Point to Pinnacle 2013

[Sweder]

Up with the larks this morning. After a moment wallowing in the warm bed, recalling our delicious supper of thick steaks, spicy snags and Sweder's signature coleslaw washed down with a fine bottle of 42 Degrees South and another of Zeppelin (with a number of fine cheeses) I chucked on my running gear and took off into the hills.

Four sweaty miles in testing suburban undulations followed by twenty minutes stretchercise on the front porch. Talking Heads provided the workout tunes as I bounced and high-stepped back and forth on the rose-clad veranda. Some poor old dear out with her dogs stood, mouth agape, as I cavorted in my vermillion running top and Lewes FC shorts. She'll be Ok in a day or two.

Up on top of Mount Stewart I'd left the road, following a slick trail into the woods. Road shoes are ill-advised in slippery conditions. I picked my way gingerly through the twisted gum trees. A head popped up out of a nearby shrub, black eyes shining in a woolly grey mask. Before I could think 'camera' the beast hopped effortlessly away, front paws tucked neatly onto its chest, thick tail held aloft as if to counsel against pursuit. Others joined it. There must have been four or five, about the size of small Greyhounds, within ten feet of me.

On the way home I upped the ante, seranaded by ACDC and those cheeky chappies from Motörhead, offering one of my all-time favourite rock 'n' roll tunes. Jim and the boys got me up the endless climb that is Warwick Avenue. Mr Mojo Risin' indeed. Cracking stuff.