Village Cricket

I don't know how English I feel. I know that of my four grandparents three were English and one was Irish. I also know that I was born and lived the first few years in South London before spending a formative part of my childhood on the Welsh-English border. Most of the rest of the time I have lived in London or the Home Counties. So that's it , easy, not only English but Southern English – the most complacent of the breed.

But I don't really think of it like that. Mostly I don't think about it at all and this is probably quite typical. The issues of identity can be both complex and contradictory I also have a strong distrust of overt nationalism and prefer to look at the specifics of a person rather than the generalities of a people. Nevertheless there are images of Englishness I carry round in my head, some of which I find quite comforting. A surprising number come from the Nineteenth Century but increasingly they have little to do with the society I live in.

I was thinking about this when watching the Olympics. Seeing the competitors cry on winning or with the disappointment of losing or seeing them jump about to celebrate how brilliant they had been. Long gone is the emotionally inhibited gentleman who would greet victory with a quick 'good show' or 'that was not bad' and think it a bit unseemly to exalt too much in ones own success.

This might very well be a good thing. Too much emotional repression is probably not a good thing and understated language can lead to misunderstanding. (There is a dramatic example from the Korean War when an English Brigadier reported to his American superior that 'things were a bit sticky', meaning desperate but was interpreted by the American as saying things were not too bad. As a result neither reinforcements were sent nor was there any order to withdraw). Nevertheless I have a fondness for people quietly and calmly getting on with the job of being excellent and so savoured the answer of Tim Brabants, the gold medal winning canoeist, to the question of how he could go back to just being Dr Tim. “Oh quite easily” he replied “no one will recognise me.”

My type of running is evenly modulated in that 'just-getting-on-with-it' sort of way (as long as you forget the idea of excellence). Sessions are never brilliant or disastrous, some go a little better than others, but that is all. Also I don't know what is meant by the term 'runners high'. At the end of a run I will often get feelings of immense contentment and a sense of peace but it is not euphoric and don't think see how it can be described as a high. So I think my hobby sits very well with some of my outdated ideas of a reserved Englishman.

Yesterday's run did everything to confirm this. I passed this cricket ground and loved the sound of 'willow on leather'. It felt comforting.

However one should not get too sentimental. There is a bloody great dual carriage way carrying speeding traffic just to the left of this picture. Things always move on.

Making the Most of Our own Belief Systems

I love the Olympics with its mixture of minority sports that you never think of at any other time to stories of individual heroism, or even tiny little factoids about individual competitors. For example it gives me disproportionate pleasure to know that Christine Ohuruogu is the world's fastest linguist – yes she has a linguistics degree and her final year dissertation was on swear words. That was before I saw her race and then the way she won gold just made it better.

The story that has fascinated me most is the dominance of the GB cycle team not only because it is a story of individual prowess but also because it is an example of how to create a structure and environment for success. In every aspect they have been the most organised and professional team, with full attention paid to every detail (There is a good summary of the programme for success here and a full chronology of the pathway from the shambolic to the supreme here.).

I have been particularly interested in the role of the psychiatrist Steve Peters. Most of the people who help athletes with their mental approach call themselves sports psychologists but Peters is different as his background is forensic psychiatry and he has worked at Rampton Hospital. I don't know if that makes a difference but his practice seems to be rooted in the one-to- one approach of psychiatry. He does not offers an easy formula for success; there are no tips for a quick fix, instead he works to build a foundation of understanding so the the athletes knows how their minds work. This can take 12 months and is followed by understanding how other people think and then communication.

A good article about this works with the cycling team was published in the Guardian in May. This quote gives the practical basis of his approach:

"You walk in with a belief system, ideas, behaviour that you apply to sport. Some people can do very well, but most of us aren't sure how to use the equipment. I say 'This is how your mind works, this is how you get strength in certain areas, this is how to build up on the weak points, this is the skills base you need'."

