There Is No June

[Sweder]

Popped out in the gloaming to test-drive the buggered hamstring and lacerated calf. It was one of those nights you get after a sunny day and a warm, muggy evening. A Solstice run.

I took the hounds, intending to plod up the race course and double back through the sheepless field. This time of year the woolly grass-munchers get moved on to allow Landport Bottom to blossom. Wild poppies peep from the high straw-grass, wild flowers lay scattered, yellow, purple, like flecks of paint from a careless artist's brush as skylarks frolicked high above their hidden nests.

So beautiful was the scene, and warm the night, I kept on. Past the stables, along the Moyleman track, up onto Mount Harry, past the beacon and on to Black Cap. Knackered, sweating like a bookie on EU referendum day, I ploughed on. It was like running in a sauna. All in all nine kilometres and change, some staggering views from the top fair reward. Land met sky in a haze, tinted blood-orange-pink by the last kiss of the setting sun. Long shadows spread, purple bruises on the hills, the high-domed Cliffe above the town a huge shrugged shoulder.

   

I was in a right old state whern I got back. Breathless, soaked, grining from ear to ear. Hamstring and calf survived, as had my wobbly middle and other post shed-fall wounds. A good outing.