From the madding crowds of Terminal 4 Arrivals to the blissful calm of the South Downs in a shade under three hours; what a glorious way to end the week. Blue skies, the gentlest of cool breezes and dry yet springy turf to embrace my heavy jet-lagged tread. The hounds were overjoyed at my return, hassling with lolling tongues and wagging tails until, having chucked my bags into a corner, I acquiesced, wearily pulling on shorts, shoes and a vest before stumbling out into the glorious sunshine. I'd swapped carpets of gold and scarlet for good old Sussex autumn drab but it's a fair exchange in my book.
Yesterday I’d compromised my Hurley’s deal; I
did stick to two pints of Guinness, extending the arrangement to incorporate 'two pints
per leg'. Well, four hours is a bloody long time to nurse two tiny weeny pints :o As I’ve said before I love the downstairs bar in this place, it’s a
bona fide meeting place for kindred spirits and old friends. When I arrived at 3.30 pm three pals were swapping stories, laced with raucous guffaws, about local politics and politicians. Within an hour we were joined by Katie, a blonde Irish-Canadian regular, 52 years old armed with sparkling eyes and a quick-fire delivery, unhappy with her weight but none-the-less a committed ale-hound. Another pint and she’d told me how she likes nothing better than to cavort around her spacious apartment in her lacy underwear listening to James Taylor or Janis Joplin. Huh, and here’s me with a darned ‘plane to catch . . .
Next to arrive was Annette, an impressively large African-American lady hailing from Portland, Oregon. On the cusp of her 60th birthday Annette had vowed to 'tour Canada in the fall’ and was having a whale of a time. She got wedged into a bar-side chair then stuck into a pint of Guinness, downed with alarming gusto, offering pithy observations on Portland wines (a very well-kept secret apparently, and subject of an hilarious movie
Bottle Shock, satirical in a
Sideways style and, most appealing of all, poking fun at French wine-snobbery). I don’t know what it is about North American women; they seem anxious to provide a potted history within the first few minutes of meeting; previous husbands, personal issues, likes and dislikes. I guess it’s called cutting to the chase but to my very British sensibilities it all seems a bit brash and invasive.
Finally the time came to sink my last glass and head for the door, exchanging fond farewells with my new-found friends. I’ll be back in April and again in October. Chances are most of these guys will at some point be gathered around the same copper-plated bar shooting the breeze. It’s a comforting thought in these ever-changing, hundred-mile-an-hour times.
My plod today was, at first anyway, a modest one, anxious not to literally put a foot wrong in my partly shell-shocked state. Once I’d scaled Blackcap I felt a second wind come upon me (probably the kindly westerly ready to shove me homeward) and I started to up the anti. My pace ranged from pedestrian – 8 minute kilometres at various points – to positively break-neck at the finish, ducking below 4 minute pace for the last half a klick. Enjoyable stuff, and as far as dealing with travel fatigue goes, hugely effective.
[SIZE="1"]Below: snapshot on the homeward leg, Lewes and Alfriston hills in the background, plus pace chart from the Garmin showing a 'rapid' finish.[/SIZE]