The thing is that you do not have to be Chris Hoy or Victoria Pendleton for this to be appropriate - it applies to all of us plodding along, trying to get the best from our running. We all need to know how we gain strength and ways to combat our weaknesses. The knowledge that this is a skill that can be learnt is tremendously encouraging. Similarly the underlying philosophy of the cycling set-up can encourage everybody:

Where the British cycling team has broken new ground is in taking a bottom-up, athlete-centred approach, and here Peters has been key. "The athlete has to own their own programme," he says. "They formulate what they are doing." Rather than the coach telling the cyclist how he or she should be training, the athlete is strongly encouraged to take the coach's advice and take the final decision according to rules that have been previously agreed on, with the coach viewed more as an expert adviser. Commitment, ownership, responsibility and personal excellence are the watchwords, and again the nuance is important. "We would like excellence. What we ask for is personal excellence, which is very different."

So many of the people out there running on the roads and certainly all the people who write the blogs I read have that quality. They are taking responsibility for themselves and aiming for personal excellence, with their own criteria of what excellence means . We might not have all the resources at our disposal, no team of supporting experts but by exchanging experiences we can gain strength. If someone does something that sounds good we can try to apply it ourselves. In this respect its a bit like this quote from George Sheehan:

My advice to these advisors would be. "Do not tell me what to do, tell me what you do. Do not tell me what is good for me, tell me what is good for you. If, at the same time you reveal the you in me, if you become a mirror to my inner self, then you have made a listener and a friend."

Offcuts

This looks like a do-it-yourself boat made from the offcuts thrown out by B&Q.

I would hate to make any sort of analogy with my running but 'home made and in need of constant attention to keep it together' would not be unjust.

Ah well, at least I can dream of becoming a sleeker vessel. The boat I'm afraid looks like a lost cause

Stained Glass

This is a very straightforward photograph but it shows how my current project, of using running as a way of exploring the neighbourhood, can lead to discoveries.

I have a number of stock routes and go over the same ground many times. This forces me to look more closely at the familiar, so that nothing is taken for granted. At the same time loops, diversions and the odd excursion are added so that I can find new things. The process of building-in variations is gradual but the photo is the result of it working. Instead of carrying on alongside the canal or using the bridge as a there-and-back marker, as I have done many times before, I left the canal to run a loop in the surrounding streets and immediately wondered why I had never, ever visited this place before.

It is a small hamlet called Hunton Bridge and the number of Nineteenth Century buildings suggest it developed with the coming of the canal, however the pub dates from the Fifteenth Century, so there has obviously been a settlement for a long time.

After coming up onto the street my eye was taken by this building because of the Dutch gables. It houses the Chapel Studio and so I assume it was originally built as a chapel. I liked the idea that a Nineteenth Century church would reference the buildings of another protestant country and so took the picture.

When I got home I could find nothing about the building itself, but found instead that Hunton Bridge is a conservation area, something of which I was completely unaware. Rather wonderfully the Conservation Area Appraisal, completed only last month, is available online and it gives some of the history, pictures of all the notable buildings and early maps showing the development of the settlement. How great is that?

The Chapel Studio is also interesting as it is a stained glass workshop, which carries out new designs, conservation, and restoration. It is obviously a centre of expertise and excellence as it has done work for cathedrals, the Houses of Parliament, and Oxford and Cambridge colleges - in other words national monuments. I don't know how many specialist stained glass workshops there are in the country but it gives me a good feeling to think such a place is within running distance.

It also links with a previous craft theme about the paper mills of the Charante making hand-crafted paper, in the traditional way, for the restoration of old books and documents.

I like it when things come together.

Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen

During today's run I thought about swans. Partly this was the result of the coincidence of two unrelated pieces of reading. The first was Warriorwoman describing being attacked by a swan in her blog, whilst this morning I read 'Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen' by W.B.Yeats, whose third part revolves around the imagery of a swan.

Some moralist or mythological poet
Compares the solitary soul to a swan;
I am satisfied with that,
Satisfied if a troubled mirror show it,
Before that brief gleam of its life be gone,
An image of its state;
The wings half spread for flight,
The breast thrust out in pride
Whether to play, or to ride
Those winds that clamour of approaching night.

I wasn't much concerned with the meaning of the poem, instead I pictured myself running, with my arms half spread for flight and my breast thrust out. Not a lot of pride though; I am not a prideful runner.

