LE JOG

[Sweder]

Time for some hard yards on my quest for northern climbs.
In a case of life imitating art - or perhaps the opposite? - I left my comfort zone amongst the undemanding local trails and hit the tarmac monster; the A39. For mile after hardcore mile I battled north-eastward, the unyielding hard-top pounding my sore legs into raw hamburger.

I took on all manner of natural desensitizers. Having plunged dramatically off the wagon in the fleshpots of Bude (I cannot tell the tale here; there's no time. In any case I'm advised to keep my council else the town elders choose to press charges. I hear the magistrate is distraught and his wife has yet to stop her incesant giggling) I felt no qualms in downing a few jugs of local ale. I dipped into the Crealock Arms where a pint of Fistbanger proved just the beast to flush an impressively gooey (and, it should be said, somewhat ancient) steak pie. At the Patch & Parrot I ran the gamut from the darkest mead to the flightiest amber ale on the cusp of Bideford Water. Here the gulls wheeled and cried, intent upon plucking the fresh-battered haddock from my plate. I'd taken a seat outside on the estuary wall. The interior of the once authentic travelers' rest sits blighted by a monstrous faux pirate mural. This so enraged one customer, a gnarled, bent fellow, disctinctive in fetching eye-patch and headscarf, balanced somewhat precariously on a stout, highly-polished wooden peg, that he thundered and roared, scaring some school-kids away from the whirring fruit machines and the chirpy Who Wants To Be A Millionnaire? contraption. It's enough to turn the saltiest sea-dog's stomach. Gaaaaar!



Loping across the Bideford Long Bridge, now happily open following a 2.1 million reconstruction overseen by the curious combination of Obi Wan Kanobi and General Tojo, my legs complained bitterly. The iron girders jarred my bruised bones, tortured my screaming hamstrings. I whistled Colonel Bogey for all I was worth but it didn't help. It was only the distant call of the Exmoor National Park, the siren song of her clear gamboling brooks, the intoxicating perfume of her legendary fauna, that gave me the strength to carry on. That, and Mrs Bothworthy's (now somewhat crumbly) Eccles cake that had somehow escaped my attention these past few days. It announced itself by sliding out of my sweat-stained rucksack as I took a breather on the northern shore, and I gratefully gobbled it down.



Restored by the artery-clogging blend of puff pastry, currants, butter and demerrera sugar I ploughed on, relieved to finally leave the busy main road after a soul-sucking twenty mile slog. The winding lanes offered gentler views and enticing opportunities for further hydration. I stuck to my guns until, with the sun scurrying off behind the ominous cloudbank looming over the hills behind me, I ducked into the doorway of the Old Station House Inn at Blackmoor Gate, Kentisbury, on the very edge of the Moor. This charmingly-appointed gastro-pub was originally one of the main stations on the Lynton-Barnstaple Narrow Gauge Railway that operated from 1898 until its closure in 1935.

As dusk rolled in I sat back on the hard wooden bench. Although somewhat chilly to be out the kindly patron had suggested my salt-sweat stained attire and pungent perfume might disrupt the sensibilities of the locals and proferred this agreeable, if frost-coated seat. The stars were out in a rare clear display; the beauty of the scene was undeniable. The gently wafted air, deliciously thin at a thousand feet above sea-level, carried the whispered rustling of red deer, or perhaps Exmoor Horn or Cheviot, from the nearby woods. Despite my crippling fatigue and rapidly dropping core temperature I could barely contain my excitement. After a day and a night here (and a long, hot shower) I'll be off into the Park proper to delve into her lush green treasures, a fitting reward for my endless urban suffering.