Seaford Half Marathon - 5th June 2005

[Sweder]

Cutting to the chase (the meat of that evening is to be served on the MGS website after careful consideration by my legal team), I awoke at six on Saturday morning a little disoriented. My room-mate, our Society Captain, lay as if pole-axed a-top his bedding, pale and as near death in appearance as any man I've seen. With a silent prayer I felt my way to the bathroom. A dull throbbing started in the depths of my skull and grew steadily, like Aslan's song in The Magician's Nephew. This was no enchanted tune to bring forth a new land, however; this was the rhythmic beat of the Hangover Drum, and it's intensity threatened to drown all else if no measure were taken against it. What to do? Bereft of pharmaceutical deliverance I did the only thing I could in such circumstances; I pulled on my running shoes.

Following a difficult moment where my laces seemed to have sprung to independent, serpent-like life, I followed the shoes (in appropriate order, I felt) with shorts and running vest. A final glance at the near-corpse in the next bed convinced me, and I was out the door, through the maze of corridors and into Macrooms' main street.

A blanket of perfect Irish Mizzle (mist & drizzle) greeted me, the ultimate humidity for the Northern Hemisphere. Droplets of water appeared to drift  around nomadically looking for a place to settle. Despite a lack of morning sun the temperature, so far as I could tell, was pleasant enough. I glanced left then right. Which way to go? I vaguely recalled seeing the river Lee on a map of the Town and elected to head right, for the street descended in this direction and even in this state I realised that any river was likely to be below rather than above my present location.

I started to jog. This a liberal use of the term. Im mostly focused on avoiding the perils of curbs, slippery paving slabs, lamp-posts, manhole covers and any other contraption waiting to trip or slip me up. I made the bridge and wondered at the impressive breadth of the waterway beneath. On the far bank I could make out an ornate building set in what appeared to be an array of small, well-kept gardens. This turned out to be the Pitch & Putt Clubhouse (you heard right). Further inspection revealed a riverside path, and I resolved to find a route down to the loose gravel track that would become the start of my run proper.

The haze in my head lifted in equal measure to the improvement in light as, somewhere high above the grey shroud of mist and cloud over Macroom, the sun's rays struggled to reach me. I set off along the towpath, river to my left, head down, in a sort of lope-shuffle. The drummers in my head were picking up the beat nicely, although they showed little sign of quitting as yet. About a half mile in it occurred to me that I might meet a dead end at any moment. Undeterred I ploughed on, resigned to keeping this journey as short as the fates would allow.

The track lead on, past the end of the impressive pitch & putt and on alongside playing fields. I wondered at the nature of the sport to be played here later today, and decided it was probably Gaelic Football or Hurling, one of the most brutal sports known to man and one I would become closely acquainted with later in the trip. And on, where the path began to lose definition as mud and grass invaded its parameters. I slipped and slid along, taking care not to divert into a minor inlet and plunge headlong into the crystal clear, yet undoubtedly freezing, clutches of the Lee.

Into a new housing development and it was here I was forced inland, taking a small climb in my slightly lengthening stride and running along a raised embankment some 30 yards away from the river. And down again to my path  as it re-appeared, into and under thick brush, past a barbed wire fence . . . and I stopped. I had reached a peninsular of boggy land. To my left, the main river, her waters rambling past, small patches of white water signalling the presence of a protrusion of rock or tree limb. Ahead, a small stream, water flowing at a fair pace, set with a series of stepping stones, the top face of each stone just beneath the surface. To my right dense trees and more barbed wire; the only way is forward, or this journey has run its course. Despite the constant banging in my head I wanted to continue, if for no other reason that to explore this beautiful landscape. Oh yes, and to continue to exude Guinness from every pore in the vain hope that I might be able to swing a golf club later in the day.

I stared at the stones before me. They were obviously there to be used, their careful configuration without doubt man-made. Yet they were a little deep in the water which was continuing to join the larger body at an impressive and alarming pace.
Come on, I said to myself.
If you go in, you go in – at least it’ll wake you up.’