From this my thoughts moved to the general imagery of swans and how it was formed by their grace on the water and in flight, and the uniform white of their coat and ignores their rather grumpy, ill-tempered nature. But these thoughts did not last very long , as with all thoughts when running, they wandered off in a series of hazy relationships as if I was playing a game of Chinese whispers with myself. The next strand was about how often I see swans when I am running – not that frequently.. I then started to think of all the birds and ducks I see by or on the canal. My favourite is the heron but they are seen at their best in the early morning when the mist is still rising from the water. I make a note to try to get up earlier to see them more often. Then I start to think about sleep patterns.

So that is how it goes: I run by the water and my mind floats and bobs.

Anyway, as if on cue, some swans appeared and needed to be photographed. I reached into to my belt to get my camera and the swans obviously thought I was going to feed them as they swam towards me and waited expectantly. When they realised there was no food they both disdainfully turned their heads away - as the stanza says, they have their pride.

In the Gym

For the past week a dodgy ankle has stopped me running. Instead I have been cross-training in the gym.

I have previously mentioned my mixed feelings about gyms. The are strange mildly unsociable places where everyone is in their own bubble and there is little interaction. I am no different. I plug in my Ipod and just get on with it, but I do like to look around me. I always watch people on the treadmills and examine the variety of running styles, seeing who lands heavily (not always the heaviest runner), who is graceful, who is too tense, who is economical. Sometimes it is surprising who moves easily and sometimes I want to say something like 'your shoulders are too tense, relax your hands' but I don't, after all we are all in our bubbles and I am not sure how it would be received.

I know that people argue about whether there is such a thing as a correct style with some people insisting you should land on your forefoot, whilst others are equally adamant the the heel strike is the best way. I am equally convinced that it is a futile debate. People run in different ways because their bodies are aligned slightly differently. Yesterday, for example, I watched two people side by side. The man was a heel striker, the girl a forefoot striker but both were very fluid and easy in their style, both were relaxed, both were compact. In other words they both had good form even though the mechanics were different. The common feature was that they were both upright and did not overstride.

There is one man who amazes me. He runs intervals and pushes the speed so high he has to hang onto the bar and bend almost in double (if he didn't I am sure he would go flying off the back of the machine). His feet land with such an almighty thud the noise blots out the music I listen to. I cannot work out what he is trying to achieve, surely going too fast in such a contorted fashion cannot help you run properly

There are other people though who are inspiring. For example there is an Indian man (probably in his twenties) who is badly handicapped. He can barely control his legs to walk and can hardly speak yet he comes regularly, with his mother, to maintain, or even gain, some mobility. I don't know who I admire more, him for trying inspite of difficulties or her for her constant, and obviously loving, support. Her whole life must be dominated by the need to look after her son but you can see the pleasure in her eyes when he manages to walk a bit further or throw a ball a bit straighter. One of the members of staff is often there to help, introducing exercises to test him that little bit more, encourage him by gentle teasing, whilst his mother will follow close by to stop him falling.

When I see the three of them working in this way I know I can put my reservations about gyms to one side. They are places where good can be done

The Photothon is Dead, Long Live the Photothon

The Photothon was an arbitrary exercise of posting as many photos from runs as there are miles in a marathon. It has now been completed and theoretically I can breath a sigh of relief, free from the need to look for photos each time I run. If the task had been irksome I would probably feel like that, but I don't. The whole exercise has increased the pleasure of running and ever so slightly changed my outlook.

No longer is a run a matter of getting out for a set amount of time at a decided level of intensity. There is always a break built in, sometimes two, where I wander around looking for pictures. This has two effects: the first is recovery, which leaves me fresher and allows me to reset my rhythm for the homeward leg; the second is I have an opportunity to enjoy the landscape more fully. As a result a run becomes more of an outing and less of an effort.

I have always believed the full meaning of running comes from trying to improve proficiency whilst feeling part of the particular landscape you are in. Looking for pictures enhances the feeling of landscape, with the short break rebalancing your attitude by forcing you look outwards. In some ways I feel like Jeff Galloway when he discovered he could go further, more comfortably with walk breaks. With me I have discovered that I can make each run seem more of an event by looking for something specific to remember it by

This picture is a good example. It is on the border of woodland and arable land, dense with thistles and bracken, alive with butterflies and bees. I stood still for a period just to watch all the activity, knowing that in a few days it would not be the same.

When it was time to move-on the first few strides were a bit creaky but that soon wore off. The lift to my mood lasted a lot longer.

