July - Mission: Lard-loss

[Sweder]

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.