runner so I tip toe over ensuring I don't slip as I have in the past into the metal trap which caused such pain before.
And so it's with a spring in my step and a final swig of water to ensure my body stays hydrated as I bound towards the finish, stop the watch 10 miles in under one hour 18 minutes, pick a few of those oh so tempting berries before a few stretches, a shower and breakfast await. The rest of the day is filled with the knowledge of a well accomplished run which had stimulated memories of yesteryear. How many more I will run is yet unknown but I've enjoyed today and that memory will live on.