Photothon 26: Ozymandias

I love looking at the canal boat's names. Some are straightforward like 'Lucy Jane' others are jokey like 'Alibi' but in all cases there is a sense of people following their fancy. There is so much more freedom than in the naming a house: can you imagine a house called 'Lucy Jane' or 'alibi'?

You come to the waterways to discover something outside of the nine to five and the boat, the name, and the decoration all express this.

'Ozymandias' is an interesting choice. It comes from a poem by Shelley inspired by the broken statue of an Egyptian king. It has the theme that all power and glory will eventually decay into dust and there is an inevitable cycle for all civilisations. Its most famous lines are:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Now my guess is that the owners do not want to liken the Grand Union Canal to the sandy boundless dessert or their boat to a decaying statue. I doubt they even think their vessel is the 'king of kings'. Instead they want to affirm to poems message that the mighty will fall. They want to quietly get-on with their canal life whilst knowing that the flash, the pretentious, the overbearing, and the masterly can be safely ignored.

That is the spirit of the waterways. It is a mixture of the make-do and mend and the beautifully appointed, the rough and the shiny. Everybody goes their own way, on their own terms. It is also the spirit of running. We all do what we can within the limits of our bodies. Some are faster, some are not, but it doesn't matter. We are all just quietly getting-on . It is why I like running here - there is an affinity.

Photothon 25: Under the shade of trees

Another broken rule! Not the furthest point but the end (and of course the beginning).

It was a hot day and the only place to run was in the woods, under a canopy of trees. There was a such a difference in temperature between the open areas and woodland that I don't think I could have run very far without that cover of leaves.

I took some photos at the furthest point and could have used them but the defining moment of today's run happened at the end, when it was over and I was doing my stretches. I am a believer in stretches after a run. Whenever I have had injuries they have usually been caused by tight calves so I spend a deal of time easing out my calves. I also have tight hamstrings and they need stretching, which I usually do by lying on my back and pulling back on a straightened leg.

I was doing this near a tree and, as is my usual practice, had my eyes closed when I held the stretch. However for some reason I opened them and looked up at the cover of trees with the sun filtering through and the blue sky beyond outlined in an intricate pattern. An enormous feeling of peace swept over me. In the distance I could hear children playing. A couple of girls were trying to work their hula hoops and some boys were building a den out of fallen branches. In another area there was laughter from a group of mums and their children having a picnic. The place was at ease with itself and I was looking up, up, up into the heavens.

Admittedly it was not all perfect balance and harmony – I did have one leg waving about in the air, rather uncomfortably – but it was a moment to enjoy. If running can bring on such moods,even if only occasionally, then it is worth all the sweaty effort.

Photothon 24: a stock run

Time to get back to real-time.

There were only a couple of rules for photothon: I should take a picture at the furthest point of the run; and that I should post it on the same day. The latter rule has been a complete shambles, especially with my leisurely flick through holiday reminiscences. The impetus has faltered and it almost seems a struggle to finish. Amazing how it parallels a proper marathon in that you can get to 20 and then have to hanging-on.

The answer is the stock run.

Stock runs are good. By definition you do them frequently; you know they give you enough exercise but will not leave you too tired; you know the ground so well it feels like home; and, quite importantly, you don't have to think about it. If you have had a period when your running has been unfocussed (as I have had this past,week, with a sore throat and lethargy virus) then the stock run brings you back.

My stock run is to Nash Mills. How could I not love it? There's the calmness of the water, the overhanging greenery of the trees, and the diversity of narrowboats. Apparently there are now more boats on our waterways than there were at the height of the industrial revolution. Brilliant! It is amazing what an effect romantics and enthusiasts can have, over the long term and how something that was once so derelict can be reclaimed.

Anyway the challenge of a stock run is finding new photographs but it is not really too difficult. You can for example look at a lock form all sorts of angles. All the locks on this section of the water are well maintained and the black and white livery looks smartly painted. For some reason there is something perfect about black and white in this setting – any other colour would just look wrong. It even matches today's running kit.

Watermarks

Apart from cows, crops and moors one of the themes of this blog is paper making. (For some reason these topics seem to be completely ignored by the mainstream running press).

