The damage was done courtesy of the usual suspects. Coming off 12 hours of back-to-back meetings I sought refuge with my new Cape Town agents, Jacqui and Clive Nel. Jacqui, a stunning woman with sharp feline features, one of those magical people who are impossible to age on sight, and a native of Jo’burg, had impressed me sufficiently with her knowledge of the business and particularly the level and quality of her contacts in the shipping world for me to fire our existing representatives (an arm of a mighty multinational forwarding chain). Clive is Cape Town born and bred, and a true character. To know Clive you have to see him in his natural environment. He might say that would be on show site rigging a monster piece of machinery for a tricky heavy lift; but I’ll tell you the truth. It’s sitting back in the comfort of the Fireman’s Arms, Cape Town’s oldest pub (established in the 1800’s), knocking back quality South African grape juice or even the occasional Guinness.
So it came to pass that I took my weary bones to the Fireman’s and sank a few of the aforementioned with my new colleagues. Guinness followed Guinness, accompanied by a most acceptable chicken curry, in turn washed down with a smooth, rich Durbanville Hills Cabernet Sauvignon, one of the finest I’ve tasted. Clive provided the entertainment, with the occasional interjection/ objection from Mrs Nel, telling the tale of man who went to Jo’Burg with a cat and a few rand and returned 16 years later with the same cat, a business, three cars and a wife. Those joining me on the TOM quest next April will no doubt have the pleasure of the Nel’s company in this fine establishment. Post-race, naturally. Jacqui dropped me off at my hotel just off the waterfront and we said our goodbyes, vowing to take in some golf and a few wine tasting sessions on my next visit in December. I wandered into the hotel bar, scanning the comfy chairs and wicker sofas for familiar faces. There were none to be found, so I parked up next to an open fire to aimlessly study the cocktail menu.
Where do these impulses spring from? I rarely touch a cocktail – the occasional G&T if there’s no good ale, B52’s at Christmas . . .but that’s it. Not this night. No, tonight, Matthew, I shall be a cocktail bitch; I’m going to work through the list till I find a winner. Mercifully I hit the jackpot on the second round. My first stop was a Manhattan, beautifully presented in the appropriate glass. The Jack Daniels in this one was a little overpowering, towering over the subtle taste of the Vermouth and Martini Rosso. I slugged it back and moved swiftly on . . . to the Cosmopolitan. Wow, what a drink that is. The first one barely touched the sides, the alarmingly refreshing blend of Vodka, Triple Sec, Lime and Cranberry Juice working its magic on my tastebuds. I downed another – one for the ditch – and retired disgracefully, wobbling along my corridor with a sheepish grin and great need for me pit.
And so, it came to pass that Sweder did awaken with the Mother of all hangovers. And his alarm clock did travel across the room as if in flight, where it came to rest suddenly against a bare brick wall.
Oh God . . . nightmare.
It’s ten past eight . . . oooh . . . breakfast was at eight with Ronan . . . oh well . . . I’ll just roll over and . . .
The fragments of the alarm clock fizzed and sparked as the snooze feature gamely tried to do its job. Shit, it’s no use, I’ll have to get up.
The next hour was spent shuffling about my room, semi-packing for the flight home, half an eye on a re-run of Fulham versus the MU Rowdies (the one where Ji Sung Park Swing or whatever his name is made all three first half goals in a 3-2 win). I switched off at half time – I knew the second half to be goal-less – and considered my options.
1. Go back to bed, curl up and wait to die.
2. Seek breakfast
3. Go for a long hard run
One was no option at all, two was out as I’d managed to fiddle about long enough to miss breakfast so three it would have to be. Oh God.
The run itself took the same course as Sunday evening’s rain-soaked lope; out to the seafront, left along the jogging path to the turnabout point . . .only today I didn’t. Turn about, that is. I kept going, determined to see what lay beyond the next cove, the next point. Heavy clouds draped the Lions’ Head peak to landward, a dull grey blanket extending over towards Robin Island, for so many years the infamous home to Mandella’s jail. I chugged on, sweating pure alcohol into my Addidas tech-vest, to seek new adventures on the coast road. I rounded a particularly attractive bluff and stopped in my tracks. Like Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes I gaped in awe at the sight before me. No, not the arm of the Statue of Liberty lurching out of the rolling surf (though the scene does stand some comparison). The mountains, home to the Two Oceans, guardians of the Cape, towered majestic behind the next tranch of beachfront, their peaks shrouded in dense cloud and mist. At this moment I could truly believe in a Creator. Faced with such massive, raw beauty I stood, dripping steadily, transfixed. Finally I was shaken out of my stupor by two young lovelies bouncing past, their firm round bottoms moving easily to the rhythm of their jogging, not an unsightly wobble to be seen. Now I know there’s a God . . . and he’s definitely a fella
I hammered on in pursuit of the ladies. The beachfront path ended up ahead, but I noticed a narrow winding road heading steeply up into the foothills. I took it and was rewarded, after a breathless vertical clamber, with yet more stunning views of the Cape. Blimey; this is Winter! Below me a beach lazed under the glare of a weak, cloud-veiled sun; the manic ocean dashed in to swirl around hefty boulders, gulls flapped easily, low across the water. I had to get down there, and within a few minutes located a steep stairway leading down to ‘Beach 2’. The path meandered down at a perilous degree, winding through properties heavily defended by razor wire and no end of metal gates and bars, a reminder that crime is never too far away on these foreign streets.
