July 2013

[Sweder]

Another excellent weekend in Lewes involving music, beer and ribald camaraderie has just flown past. Of more import, a run was involved.

I say a run. The flop-sweat flog undertaken by MLCMMan and myself does not warrant the epithet. And yet there we stood a-top Black Cap, shirts soaked, grins as wide as the valleys before us. The effort taken to reach that point was undeniable. After an afternoon sampling Dark Star's Hophead and Nottingham's Olde Trip at the George in Alfriston, we'd undertaken an intense Harveys quality control exercise at the Con Club. The ale stood up rather better than we, or at least, I, managed. Inspired by UK Athletics' decision to rekindle Olympic glories past, SP and I had persuaded Never The Bride to revisit the triumph of our joint 50th celebrations of 2011.

The crowd was smaller. A combination of the Gentlemen Of The Road Stopover Weekend just seven days before and the arrival of the school summer holidays had depleted local time and money. There was plenty of beer, much of it bought for me by friends, including Clan MLCMMan, Ladyrunner, Moylebird and several Lewes FC cohorts. Like the band I was rocking way before the end. When it came, that end was somewhat ignominious for both of us. Plagued by sound issues in the warm-up the band had started some forty-five minutes late. As had happened two years ago they stormed on way past the 11:30 cut-off. Unlike two years ago the sound man, having received a verbal battering from the band all night, pulled the plug. Ugly scenes ensued, soothed somewhat by the arrival of Tequila shots for the players.

You get the picture. By the time MLCMMan and I set off into the hills on Sunday afternoon we had recovered just about enough. Sweat flowed freely under a smiling sun, the zephyr at our backs doing little to cool our jets. Walk breaks were taken along with a considerable stop at the summit to soak in the vistas. Blanched, white-gold grasses waved beside lush green gallops, trees and shrubs defining fields crisscrossed with white chalk trails. MLCMMan confirmed what I've always felt, that my ten years of posted images do little to convey the majesty of the place.

We scampered homeward, the prospect of a table full of fresh salad, spiced couscous and, in all probability, a beer or two, driving us on. As so often happens that zephyr from behind became a roaring wind in our faces, yet we sneaked home in just under the hour. It was an honour for me to share my local plod with such a venerable member of our tribe.

A restorative visit to the Pelham Arms, just before a splendid curry at the Spice Merchant, saw me sup my last beers* for a while. With P2P hoving into view I need to shift some timber and unfurl those running sails. Grog, bread, stodgy carbs, be gone.
This creaking ship is set fair for Hobart.


*Hopping Hare and Tanglefoot