Under a Poet's Moon There Are Dreams in Action...

Under a poet's moon there are dreams in action

Prayers met and questions answered

As the world birls in the darkness, I'm still staring at the skies

Under a poet's moon

There's something really special about moonlit runs. Clear skies, an eerie light sending shadows across the hillside, the faint outlines of higher peaks and the surreal glow of snowcapped summits.

With the temperature having plummeted these last couple of days, and frost giving a crispness underfoot even this early in the evening, we couldn't resist the lure of our first bat run from Achaphubuil. Kirsten was home at a reasonable time, Sam was itching to get out there and I......well, I had no choice but to be swayed by their infectious enthusiasm.

And so it was that, wrapped up in base layer, thicker long-sleeved top, buff, warmer hat and two pairs of gloves, we stepped out of the door into the freezing night.

Back in 2006, I'd only been running a few years, and fellrunning for a year or two. We'd sometimes head out from the sports centre at Lilleshall with head torches on, to take in a cross-country route, running across fields and through woods. It was exhilarating, it was fun, it encapsulated everything good about running.

So, one night that winter, with significant snow having fallen, I decided to head over to the Long Mynd after darkness had fallen and run around part of the Stretton Skyline route. I parked the car in Carding Mill, donned the headtorch and set off up the main track. 

Having crossed the icy stream, I headed left and, before long, reached Little Spout waterfall, where torch beams bounced back at me off the icicles in the falls and the sheet ice on the "steps" up to the right. I paused to take in all this beauty, but set off again before too long as the cold wrapped itself around me.

On up to the top of Pole Bank to gaze out at a snowy,winter wonderland. And then a fast descent down to cross the road and head towards the descent into Little Stretton.

Only here, I learnt a very important lesson about night running: places that you think you know like the back of your hand look very different in the dark!

Somehow, amidst the snow and thin mist, I ran straight past the left fork in the track that leads you down into Little Stretton, and found myself on unfamiliar terrain and unsure of which way to head. The heart rate quickened, and I recalled the story of the vicar who'd spent a snowy night stuck out on the Mynd! All alone, pitch black and nobody knew I was up there....I'd better keep moving! After some floundering, I ended up heading down steep, snowy slopes to reach a fence, which was followed back to the main track.

Back to the sanctuary of a warm car and a chance to reflect on what had been a memorable evening. The toes eventually thawed out, a change of clothes brought warmth to my body and I revelled in the excitement of it all. I'd be back again pretty soon!

As we head along the road to reach the gate onto the hill, icy tentacles of air reach deep down into my lungs and leave me wheezing, struggling for breath. It feels as though this may be a slow one! Any sustained effort will be tough in these conditions. As I gulp in oxygen, the cold numbs the inside of my mouth and a dull ache pervades my jaw.

We turn up onto the track and, encouraged by Kirsten and Sam's efforts, I break into a steady trot up the hill, eventually running all the way up to the deer fence, where cold fingers grapple with the bolt to open the gate and make our way onto open fellside.

Torches off for a moment, a chance to appreciate the magnificent views and the exceptional light provided by the moon on this clear night. From down below, noise drifts across from the sawmill, a veritable hub of activity amongst all this calm. We turn, put the lights back on, and focus our attention on the climb.

1.00am on a calm, clear and warm Lake District night in May 2009. I park the car in the little car park at Little Town, get my pack together, step out into the darkness and trot up the tarmac track leading towards High Snab Bank.

I make my way along the track and up to level with the waterfall, where I head off on pathless slopes up to the right, making my way up to the summit of Robinson. The distant lights of Keswick are visible to the north and, beyond that, the orange glow of Carlisle reflects against the high cloud cover.

I descend on runnable slopes at pace, cutting a little too low and left as I head to Hindscarth, before turning back on myself and trotting towards Dale Head, which is reached at a canter. A fast descent down grassy slopes to the side of the eroded path takes me down until I can see the buildings at Honister and a brief stop to retrieve the provisions I've stashed amongst the piles of slate. The humous and vegetable wrap is barely palatable at this strange hour, but I force it down, knowing the body will need it over the next few hours.

I climb the rocky steps beside the fence line as I head up Grey Knotts, clambering up to its craggy summit before increasing my pace as I head to Brandreth. A glance to my right reveals a strange, eerie glow across the whole northern sky....not the northern lights, I don't think, but something akin to it. A magical place to be on such a fine night, all alone with my thoughts, my whole being concentrated on that shaft of light in front of me.

I reach the top of Brandreth and look back to see the first light rising to the east. A fine day beckons by the look of it. As I descend to the col below Green Gable, that early dawn light creeps across the sky and, on the final ascent to that summit, the sun's first rays peer over the horizon.