Arriving on the soft white unspoilt sands I glanced back up the stairway. Hmm . . . I’ll have to be getting back up there in a bit. Yet another Dad’s Army’s Arthur moment: ‘I say sir, d’you think that’s awfully wise . . .’
I spent 10 minutes or so messing about, making footprints in the virgin sand to watch them washed away by the tidying sea. I staged a few photos but, as expected, they all look as though I’m some genetically modified walrus washed up on the beach, so I doubt they’ll get published here.
I clambered up the stairway, past the collection of bungalows sunk into the cliff face.
Funny word that, bungalow. My Uncle Reg, a dour man in the company of adults, used to love a josh and a jape with the younger members of his extended family. He used to set us up to play pranks on my Nan, our loveable yet tyrannical Matriarch, earning the full force of her rage by interrupting the semi-religious act of meal preparation. She would bustle after us wafting an old broom, much as the old negro house cleaner in the original Tom & Jerry cartoons.
Reg sat me down one day (I must’ve been about ten or so) and with his serious, imparting-important-knowledge face on, asked me a question.
‘D’you know why they call bungalows ‘bungalows’?’
I scratched my head. Uncle Reg was a building inspector of some repute, so I had no doubt he knew the answer. I shook my head, eyes and ears wide, ready for the revelation.
‘Well, there was this chap and he always wanted to build his own house. So he saved up his money and drew up the plans, and by and by he started work with the help of a builder. After several months the man realised to his horror that he didn’t have enough money to finish the job. So he turned to the builder to ask his advice.
“Hmm”, said the builder. “Well the only thing I can think of is don’t build the upstairs, just bung a low roof on it.”
And that was the first ever bung-a-low.’
I took this as one does when one has an Uncle like Reg – as gospel. And d’you know, to this day I’m not sure if he was joshing. I expect the angels are having a few laughs with him now, watching me struggle like that ten year old.
I set off into the west, the sun over the zenith starting its weary journey behind the cloud banks towards the horizon. Dog walkers and fellow joggers passed without sound or hail, wrapped in their thoughts, shoulders hunched against a chilly ocean breeze. To my left the Atlantic threw herself onto the Cape Town rocks sending plumes of salty spray high into the air to land on the path and on me. I felt a damned sight better than I had two hours before, keeping a modest yet steady pace. I figured I’d cover about 16k (or 10 miles if you prefer) in this hour and forty-five minutes of sweaty pavement pounding.
I returned to the hotel, dashed straight to my room to strip and rinse my sodden clothes before packing the still-wet gear in my suitcase. A wonderful twenty minute shower eased some of the aches and pains; I could almost see the remnants of my hangover swirling (the wrong way) down the plug-hole.
Off home tonight, another feast of fun, food and cramped entertainment courtesy of BA, then it’s on to join my girls in Ringstead Bay for a little British Summer chill-out for the rest of the week.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I'm off for a few of my own, but I doubt they will be anywhere near as interesting as yours, and I know for a fact they won't include anything like as much running...
A bit of a ‘recovery’ run, to be honest.
I arrived in Dorset after an eventful return from Cape Town. BA, faced with enough passengers to fill two 747s following a violent engine fire on take off the previous night, selected me for the relative sanctuary of South African Airways. I had no hesitation accepting the offer, as it came with a larger seat/ flat bed in business/ first.
My companion for the twelve hour night flight to London was Jackie, a lovely English lady of mature years who had been visiting the victims of AIDS in the townships and shanties around the Cape. Harrowing as this was, she confided that the dangers of such adventures were as nothing compared to BA’s aborted take-off last evening.
‘I don’t care to fly at the best of times’ she whispered, clutching my arm as our brand-spanking new A340 taxied for take-off. ‘But the sight of one of the engines bursting into flames as we roared down the runway has all but finished me off.’
