My Favourite Run

It’s early morning, not yet fully light. The air is calm and bitterly cold, making the bridge of my nose crinkle in pain as the moisture freezes and then thaws again with my breath.

 The world is monotone. Just shades of dark and light, glittering with an adornment of ice crystals from the hard frost. The rolling hills of the North Downs are just coming into focus, accompanied by the occasional song of a blackbird or robin.

 My hands, even in gloves, are starting to get cold. I can feel the skin on my cheeks tighten and I release plumes of smoke, like a dragon with each breath. The chill is starting to ebb though my skin, slowing down my heart and respiration. It’s time to start.

I leave the car park by the South East corner, heading onto the track that runs down into the valley. Very soon, I turn off the track and join another. In a few hours from now, both tracks will be teeming with dogs and their owners. Solitary and in groups, stopping to chat, comment on the weather and catch up on titbits of each other’s lives.

But for now, I have it all to myself.

The track is actually a byway, well used by men on scrambling bikes, with little apparent care for either environment or other users, intent on the adrenaline rush of acceleration. As a result, care needs to be taken along this part. Soil is frequently washed away leaving the chalk subsoil rutted into gulley’s. It’s easy to strain or sprain cold muscles along this section. My gait is stiff and robotic, despite the gentle climb, I am yet to warm up properly and gratefully use the rougher sections as an excuse for walking. No matter, I still have another six or so miles to go. There will be plenty of opportunity to pick up the pace later.

The track leads onto the approach road to the estate house. Once belonging to a society darling who once welcomed Royalty, these days the National Trust are charged with its care. I cross the approach road to the house and take a well-worn path, oft used by the stables to access the surrounding bridleways.

 The path leads upwards to the top of the first hill. It’s gentle-at-first slope does the job of completing the warm up process. Steam rises from my arms and torso, the gloves come off, metaphorically and physically. I carry them in my hand for a few paces, until I decide they will quickly get annoying and tuck them down the waistband of my running tights.

I crest the hill and leave the trail to join the tarmac path heading down under a wooden pedestrian bridge. I know this bridge connects wilderness to the more manicured lawns of the stately home. The lawns are great for exploring and enjoying views over the valley, but for now I’m content to head into the valley, with the birds for company.

I run downhill, towards a densely wooded copse with a trail through the middle. Here, the frost suddenly disappears and is replaced by detritus from the trees. Old leaves, now rotted into leaf mould with a sprinkling of a newer layer still recognisable as leaves. Although now slightly more skeletal as the decomposition microbes start to take hold. The aroma of earth and decay hits me as I enter the copse and I breath in deeply. It is the smell of Mother Earth and I appreciate her love.

Roger Deakin, in his book ‘Wildwood, a journey through trees stated, ‘to enter a wood is to pass into a different world in which we ourselves are transformed…it is where you travel to find yourself’. Since I was a child, I have found myself being drawn to woodland. It is a primeval instinct born from a desire to be at peace. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in his poem Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie describes it best…

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring oceanSpeaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

The downhill section is nearly up, I start to mentally brace myself for the sharp rise out of the valley. It comes soon enough, through the trees and heading towards the common. 

 The land I run through is also owned by the National Trust and there is evidence of tree management everywhere. Piles of logs, presumably left to the wildlife lie around the oath in piles. Although at this time of day in deep winter, I run through the woods accompanied by silence. Maybe the gloom acts as a somnambulant for the resident wildlife? Or maybe the sound of my breathing drowns all other sounds out. It is certainly the only thing I can hear right now, well that and the sound of my heart beating in my ears. I don’t need a heart rate monitor or any fancy gadgets to tell me I’m working hard right now.

My legs have started to complain, sufficient enough to slow to a walk and not feel guilty about it. The woods become quiet again as my breath settles. I run this route regularly and often walk this little stretch, despite thinking that one day I really *should* run it all.

 One day, an older gentleman walking down the hill commented that I should be running. He sounded genuinely short-changed. I felt indignant. Now the walking feels like an act of rebellion. Soon enough, the slope eases and it’s time to pick up the pace again.

 At the top is a sharp left turn and a rollercoaster path, pitching and rising to the contours of the hill. The road runs alongside although at this time of day sits unused. In summer, early morning cyclists make slow progress up the hills but for now, nothing. I am grateful for the alone time. The peace helps as I shuffle through my thoughts. A mental checklist of what to keep and what needs dispatching. Running is amazing for a mental spring clean.

 An owl hoots in the far distance, displacing the myth that they only come out at night. I think about a friend who once had an altercation with an owl, while riding home from work on her bicycle. The owl flew out of the woods at head height and straight into her, causing great excitement for both of them as they sorted out which bits belonged to whom, or twit t’ who maybe? In the end, both emerged relatively unscathed with a great story to tell to anyone who would believe it.

Now, in the present I have turned left and re-entered the woods and a long downhill stretch on a rocky path. The feeling to fly needs to be tempered with the ankle turning ground underneath. Leaving one with a short tippy toed stride with a bit of oomph behind it as the trail pitches back into the valley. I feel like I’m flying as I run towards the youth hostel located in the woods at the bottom.

I reach it red faced, sweating and exhilarated. I can’t help but laugh out loud as I jump tree roots and land into soft mud. The pace has eased up as the route turns upwards once again and now as I approach the ornate Italian bridge I’m faced with a choice. Onwards to a path well known for mud and slow going, or a scramble up the bank and through the metaphorical back door into the grounds of the stately house.

I chose the latter. The climb necessitates the use hands and knees until I get to the top and am able to straighten up. Here I get the first glimpse of the valley to my right. I go through a gate and onto the path leading straight to the front doors of the house (doors double, it’s a big house that necessitates a big entrance). Here, on the hill and exposed, the frost is hard and the ground glitters all around me. A shaft of sunlight creeps over the horizon with the promise of warmth later. But for now, the frozen world around me is silent.

Half way up the hill to my left is a pillared folly that decrees the entrance to the long walk. I stop momentarily to look at the view and fantasise about drinking champagne on the lawn as ‘lady of the house’. Then, as the fantasy disperses I carry on up the path towards the house. Arriving at the top puffing but in the knowledge that I’m almost finished and the majority of the climbing is behind me. I head out of the grounds and towards the main gate that leads me back to the trail I initially took from the car park. The sun has made its way over the horizon fully now, casting the sky azure blue and requiring the need for sunglasses for the drive home.

As I complete the last few hundred metres, I am greeted by the first of the dog walkers heading towards me from the car park. The peace is over and I’m glad to be done, ready to start the rest of the day.

Nicky McGill