By some coincidence we were visiting an area of France with historical connections to paper making. Near Angouleme there are two mills one dating from the eighteenth century the other from the even earlier that still produce paper in the traditional way. There was a chance to make comparisons between the Grand Union Canal and early industrialisation, and the beautiful Charante and craft production.

The mill at Fleurac is a working museum, demonstrating how paper used to be made whilst still producing high quality, craft paper. It is in a beautiful location by the river and recently money has been spent developing the landscape to enhance the sense of peace and timelessness.

In someway Fleurac is a bit to perfectly preserved, as if it is part of the heritage industry. The Verger mill, a little further along the Charente,  gives a greater sense of continuity, showing more signs of the lumps and bumps of age.  Paper has been made here since 1539 and it is still a business making facsimile 17th and 18th Century paper for the restoration of books prints and drawings. 

 

When thinking of this type of paper I think of watermarks and remember how I was fascinated by them as a kid. Firstly they were only in thick, good quality paper, something I rarely used and therefore thought a bit special. Secondly, and most importantly, you could only see them properly when you held them up to the light. They held a secret message, they were slightly mysterious, they were a hidden code.

Only later did I discover how they were made. In manufacture,the paper is pressed with a mark when still wet, When it dries that mark remains in its structure. I like the word because it precisely describes the process. It is a mark made in water – and how poetic is that idea?

By analogy you can extend it to any mark that is embedded when something is being formed. I think of dough-like infants being pressed by their experiences and then carrying that semi-invisible branding as they grow older and firmer. These things form you character. When you start any new venture, and are learning, you are still watery enough to be marked. With running I think of the early stages and a couple of things that hit me almost as revelations, which are still part of the fabric of me as a runner.

The first was the understanding that slowing down meant I could run further. This may sound stupidly self evident, but I had previously thought that proper running meant puffing hard and being uncomfortable. Only after I finding an easy pace did I discover the enjoyment in running and know that if I could run for 20 minutes I could also run for 30, then if 30 I could also run for 40, etc, etc. It is a matter of finding your own internal rhythm – your own watermark.

The second was the enjoyment of being outside as part of the landscape, feeling its changes and finding the places you like to be. This is often the canal and if anything runs consistently through my running it is the Grand Union – another watermark.

Photothon 23: If you build it

It is at this point that I start to question my thought processes. I actually ran here for the express purpose of taking a photo of a haystack (or hay wall if you prefer).

The photothon has had an interesting effect on my route-making. I now give it more thought and try to go to places that might have something to photograph or some attached story. In this case it is a very tiny story.

The previous evening we had been out and were driving back at about eleven, just after dark, when we saw a cluster of very bight lights ahead. They were not moving so they were not vehicles coming towards and anyway pattern was wrong. It was puzzling, we knew we were in the middle of nowhere and had no idea what it could be.

When we passed could see that they had been harvesting the fields and only just stopped. They had been working by the lights of their tractors and the large harvester. Now it was finished the whole group were relaxing and having a few beers after a long hard day.

For some reason I thought of two things almost simultaneously. The first Thomas Hardy and images of harvests in the nineteenth century. The second was a film of several years ago, 'Field of Dreams', where Kevin Costner built a baseball field on his farm. I just remembered the switching-on of floodlights in the middle of the countryside. This field glowed in the same way.

Anyway the inner voice that Kevin Costner followed said that 'If you build it he will come' – so I thought I'd better go back there.

But this was France and not Iowa or Wessex, discarded amid the clover I saw this packet of Gitanes

Photothon 22: In the shade

Run date 5 July

I wanted to give an idea of how quiet the running was. Clear skies, empty roads, peaceful villages. It is perfect country for putting in serious mileage, building up your strength and preparing for a long race.

With one proviso – you must either get up early or run late. On holiday running late is awkward because there are so many responsibilities related to eating, drinking and conversing. You therefore have to start early - and I was useless. Consistently I got up an hour later than I planned. Luckily the weather was a bit variable but on two days there was hot, hot heat and I am not good in the heat.

So on the run you look out for shady spots, and this is a very shady spot - but they do not last long. As my mind wandered I started making calculations, wondering if I wrung out all my clothes it would fill my water bottle or overflow it.

When you start thinking like that you know you are in trouble.