I invested a good part of the flight in the land of nod, blissfully tired after my 16K plod a few hours before. Awakened for a leisurely breakfast, the landing and arrivals formalities proceeded smoothly and I set off in my battered L200 for the south west haven of Ringstead Bay, my already chilled-out family and the promise of a boozy pub supper at The Smugglers.
A full eight hours’ kip later I peeked through the caravan curtains to assess the morning weather. Cloud the colour of cold steel shrouded the bay, but I could see signs of a lighter blue encroaching from the south. With a scorcher in prospect an early run would be well-advised. Willow, the only canine to make the journey south (the long-dogs hate the sea and the pebbles, so they remained in Sussex with Jake) recognised the running shoes and announced her intention to join me. We set off up the stony path, heading west away from the caravan park to join the 2 mile cliff top route to Osmington. Below us the ocean rolled in, the beaches as yet deserted. Portland Bill wallowed like a large hazy toad in the middle-distance, the surrounding cargo ships as water boatmen on the calm waters.
The path starts narrow, crowded by dense overhanging foliage. I ran in a crouched stance, breathing through clench teeth to avoid ingesting the myriad of bugs swarming in the morning heat. Butterflies dashed hither and thither across our trail, the closest we’d come to rush-hour traffic in these sleepy parts. An ancient narrow bridge forded a gentle stream, the cool clear water burbling gently seawards. As the trees and shrubs fell away I could see the pathway take a steep upward turn ahead. By now my lungs had woken enough to up the air intake as I dug in for the climb. Early walkers stood aside to let the sweaty man and his spaniel thunder by, wheezy thanks offered and accepted. More undulations then the final descent into Osmington Mills, the pub nestled peacefully in the cleft of the valley, last nights’ revellers tucked away in their tents.
We paused, Willow and I, before the turn home. I surveyed the Weymouth coast as my companion danced through the thick grass coating the steep cliff face, stirring up crickets and butterflies by the score. A deep breath and then on up the ragged steps we climbed, into glare of the rising sun, White Nothe’s escarpment hogging the eastern horizon.
I should like to run that way tomorrow. The steepest ascent from sea level to the peak, then on across the cliffs to Durdle Door, Oswald Bay and Lullworth Cove. A great deal depends on the weather. I’ll need a couple of hours of cool, shaded skies to get this done. Failing that it’ll be an eight mile circuit up out of Ringstead, with a mile-long climb to start, along the main road and back via Osmington and the same path as this morning. Either way it’s pure heaven to run in this sculpted Hardy country.
With the briefest of pit-stops to swap runners for swimmers I careered through the campsite and straight into the blissful caress of the sea. The cool water soothed my aching limbs and I swam easily out to the miniature reef. Willow paddled to half-way before returning to guard my towel on the boulders, leaving me to return with the rising tide, cursing the lack of foresight that restricted us to booking just the one week in nirvana.
This is the life.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder,
There's a great little race on the Dorset coast called "The Charmouth Challenge". You start at beach level and run up Golden Cap, supposedly the highest point on the entire south coast of England. Did this one back in my Devon days and I seem to remember that it was about 10 miles in all and was actually registered as a fell race (most of the race is off-road and there are a couple of wicked descents.. you'd love it I'm sure). I'm pretty certain it's still being held and it's run either in July or August. Worth googling and noting down for future reference if you've missed it this year.
Cheers and keep the reports coming. I still read them although I've nothing much to contribute at the moment!
Cheers all.
Thanks BB, I'll certainly seek that one out, though I'm back in Lewes now.
Good to know you still keep pace, though there's genearlly little to read in these indecently hot and sweaty times.
Nigel, I understand the 747 pulled up, engine fully aflame, mid-runway.
Sounded a bit unpleasant. The shanties are slowly being 'relocated' - seems the politically sensitive Burghers of Cape Town would rather not have their most improverished citizens on display, repleat with their colourfullly graffiti'd ghetto and cruizing gang-bangers, right outside the international airport.
As for the Jurassic Coast there was indeed a large lumbering dinosaur spotted, lurching and crying mournfully as it slowly scaled Bats Head in the early hours of Friday last.
Report and pics to follow . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The Arrs will visit tomorrow evening (Tuesday 1st) - let me know if you can make it Andy and I'll come along. Might even manage a few pre-match pints and some supper, plus we have an empty spare bedroom so would be delighted to put you up in Chez Sweder. Maybe even a bleary-eyed visit to Blackcap early on Wednesday???