To anyone who doesn't go out on the hills at night, it's hard to explain the feeling as the sun rises on a new day. An energy fills the air, and fills your very being. Even after a long night out running, it recharges your batteries and brings new hope and expectation. And, perhaps most of all, it brings warmth.

The headtorch goes off as I start the scramble up Great Gable, and as the sun rises in the morning sky, I sense I'm in for a tough day in scorching, hot May conditions.

The highland cattle have been loitering here lately and the obvious signs of their presence are scattered across the track(!). Torch beams search the darkness for the reflections of peering, curious eyes. We toil on upwards and the intensity of the cold increases.

Then we spot the cattle immediately ahead of us on the track. They've seen Sam several times lately and, whilst not unduly concerned, there is a curious interest in him and we're not about to get too close. We fork off onto pathless, frozen boggy slopes and make a beeline for the ridge high above us. The crispness actually makes for an easier ascent than usual as the studs grip, contrasting sharply with the slippery nature of recent runs up here, with the top surface a moving, unstable mass of sodden ground.

We reach the ridgeline just as Sam gets excited about something he's either seem or can smell in the darkness. For certain there will be deer in the vicinity, there always are here and we've seen them plenty of times just lately. We scan the plateau but see nothing.

We turn left to descend towards the trig point, heading towards the lights of Fort William, aware of the snowy fortress of Ben Nevis dominating the gloomy view to our right. Down below, the lights sparkle and shimmer on the loch. Kirsten sees the mast long before I do and, soon enough, we reach the trig point following a bog-hopping trot across fragile, part-frozen ground.

The torches go off again and we appreciate the panoramic view. Snowy peaks in all directions, the Ben towering above us close at hand, the sawmill busy down below, lighting up Corpach, before darkness envelopes the loch as it heads west towards Glenfinnan, only the odd speckle of light from remote houses the further you head up the glen.

Numb, stinging hands search the bumbag for a camera, and obligatory photos are taken. Our first time up here in the dark.....Lochaber Bat Runners!!

October 2009, and the first frosts of autumn have arrived to coincide with a backpacking trip into the hills west of Loch Lomond. A tough day, suffered under the hazy cloud of a hangover, had seen me camp out amongst the forests of Gleann Leacann Shelleach, settling down in my tent to listen to the primeval roar of rutting stags across the amphitheatre of steep slopes which surrounded me.

The next day, I left the tent hidden amongst the trees and set off for a run around the skyline, taking in 3 munros on a high level promenade, before dropping down into Arrochar, where I was meeting Kirsten off the train.

She'd been on family duties, but had wanted to join me as soon as possible for what would be our first time out in "proper" hills together and our first wild camp as a bona-fide couple.

We climbed back up over Ben Narnain, relishing the last wee scramble up by the "Spearhead", before heading down to the west of Creag Tharsuinn on steep, pathless slopes, to make our way along forest paths and back to the tent, where we ignited the cooking stove and settled down to a well-earned meal.

It was a cold, wonderfully clear night and, despite the gathering frost, we couldn't resist lying together with our heads out of the tent, gazing up in awe at a ceiling of stars. We felt so alive and so at one with each other. This was the perfect antidote to a testing few weeks, where the ramifications of our meeting and falling  in love had started to sink in.

In those moments, none of it mattered. We were alone in our beautiful world, we were sharing and appreciating all that was between us. We were both content and yet so excited about the possibilities of life together and the promise of a lifetime of similar adventures. I held her close to me and looked up just in time to see a shooting star leap across the dark void. As moonbeams lit up our woodland haven, we looked at each other, and, even at this early stage, we knew we there was a bond between us that would be everlasting.

We head off around the mast, following slippy grass slopes down to reach the first telegraph pole. Then it's a matter of shining torches up at the wires and following their direction downwards, cautiously when the slope steepens and disappears into the darkness, until we reach the deer fence at almost exactly the right spot next to the kissing gate leading into Crofters Woods.

We release Sam, safe in the knowledge that he won't now take off across the hillsides chasing shadows in the night. We head down on the narrow path through the bushes, the shrill cry of a disturbed nesting bird briefly causing us to be startled. Down across the slippy wooden duck boards and on down to the road, where we turn left for the last mile trot alongside the loch, past the familiar landmarks which we tick off on our daily walk.

We take the pace down for the last couple of hundred yards, as we reach the row of houses where we stay. We look out at the mist starting to gather above the water, and watch the graceful retreat of a heron, who is startled into flight from the shoreline just below us. The gate clunks shut behind us and we open the back door, ready to retreat into the warmth, a bellyful of reviving fodder and a chance to ruminate on another of our little adventures together. 

And, as we do so, we take one quick glance back at the selenite moon.......

     

 

I'm so glad that I'm still here to see this.....

I'm so glad that I'm still here to see this,
the whole story is unfolding before my eyes;
I'm so happy I can barely believe it...
this simple pleasure is the mystery spice of life

Here you go, Em, some pictures!

