August

[Sweder]

Well, sort of.

I'd planned a swift five to ease the crippling agonies in my post-Sunday pins this bank holiday Monday, but my girls had other ideas.
'Lets go for a cycle ride to the Anchor pub . . . blah blah blah blah . . . '
Pub. That's all I wanted to hear; pub.

So we set sail, a convoy of three, for the five mile pedal through Offham, into Barcombe and on down to the riverside haven that is the Anchor. A small, cottage-style hostelry serving Harveys from the barrel and the usual pub grub fayre, the Anchor offers boats for hire - four to six-person skiffs - on an hourly basis. Families, loving couples, unloving couples, people of all ages rent these mottley craft for an hours' paddling before getting stuck into an afternoon on the pub lawn. We sat alongside the moorings, giggling cruelly as each adventurous crew got to grips with the operation of paddles and the appropriate distribution of ballast.
'No Mum! YOU sit at the back - you're the heaviest!'
'Oi! Watch it or you'll get a clip - ooeer!'
'Steady! Sit down, woman! Boys - keep quiet! Sit still!'
Ah, the calming pleasures of messing about on the river . . .

A couple of swift pints and a Chilli Gone Barmy later we re-mounted and pushed off for home, traversing hilly, tree-shaded pathways through sunlit Sussex fields and villages. It's been a while since I cycled anywhere, let alone ten miles. Quite apart from tired legs screaming at the effort required to climb some of the hills it was my derriere that suffered the most. Bicycle seats must have been invented by the Marquis des Sade; they are clearly designed to inflict maximum discomfort. Frankly I'd much rather run. Let the record show that we passed no fewer than six pubs to get home. I almost wept . . .

And so it was back to running this morning, taking advantage of a cool, partly cloudy start to the day. What relief to have my feet back on terra firma. Despite the expected soreness in the calves and thighs I enjoyed myself, embracing the steady thud of heavy footfalls on the rain-softened turf. Woolly grazers were everywhere today - I spent several minutes shackling and un-shackling the hounds - and, as is synchronicity's wont, Planet Rock provided the perfect soundtrack. Pink Floyd's Sheep was followed by Gensis and The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway. I couldn't help but smile as I chugged up WMH. I paused at the summit, warm and breathless, staring across to Blackcap. Yet more sheep scattered librally across the hills, ground-hugging dirty four-legged clouds peppering the route. Perhaps we should turn back? Four miles would be OK after Sunday's punishment . . .

Beware the Siren Song! I banished such weak thoughts; there's nothing to be gained by taking shortcuts.
Back on the leads went the dogs and together we clambered up the escarpment to the Cap, sheep scattering ahead of us. My thighs burned towards the summit but I grinned (grimaced?) through it, enjoying a recovery moment overlooking the plains of Sussex and Kent. With the breeze at our backs the homeward trip was a blur. Untethererd the dogs knew the score, showing admirable restraint as fluffy balls of temptation cavorted and scampered across our path. Lost in music, subconsciously scanning the trail for treacherous rocks, I let my legs dictate the pace, even managing a burst of speed up the final hill to the stables.

Home in around fifty hot, sweaty and happy minutes.