The Dripping pan is an exceptional football ground. I played there on two occasions, once excitingly under floodlights. The daytime match was for Kingston Kestrels (Seniors 2nd XI) when, for the one and only time in my patchy football career, I was given an attacking midfield role. Chastised at half time for repeatedly scorching past the centre forward into the opponents box I nonetheless came as close as I ever have to scoring (at least, scoring for my team - I have two own goals to my 'credit') when I curled in a delicious shot from just outside the D that beat the 'keeper all ends up only to rebound off the crossbar.
Late in the second half I was brutally hacked down whilst running into the area. Not only did we not get a penalty the resulting knee injury proved fatal to my Kestrels career.
Happy days
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Liked that stuff on "the dripping pan" which I'd never heard of before. Surprised that the grassy banks should be a problem. Exeter City had a big grassy bank running the full length of their touchline when they had league status. I wouldn't be surprised if it's still there.
'They persuaded me to keep on, and at last stranded me on the pebbles, exactly opposite the magnificent arch of Durdle-rock Door. Here I stood and contemplated with astonishment and pleasure this stupendous piece of Nature's work ......Here it was that a celebrated obstinate Lulworth swimmer was drowned; and here six years back, a large whale was thrown up on the beach.... on the returning tide he swam off.' John O'Keefe, 1792
History about to repeat itself? Mayhap . . .
Making good my promise of yesterday I set the alarm for 7am, intent on getting a lengthy run in before the onset of another sweltering day. Willow as ever stood ready by the door, waiting patiently as I strapped on my runners and filled my water bottle.
The climb to White Nothe, slightly under two miles, is well known to me. I usually manage one or two trips to the summit on our annual pilgrimage to Ringstead, but this would be my first adventure past the row of cottages and the WWII pillbox perched above the campsite. The sun must’ve risen early, so indecently high was it in a perfect cloudless sky. I welcomed the shade of the overgrown climb, bathing in a cool sea breeze as we paused at St Catherine’s Chapel at Holworth to pay respects to the inhabitants of the modest graveyard. The chapel, little more than a large garden shed, hosts regular services for the locals. One inscription struck me as poignant in this most tranquil place:
Treasured Memories of Donald Henry Wilkinson, Dear Husband and Dad
1932 – 2000 In Perfect Peace
He awaits us all
Beyond the tiny chapel steep slopes lay in wait, through cattle and sheep fields, leading to the perilous cliff top trail to White Nothe. Perilous due to the alarmingly close proximity of a sheer drop of several hundred feet to the sea-lashed rocks below and the heavily disguised nature of the track itself. Thick grasses the colour of pale straw did their best to hide the cracked dry earth below, and I set one foot ahead of the other often in blind faith. One errant clump of dirt or lurking boulder could turn an ankle in the blink of an eye; a man of my stature could easily convert such a tumble into catastrophic free-fall.
The coastline here appears as a series of coves and sheltered inlets, miniature beaches of perfect natural construction protected from the holiday hoards by challenging access. In the none-too-distant past smugglers and pirates stashed their ill-gotten gains in these safe havens, making use of the caves and recesses carved out by the patient summer tides and lashing winter seas. Beyond White Nothe the outcrop of Bats Head, a half-size replica of the first bluff, poked out to sea. I’d assessed the initial ascent as perhaps the most challenging in a series; how wrong can you be? Before me the dusty walkers’ path dropped away, snaking into the distance like the distorted rails of a wild rollercoaster. Some 200 metres inland a parallel track hugged the barbed farmland fence. Fearing terminal stress to the hamstrings I chose the latter route, swigging heartily from my water bottle as the morning temperature hit regulo 2. This path proved flat in more ways than one; not only were the undulations much easier on the legs, the views were bland and uninspiring. Just as I vowed to return by the tougher coastal trail we reached an intersecting fence, beyond which and for as far as the bleary sweat-filled eye could see, black-faced blank-eyed sheep dozed or chomped on wheat-coloured grass. That’ll teach me to seek the easy option. We set off due south, the fenced-off woolybacks to our left, an odd couple of lemmings hammering down the grassy slopes towards the cliff edge. Willow displayed her usual lack of fear, dancing on the edge, inches from certain death. Stories of owners lost trying to rescue their errant pets flashed through my head like so many high speed trains; I spent the next hour calling ‘Willow, come here – good girl!’ at regular intervals, unable to watch as she bounded along the precipice, her inquisitive nose twitching into the void.
The cliff top path undulated wildly here, like the hem of a dancer’s pleated skirt caught in mid-twirl. The severity of the drop, already daunting from afar, took my breath away. Which was a shame, as I’d need every cubic millimetre of available oxygen to complete this brutal journey. I had hoped to hurtle down the first descent from Bats Head to Durdle Door, but stood there faced with the impossible gradient I elected to tiptoe. Oh how the fabled fell runners of yore must’ve howled in their crag-laden heaven!