Beautiful dog!!

The view down Loch Linnhe

Sam sitting under the erratic

Stob Coire a Chearcaill

the top of Meall an t-Slamain, looking across the the Ben

The piper plays his tune so you must follow.....

A cool, slightly overcast November afternoon. Hints of sunshine on the Morvern peaks, it's orange light throwing shadows across the snowy wonderland. The ground underfoot is sodden from the recent wet weather, and yet a crispness to the grass belies the coming of colder weather.

I'd almost decided not to come out on the hill today. The legs are tired from a couple of days of tougher efforts, the warmth of the house is cajoling me into settling down with a book and some background music and the head is not quite there today. But when you get a "weather window" in Lochaber, you're best to take it. There'll be rain along soon enough and the urge to head out will plummet on a dreich early December day, when the only promise is of cloudy summits with no views and freezing, wet feet within minutes of being on the hill.

Anyway, Sam needs it. As soon as he sees me come into the room with a pair of Walshes, he's up out of his bed, tail wagging and he's smothering me in licks and hugs whilst I try to tie the laces. If ever I needed a pick-me-up, he is it. The simple life I aspire to is perfectly encapsulated in Sam. A good run on the hills, a walk or two on the beach to forage and explore, some good food to top it all off and then a nice, warm bed - what more do you need?

I close the gate, only half-wrapping the string (we'll be back here to do that properly in a wee while) and "release" Sam so that he can enjoy the freedom of the hill. I look at the track heading up steeply towards the woods which shield the lower slopes of the hill, I adjust the buff to allow me to breathe easily and off I head, a slow trot, feeling my way into a rhythm.

A cold, slightly icy December Sunday, 1994 in Telford Town Park. I've been running for a few years now, times getting better, PBs at plenty of races and, since starting interval sessions with the Telford Harriers/AC speedy group, the pace has noticeably increased.

Now it's time to see if I can reach the holy grail - a sub-40 minute 10k. A real barrier, a test of the "decent" club runner. I've been close in the past, but not close enough. This race is known as a flat PB course. There's a feeling of "now or never" about today. The nerves are there, the heart's racing a little as I warm-up. There are greetings with fellow runners, but my mind is trying to get "in the zone".

Soon enough, we're off. A mad dash for the first corners, a slippy section or two to negotiate, and then settling down into some kind of rhythm, a steady pace which I can keep up for the next 6 miles. The first mile flies by in 6 minutes and I'm aware that I'm not going to keep that up. I slow a bit and try to hold a steadier pace. Before long, we reach the turn-around point at halfway and I glance down to see 19 minutes on the watch. It's do-able, but I'm starting to tire.

We head back along the flat tarmac of the railway track, desperately trying to keep my mind focused on maintaining the pace, conscious of the fatigue building in my legs and mind. And trying to ignore the fact that this is a really boring courses. Back the way you came, along the flat, harsh, unforgiving tarmac track, hemmed in on either side by steep banks.

As I pass the 5 mile marker, I realise I can definitely do it. Head down and concentrate. A last, strong mile and then I'm into those last couple of hundred yards to the finish as my watch ticks over the 39 minute mark. Through the finish line and I've got 38 seconds in hand. Of course, I'm elated. I've entered the realms of "decent club runner". And yet, it's not something I could say I "enjoyed".......

We turn up the last slope to the deer fence, Sam concentrating fully on the sheep just off to the left of the path. Through gasping breath, I shout "Come Sam" to drag him away. Just a few more steps and.....done it, ran the whole way up to the deer fence despite the lethargy.

Through we go, turning immediately right and off path, to head up through boggy, marshy terrain, in a direct line for the summit. Some bits are run, at other times I back off and walk, content to be out in this magnificent place with stunning views in every direction. Out west, the Glenfinnan peaks sport new snow, above about 1500ft. To the north, the Loch Lochy munros tower above the Great Glen. To the east, the Ben looms over us, it's intimidating north face a mixture of bare rock and snow filling every crevice. The zig-zags are visible, but very much above the snow line, and the relief which the snow provides to the landscape makes you acutely aware that there is a significant drop just below the main path.

As we start the steep climb, we spot a herd of deer on slopes just to the west of us. Sam sees them and is on high alert, lips sucked in, nose twitching and eyes focused. A large stag stands sentinel for the group, and eyes us with a mixture of fear and surprise that humans should be found on these slopes. As we continue, they remain unmoved until we are close enough to see the film of breath escaping from their nostrils. Then, all of a sudden, the deer at the head of the herd makes a break for it, followed by his companions, a mad stampede across the hillside, which Sam views with a mixture of excitement and nervousness (well he is a Collie!).

We watch them head up onto the skyline, the silhouette of antlers against a grey sky, before they disappear over the ridge and we are left to continue our climb, lost in our own thoughts about the wonderful spectacle we've just witnessed.

