Spring is the best time of year for running.
Early this morning it was bright and sunny, but cool. The damp streets almost deserted. I kept to the small back lanes and the deer park, where no cars could trouble me. I now know that, at 6:10 am, the entire population of the world numbers four: there’s me, the postman, and a couple of pensive dog walkers.
The run was therapeutic rather than joyful. Last night’s effort was the first in weeks, and it was hardly surprising that my legs were leaden and reluctant. Everything felt heavy, but it was great to be out there at all.
Dublin is still a long way off, but I can already sense it. Just a faint trace perhaps, and insubstantial, like a flickering shadow, or an outline; a blurred silhouette on the far horizon. I don’t quite have it in focus yet, but I know it’s there, and it’s thrilling.
Those who hear not the music, think the dancer mad.