As the slope evened out – for a mere fifty yards or so – I allowed myself to be lulled into an easy lope. In no time at all the hardened trail took an upward turn. I tried to run it, bouncing manfully on the balls of my feet, hamstrings pinging, calves screaming. It’s just like Windmill Hill on the Sunday run, I told myself; only this single climb would be four times that in length and at least equal in rate of ascent.
Ping, boing, bound, bounce . . . leap, stretch . . . step, walk . . . shuffle, puff, pant . . . no more than half way up I gave up the struggle and walked.
The views from the summit were stunning. Below, the crystal clear sea lapped gently against the stony shore, fields of kelp wafting easily in the lazy current. Ahead lay Man o’ War Cove, a crescent bay flanked by the twin outcrops of Durdle Door and the unfortunately (and, in an olfactory sense, inappropriately) named Dungy Head. Beyond the larger recess of Lulworth Cove. I recalled winter trips to Worth Matravers (on the Lulworth road, from my then home near Wareham) and visits to the Square and Compass, a tiny pub with a suitably sized landlord, serving up hot pies and foaming ale to huddled bands of rain-soaked, windswept walkers. Those snow-blown days seemed light-years away as I gazed down upon the sparkling waves, the heat of the rising sun already burning my exposed legs and hands.
My homeward journey would hug the shoreline, albeit far above the sea, at times no more than fifty feet, at others several hundred. I managed to run at some speed down the west face and reasoned that I’d adjusted to the severity of the slopes. Clambering into the footholds of the eastern canopy of Bats Head I realised the folly of such arrogance. Each step here, a well-worn plate edged with a wispy white grass beard, appeared at knee height to the last. I’ve yet to experience the joy of the Stairmaster but I suspect those one hundred and fifty or so steps bare comparison with the harshest setting. Once more atop the canopy crest, the glaring rock face of White Nothe before me, I shed the soaking skin formerly known as my Climbacool vest, shamelessly unleashing my flab. High above and to seaward a large bird of prey circled silently, riding the thermals building over the ocean, seeking the perfect vantage point from which to spy breakfast. I felt more in danger from passing Japanese Whalers than from this deft arial killer, much as he might like to spend a week or two feasting on my ample carcass.
I blundered on through the thick blanched grass heads. The thick clumps of yellow waving at the sky reminded me of something - or someone; Boris Becker. It’s like running through Boris Beckers’ hair, I thought, chuckling then laughing out loud at the bizarre imagery. A slightly more humane climb (which I managed to run all the way) to the houses at the Nothe's summit left me confident of a strong two mile finish. I set up my phonecam to record the sight of my unfettered flesh wobbling along the trail, at first from the east and then off to the west. I hoped the shots would offer some perspective on the run, if not put readers off their next meal or two. As I did so I spied the eagle once more, now drifting overland on the sea breeze. As I watched he folded his wings to plummet, silent death from above, dropping inexorably on some unsuspecting field mouse or perhaps a young rabbit. The scorched earth and blonde fields offered less protection than usual; my winged accomplice would no doubt fill his boots. Or his talons.
The run home was a joy. Overwhelmingly downhill yet far from vertical, my hammered legs revelling in their new freedom. Willow bounded alongside, preraphaelite ears flying, tongue lolling, relieved no doubt that The Master wasn’t actually going to keel over as had seemed likely an hour ago, but would in fact return home to dish out some welcome breakfast.
Another dash to and from the caravan for a swift change of togs and once more into the cooling sea dear friends, once more! It would have come as no surprise had there been a loud ‘Hissssssssssssss’ as I plunged my broiled girth into the surf. Can there be a finer feeling after a hard-fought run in the sun than to float on the sea listening to one’s heart rate slowing under clear blue skies, the keening of gulls squabbling over the tide line jetsam a distant, muffled soundtrack? I doubt it.
Next week it’s home to the Sussex hills; they’ll seem a shade tamer after this.
Somewhere around 8 miles in around 1:45.
Part run, part walk, part rock-climb. All extremely warm.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
[SIZE="1"][COLOR="Blue"][COLOR="RoyalBlue"]Above (L to R): White Nothe from Ringstead Bay; Graveyard at Holworth; Looking back from the climb up White Nothe; Cliff top path; sheep trouble; path at Bats Head; clear seas and kelp; Man o' War cove and Durdle Door.
Below (L to R): Bats Head from the east (homeward); Sweaty Sweder and the view east; Topless running (east view); Topless running (west view); Sight of home from White Nothe; Bloat On The Water . . [/COLOR].[/COLOR][/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