September 2005. I've just returned from an incredible week in my beloved Highlands. First off, my first Ben race. Having done the Snowdon race and enjoyed it, I thought it would be a good idea to try the Ben. I'd started to do a fair bit of fellrunning, encouraged by the lads at Newport, and had done enough races to qualify.

I'd last been up Ben Nevis over 30 years previously, so I'm not sure what I expected. But what I got was a full-on assault on the senses, a rocky, brutal race that was far removed from anything I'd done up to that point. But I survived, I had an ok time and I'd then headed north to enjoy a wonderful week in Sutherland, walking up remote hills and experiencing all sorts of weather.

But I travelled back on the Saturday so that I could head out to Lake Vyrnwy on the Sunday for the annual half-marathon, a race known for its PB potential. I'd already achieved sub 1-30 and had been slowly taking the time down. Now was the chance to see just how low I could go.

The first few miles saw me trying to settle in, but feeling the tiredness in my legs from a tough week. When I passed Noel at around 5 miles, he asked me how I was. "Fucked" was the reply, and I couldn't imagine another 8 miles of this.

But, spurred on by 2 clubmates, Michelle and Paul, not far ahead, I dug in, turned my mind off to the monotony of the run and slowly, but surely, reeled them in. I passed Michelle around 8 miles and then, a mile later, caught up with Paul. We worked together for the next couple of miles, putting in a 6 minute mile on a slightly downhill section, before I left him and pushed on, focused 100% on the watch on my wrist, working out what I had to do to get a PB.

A slight rise in the last half mile found me wanting, as the legs refused to cooperate, meaning I couldn't catch Phil from the club. But as I turned the corner and spotted the finish line, I realised I was in for a sub 1.26 finish and upped the pace as much as I could to collapse in a heap on the other side of the finish line. 

Again, I was absolutely delighted with my time. I enjoyed the congratulations of friends as they finished and as I relaxed later, I reflected on a job well done. And yet, even in those moments, I couldn't help but notice the contrast between long days out on the hills, where the beauty was in being out there, and road races, where I consciously shut out the surroundings and my world revolved around a watch on my wrist.

We finally reach the summit ridge, only a few hundred yards and a small rise from the cairn. I decide to make an effort, legs kicking into gear, my brain reading the uneven terrain and my lungs sucking in the necessary oxygen. Up to the top, and the view south is revealed, down Loch Linnhe, past the Corran narrows (where the ferry is just pulling out), along past Beinn a Bheithir and out towards Oban and the western Isles.

Closer at hand, I peer down to the loch far below me and across to the relative metropolis of Fort William, lights flashing, vehicles buzzing around, a small boat sending ripples across the water as it heads towards Loch Eil. Only 1600ft up, but a million miles away from all that.

The sun is glowing away to the south-west, sliding lower in the sky as it heads below the far-off peaks. Dusk will be here soon, and I realise it's time to get off the hill. I didn't put a headtorch in today. A mistake perhaps, but the plan was to take in the last of the light and arrive back at the track before darkness enveloped us.

I made one more attempt at a road PB. Buoyed by my success at Vrynwy, I headed off with friends to the Amsterdam Half Marathon in 2006. Another flat race, somewhere different to visit, and a real go at sub-1.25.  

Only it didn't turn out like that. 

Runners packed into caged pens like sardines. Crowded streets where you had to zig zag across to try and pass selfish people who had set off way ahead of their predicted time. Dull, lifeless streets with nothing to take the mind off the dreariness of it all.

And, as time slipped away in that race, I resolved to leave behind the roads and clock-watching and immerse myself in the fellrunning scene. I'd just read a new book, Feet in the Clouds,  that had turned my mind and got me dreaming. Who knows where it would take me!

We descend steeply off the top, past the newly-discovered erratic on the southern slopes and then down past the fence-posts to the boggy bealach. The light is fading, but there's no rush. At times, I descend quickly. At others, I take it nice and steady, enjoying the feeling of being out here where no other humans tread.

Again, we disturb a herd of deer. This time they move away more quickly, rushing for the safety of the ridgeline to the west, where they stand on ceremony looking imperious against the fading glow in the western sky.

Sam watches with curiosity, an innocent, puppy-like sense of wonder. I watch with admiration and a feeling of immense privilege that I am allowed into their sanctuary for these brief moments, so that I return to "real life" feeling renewed.

Up here, away from modern life, a calmness and serenity flows over me.I feel at one with my surroundings.  More importantly, I feel at one with myself. Doubts drop away, expectations wither and self-criticism which gnaws away at me daily vanishes over the horizon. Life is taken at a pace which suits me, hard effort at times, easing off at others, but always moving forward.

Here is where I belong, here is where I've always belonged.