I looked beyond the far bank, blinked and took a wider view.
The stone steps lead across a stream to an open area of lush green grass, into which was cut an impressive golf green flanked by serious bunkers. Panning out yet further I saw a tee box leading to a long par three, and a path between the green and tee leading to a considerable arched iron bridge spanning the main river. Looking left, across the Lee, I saw the most wonderful golf course laid out on the far bank. A variety of mature trees waved gently in the morning breeze, their branches reflected in a series of ponds. Jackdaws and magpies swooped across the close-mown fairways where wild rabbits breakfasted on the glistening damp grass. I drew in a chestful of cold, clean air and wondered at the fog in my head that had prevented me from glimpsing this nirvana before now; for it was obviously the Macroom Golf Club, and I knew the course ran along the Lee for some distance.

I had to get over there. Hop skip, slip and finally jump, and I was on the putting surface of the first green I’d spied. I looked across the river, seeing that the approach shot to this first green would be a corker, and chuckled to myself. We were scheduled to play here on Sunday and the lads would certainly enjoy that little challenge. I set off around the edge of the green to the bridge, pausing in the centre to enjoy the view down the Lee. A weir roared some 100 yards away, a white band across the water confirming the source of the sound. Looking down I could truly appreciate the clarity of the water; I only wished I could achieve the same condition in my head.

On again, the dry stone wall marking the boundary of the course on my right, the sweeping fairways and thick, clinging rough to my left. Beyond the wall unkempt fields bordered by dense woodland accompanied the Lee on her Westward meander to the coast. Up alongside the steady incline of the 17th fairway to the cusp of the equipment sheds where I Shearered a greens-keeper as he prepared his Gator 6-wheeler for the days’ tasks. Through a gap in the drystone wall and left onto the main arterial road that runs above and alongside the back 9. I gazed at a large rabbit not 20 paces away, hunkered down in the rough, nose twitching as he munched contentedly on the rain-laden greenery. Past the tall pines that shield the front 9 above and to my right; past the dark green clubhouse, festooned with neatly arranged trolleys and dormant buggies awaiting the arrival of the first of Macrooms’ finest day-time swingers.  

My pace had settled into something respectable, the throbbing in my temples receded to a gentle hum. For the first time since prying open my bloodshot eyes that morning I felt alive and, greedily gulping another lungful of unsullied country air, I kicked for home.

As I reached the end of the golf course the trees closed in along both sides of the roadway. The previously flat surface rose to greet my plodding plates, and I set myself for the steady incline back up to the town. I managed an audible laugh as I rounded the turn from the entrance to the course and spotted the Castle gateway, a stone archway leading into the main town square. The scene looked set for the finish of a race, the finish line being beneath the ancient arch, and I sprinted through in a parody of the great Roger Bannister – I must’ve looked about as knackered as he after his 4 minute mile, too, as I drew a number of worried glances from early rising locals bustling about their morning chores.

Recovered and now happily headache-free I loped gently back along the high street. Past Penns Nightclub, where many a Mayfield Golfer would dent their reputations in the nights to come; past Murphy’s Bistro, home of one of the finest fillet steaks I’ve ever had the good fortune to be served; past Goldens, the pub that looks like an antique shop, complete with an abridged version of Mein Kampf and a Russian Doll set of 20th Century Dictators sitting innocently in the window, and to the only shop open at this hour; the newsagents.

Walking in I noticed who I presumed to be the proprietor, a lady of middle age, bent over the newspapers, sorting and marking for her regulars.
‘Good morning’ I offered as she stood upright, adjusting her glasses in the gloom.
‘Goodness!’ she exclaimed, her gaze drawn to my pale, mud-splattered and mostly naked sparrow’s legs. ‘In all moy terty years in dis business Oiv never seen the loikes o' dat!’ And with that she returned to her paper marking, her head shaking gently from side to side.

Approximately 4 miles, part off-road, part gravel track, somewhere between 30 and 40 minutes.
The best hangover cure I’ve ever tried.