February 2009

[Sweder]

A dusk-time treat for me and my hounds.
Hot-foot from a cold Gatwick I scrambled into my running gear and set off into the hills in fading light. The skies were already dimmed by heavy cloud, steady rain falling silently in the gloom. I didn't care. The shackles of modern travel, from the mean shower in my labyrinthine Genova hotel to the madness of my ghastly dash to the airport, were thrown off as I galloped to murky freedom.

The taxi tale is worth telling. The Italian Job opens with a rather nasty car crash involving an open-top sports car and a JCB in the depths of an alpine tunnel. My flat-capped, maniacal chauffeur hurled us into the maw of these tunnels at break-neck speed from the all-seeing vantage astride the centre white line, leaning his body into the curves like a swarthy Ghost Rider after a drug-fuelled all-nighter. I stared helplessly at the crushed wing-mirror on my side, offering silent Faustian deals to anyone, angel or demon, who might be in the vicinity. As we approached a toll-booth doing somewhere close to 130 miles per hour I couldn't help but notice the contrast of the slowly rising red/ yellow barrier against the blurred frenzy of our reckless forward motion. I was convinced we'd make contact, screwing my eyes tight shut as I waited for the inevitable crunch. It never came. I looked across to see a smiling Satan hunched over the wheel, a miscellany of stained broken teeth leering back at me. I was reminded of that glorious Steve Martin/ John Candy moment in Trains Planes and Automobiles when they're headed down a dark, snowy freeway in the wring direction. We reached our destination in what may have been a personal best for the driver but what I will always attest to being quite the longest taxi ride of my eventful 47 years.

Any residual anxiety fell away as I loped across the darkening downland. I'd promised myself a night run after Almeria, and whilst the sun was possibly still up somewhere behind the impenetrable wall of grey cloud this was pretty close to it. On the summit of Mount Harry I glanced across to the recently installed electric fence and gasped; for there was the reason for the intrusion; not as I had thought to keep errant sheep out, but to contain a new herd of dark-eyed beauties, a dozen or so now staring unblinking at our bedraggled entourage: downland ponies. These fabulous beasts, somewhat squat compared to their sleek racing cousins, stood steadfast, watching us carefully as we scampered past, their dark brown shaggy coats glistening with fresh evening rain.

Nature’s dusk-time downland miscellany: rooks in noisy parliament, oblivious sheep, curious ponies, excited hounds and a sodden yet strangely elated, liberated Sweder.
A cracking end to a long day.