Jousting Boats and Sport

These are jousting boats.

I never knew such a sport existed, yet here it is in Cognac with a tournament of 8 boats and it is a very nice, relaxed affair. All the crews are having a great time, splashing about, winning some, losing others. There is a beer tent and a public address – so everything is as it should be.


The great thing about it is that it is fun and in the best sense it is amateur. You can see from the photo below that some of the rowing is, to say the least ragged. But somehow this is the whole point. And if it became too slick and professional it would probably become dull. As it is it is pure sport.


There are two types of sport. The first and the type that dominates far too much of the nations attention is professional sport, where the aim is absolute excellence. Everything that can be done to gain a victory is done and the sportsmen are identified from an early age, selected as being the best, then coached, trained, protected, and, mostly, paid extravagantly. These people are separate from us in so many ways, the only role we have is as spectator and supporter. We can look-on and applaud but don't know in our bones what it feels like to run so fast or hit a ball so well.

The second type of sport is truly amateur and is for everybody else. All of us who have other lives, other jobs, other responsibilities but who need to be physically active and participate in something despite not having any great talent. It is this sort of sport that is closest to my heart, and it allows me to call myself a runner. It is also helps you understand yourself better and gives you the perspective to recognise the distance between desires and achievements. It is good for your body and your mind.

Also, and this is most important, I reckon that most true sports are rooted somehow in the pub. I can imagine a bar session that had reached the stage of stupid ideas when someone said “ I bet we could joust with boats. They would then all join in and draw up the spec for the type of row boat, platform lance etc. until they had a silly but practicable plan. Well that's how I like to imagine it. (I would be really disappointed if the idea came out of a business meeting in the tourist office or from the PR department of one of the Cognac houses). It's also how I like to imagine the genesis of some of our odder running events. Surely you have to be a tiny bit tipsy to think that running between Birmingham and London, along the canal, is a good idea.

That's another characteristic of the second type of sport – it has elements of fantasy, imagination and fellowship. I don't see too much of those things in professional sport, it is all far too serious.

Photothon 21: village decoration

Run date: ! July

This comes from the small village of Massac and I don't really understand the picture. It is some sort of ancient press but what it pressed I know not. It will have had something to do with the work of the village in the past but is now used as decoration. That is all I can guess

In all the local villages there are such touches. They spend some of their local taxes to keep things looking bright. Round the corner from this press there is for example a big tub of flowers. Over the past decade the number of outsiders coming in and renovating properties which would otherwise have been abandoned has increased this tax take and the villages do look smarter.

In our village the equivalent picture is of the old, disused, pump, which has been given a new coat of paint and stands proud in all its maroonness.

Photothon 20: Open countryside

Run date 30 June

The rules of Photothon are that at the furthest point from the start I take a picture. There is a bit of latitude in this because I never know the exactly where this is (even my out and backs tend to have little loops and the odd diversion). Usually I find something and then declare it the furthest point. In this I am a bit like the Texas sharpshooter who shoots at the barn door and paints the target afterwards, but only a little bit.

I thought the first run might be a challenge because there was no way of fudging the fact that I would have to take a photograph in open, very open countryside. However, and please do not laugh at me when I say this, I found the agriculture and field pattern interesting.

There are areas of wheat, vines, corn, sunflowers, potatoes next to each other. It is the reverse of the monoculture which would have trampled similar land in the UK or America. Looking at this you can see something important in the way France has retained its food culture and the link between growing and eating. The Charante grows an incredible variety of fruit and vegetables, all available in the local markets. Iowa in comparison has some of the best agricultural land in the United States but effectively only grows corn and soya and so cannot provide a decent diet for its own population.

This photo is not however about crops it is about attention to the look of the landscape. Where there are no crops there are wild flowers. The verges are full of them and even fields,when they are being left fallow, are decorative. Here is a field of wild flowers abutting a field of wheat.

The run itself was quite quite tough and I should have acclimatised myself with a shorter route first. But hey ho I was enjoying myself and only realised the problem when it was too late.

The roads are quite exposed and straight, which makes them a little bit relentless. When I run at home there are always twists and changes to make the distance feel shorter; "oh I am here already" sort of thing. On a long straight road you tend to wonder when there is going to be a change. However the really hard part was the rolling nature of the land. Going out it was gently downhill but coming home was an incline that went on and on and on and on.

