Race Day

Summer’s here, and with it comes fell racing season. All over the north bunches of enthusiasts scamper updownroundacross rough ground.  Very often on a midweek evening after work, then both days at the weekend. None of these events can work though without another bunch of enthusiasts behind the scenes.  Usually Read more…

Spring: run

A prologue, of sorts. In these interesting times, a vignette of memory from a couple of years ago. It would be wonderful to be as full of love and laughter as those two ladies who shared a good few years of life well lived. spacer Spring. Blackthorn in flower and Read more…

Solstice

spacer Northern winter; at the turning of the year.  At the turning of nature’s year, not the turning of our human year.  Mistchill and windwhip swirl around the fell and valley blurring sound and sight.  Reminders this place of aeons old fort and ritual may be within Sheffield’s city bounds, Read more…

Spring Dreaming

April, the clocks have shifted.  The weather is warming, feeling a little more friendly.  Buds are bursting and the world is greening.  Time to ramp things up, to remember dreams of long laid plans.  Perhaps finesse them, perhaps make some more. Time now for long days over the hills; days Read more…

As The Driven Snow… a winter run

“The wood, under a winter storm.  A time when all creatures thought of good sense seek shelter of burrow or nest.  There remains though, dancing through the tempest,  a runner, chill of finger, wet of foot, wide of grin.”

Desk work day done.  Storms are building, both ADHD and weather.

So.  Night run.  Winter night run.

Headtorch, leggings and lifa, hardshell and hat.  Lock my door with glove clumsied fingers, quick step up the ginnel.  Grin growing on my face.  Couple of hundred metres of sleet slick pavement ‘twixt house and wood.  Most times a skippy dog walker dodging warmup, tonight it’s a lone stroll, chilling fingers and feet. 

The wood.  My local patch, a bright place of birch and willow and hawthorn hedge. Not this night though. This night it’s a wildwood waiting. Tonight the gate is a liminal space, a creaking transit from blandly civilised suburbia into an older place.  Into a dark wood galethrashed and sleetlashed.

Step through into the wood anyway.  Go, now. Go run.  

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