When September ends . . . again . . .

[Sweder]

A sixth sense told me to take the i-plod this morning.
Something about the murky exterior suggested I might want to choose the soundtrack to today’s run. I grabbed the hounds and set off for my usual five-miler, slouching up the early, ugly slopes and into a blanket of fog. Visibility was down to about fifty metres, dark shapes looming out of the gloom; here a shrub, there a sheep. At the top of Landsport Bottom several eerie forms appeared behind the five-bar gate; horses. I tethered the dogs, accepting the thanks of the riders, usual indifference suspended as we acknowledged the madness that brings people out in such foulness.

Strong legs carried me up Wicker Man Hill, the dogs alert, taunted by rustling from the shrouded gorse bushes. At Black Cap I looked back into a wall of grey mist, took out the music player and thumbed through the register. There could only be one selection for me in these conditions, one band guaranteed to set the perfect mood for the canter home; Pink Floyd.

The first strains of Shine On You Crazy Diamond set me on my way. The strengthening sun singed the overhead haze, blotches of blue appearing as the music soared in my headphones. My feet flew over slippery flint, danced across muddy pools and around lurking rocks. We finished on my favourite, Wish You Were Here. Despite fatigue in legs and lungs I’d’ve happily run for another hour in this little patch of heaven. Sadly there’s work to be done; rather a lot of it, too.

Five miles. No idea of the time