I consoled myself with the thought that it would do wonders for my endurance

Back Home

If ever there was a day to come back from a holiday it was yesterday. Rain, rain and more rain, all with an unremitting greyness. I had to try hard just to stop myself falling into a pitch-black pool of glumness. In France the weather although variable, had been warm. Some days had been blisteringly hot, others had been mild. There had been rain but it did not last and everyday had had some blue skies and lovely clear light – above all light.

But there is no use in moping - home is home and I am home.

I have come back from the Charente region, not far from Cognac where my sister and brother-in-law have a house in a small village. They bought as a wreck and have been renovating for the past five years. It is amazing how many English people have done the same. In our village there incomers are not only English there is for example a Belgium civil servant, who is the subject of a certain amount of envy as he has three months of holiday a year (something to do with his age and seniority). Any way it is a friendly community and when anyone arrives for their summer the first thing they do is walk around to see what has changed. They visit each other, just pop I for a chat and to compare progress on the latest projects. Shared enthusiasms are good.

(This after all is the purpose of these blogs. We share our experiences and thoughts, learn from each other, reinforce each other and thereby reassure ourselves we are not totally batty.)

The area itself is wonderfully rural. The landscape rolls, the soil is rich and the climate benign so that a wide range of crops are grown. Probably the most visually dominant are sunflowers and vines. We were a little early for the sunflowers this year. One or two were out but not whole fields. So I present you with a picture of a solitary flower. I know it's an image that has been done to death but I cannot help it - sunflowers always lift my spirits and in my mind I associate them with this place.

Over the next few days I will be posting more as I have to catch up on my photothon. I managed four runs, which is not too impressive, but rather carelessly I managed to injure my ankle -twice, I don't think it is serious,probably caused by running on little roads with a high camber, but I think somewhere there was a message telling me to ease off, go on visits, and eat and drink.

I did my best to heed that message.

A Slight Pause

This blog will be taking a slight pause for about 11 days as we are off to France for a holiday.

When I return I will complete the photothon (I am determined to do 26) and then just continue with general wittering

In the meantime happy running everyone.


P.S.

My figures for June so far are: 21 runs, total running time 19 hours 34 minutes, average run 56 minutes.

No Juneathon but not too shabby

Photothon 19: War Memorial

This run is to the war memorial on Berkhamsted Common. I expected to take a fairly straightforward shot of the memorial but was attracted by this solitary wreath.

I used to think poppy wreaths were only laid on Remembrance Day and memorials were bare the rest of the year - but that is obviously not the case. This wreath is fresh and I have seen a number of other memorials with fresh wreaths. Has there been a change of practice? Is there now a policy to honour the war dead more frequently.?

I find it disturbing that I do not know. It is another example of not paying full attention. I pass this memorial moderately frequently and the memorial in Hemel very frequently but have no idea how often they are bare and how often they have poppies. I see them without fully seeing.

This also applies to the inscription. I have run or cycled past here many times, without taking the time to look at what it says. I always thought it a bit strange to have a memorial in the middle of the Common away from any community, apart from a golf club, but never investigated it further. Today I did.

It s for the Inns of Court Officer Training Corps who trained 12,000 officers for the Great War on Berkhamsted Common, 2,000 of whom were killed. One in six is a high number, on average 13% of the British soldiers mobilised were killed (source here)

I looked at the memorial and then I looked at the land around and pictured it swarming with soldiers, digging, drilling, shooting, practising for the Front.

How fortunate we are to be born of this era, in a wealthy country, where we can take our leisure for granted. I can run this landscape without a thought in my head except how tired my body is feeling. I can enjoy being here without worry. It is a privileged I should never take for granted

Photothon 18: more cattle

Working on the assumption that you cannot have too many cattle on a running site I ran to the meadow where the belted galloways graze. I had hoped they would be spread-out, so that I could get a nice clear picture of one or two, but they had no intention of being cooperative and all grouped under the shade of the trees in a big jumble. They showed no signs of wanting to move.

They seem very laid back. I walked right up to them and they took not the slightest notice. Maybe they are just contented bovines, happy that they are no longer an endangered breed. Still rare but no longer endangered.