This time last year I was ready. Ready to run my first, and in all likelihood my only, marathon. I had conscientiously trained, over a long hot summer, to get 20 miles into my comfort zone. I had run, fallen, taken time off to recover; then run some more, before taking more time off to walk coast to coast. I was definitely ready.

I was confident that, having run 20 miles, the finishing line would be achievable. In my head, I broke the run (run, not race: this was just for myself, a personal achievement, not a competition) into chunks: 10 miles (twice), followed by a final 10k. The physical training and mental strategy worked. I finished the run, enjoying every step.

Having trained for the marathon, it seemed reasonable to sign up to run 10 miles, just once, around Derwentwater. A tough run within a couple of weeks of the marathon. That completed, I would take a month’s break from running to recover. The break began with a holiday in Rome; lots of pasta, gelato and walking. Then Christmas, winter, my birthday, the break grew longer. A handful of Parkruns and a couple of undulating 10ks passed with little training.

Mr A signed up to run the 26.2 miles this year. He’s risen to the challenge and is well and truly prepared for a good time. Overtaken by the fear of missing out, I signed up to run the 10 mile route. Somehow, a year has passed and the numbers have arrived. It’s nearly back in the comfort zone; but for today, ‘justtenmiles’ is feeling easier said than run.

I love picking up conkers. Nice fresh shiny conkers. This time of year, there is normally a conker, or two, in my coat pocket. Sometimes, my pockets are positively bulging with conkers. I can’t resist them when they’re fresh and newly hatched. If I’m not picking them up, I’m likely to be kicking one along the pavement in front of me.

As autumn rolls on, a cairn of drying out conkers will be growing next to the coat hooks in the porch. I’ll be asked if they are there to keep the spiders away; apparently, that’s a thing. If they were, it’s not working. The house is full of spiders at the moment. Apparently, they come indoors to look for a mate. Maybe we should set up a web based dating agency?

Back at the conkers. I read this week that horse chestnut trees are at risk of extinction due to pests and disease. Young trees aren’t surviving more than a few yearsI. Which is a worry.

When I was a child there was only a couple of horse chestnut trees near to my school. There was always a scrum and a fight to collect the conkers. Around our town, wide Victorian avenues are lined with trees. They are beautiful in their autumn colours. And a hazard to the runner. On a windy day, it may be raining conkers; on any autumn day, they will be there underfoot. I’ll pick my way through them, wondering: don’t today’s children feel the need to collect conkers?

The cycling world championships came to town last week. There was a mixed welcome for the experience. Opinions were divided. Some embraced the excitement; others saw it as, at best, a nuisance. Over the week, an international party atmosphere grew in our small town.

The weather was perfect the week before the event. The sun shone with anticipation on the empty fan zone as the Ferris wheel and beer tents arrived. The races started, and the rain began to fall. The fan zone became a muddy festival. Some days the cyclists may have wished for canoes to carry them along the roads. There was an irony to the wet conditions; the Victorian prosperity of this spa town was built on its water.

This granny is not much of a cyclist, no wet or busy roads and not too many hills for me. But I do like the sense of occasion of a big event; I was out watching the cycling and meeting new people every day. Along with other churches, we served hot drinks and cakes to passers-by. Security staff and visitors sheltered in our building, made use of our facilities. It was great to open the doors and welcome the world.

I know that some local businesses will have suffered a shortfall in trade over the last week; I’ll be out supporting my favourites as the rain continues this week. Others will have benefitted as visitors sheltered from the weather. On balance though, the local hotels and breweries have probably done ok.

I was in Leeds yesterday afternoon, with a bit of time to spare. I went to sit in the central library. It’s a magnificent building, decorated lavishly with Victorian tiles. I sat for a while thinking about the many libraries that I have visited over the years.

I have always loved a library. I can’t remember my first visit to the library, which was no doubt accompanied by an adult. I do remember, as a very young child, even as a pre-schooler, making solo trips to the library.

The world was seen to be a safer place back in the 1960’s and there were no roads to cross. We lived in a cul-de-sac and the library was in a big old house in a walled garden backing onto our close. So I was able to follow the pavement all the way around the block right up to the library door.

One library trip sticks in my mind, not for the visit itself but for the events that followed. It was a wet evening and, in that gap between school and tea, I had gone to change my library books. Returning home, in through the back door into the kitchen, I noticed a small flame on the chip pan warming on the hob.

Rushing into the lounge shouting ‘mum’, I was met by a finger to the lips and a ‘shh’. Mum was deep in conversation with the next door neighbour. ‘But mum…’; ‘shhh, wait until I’ve finished’.

So I waited, becoming engrossed in my book. Eventually the question was asked: ‘Now, what was it that was so important that you needed to interrupt?’ Looking up from my book, I thought for a while and remembered. ‘Oh yes, when I came through the kitchen, there was a little flame on the chip pan.’ Shrieks followed as the two women rushed out to discover that the single flame on the chip pan had developed into an incident of slightly greater significance.

I like September. This year is particularly special as this granny awaits the arrival of a new grandchild.

It’s a time of fresh starts. The beginning of a new academic year. A time to set new challenges. Some for completion over the autumn, to meet the personal targets set for the calendar year; others to extend throughout the academic year.

It’s a time for taking stock. Gathering in the harvest and reflecting on the past.

The creative writing group starts again next week. That is well and truly in my comfort zone now. Class mates have become friends and the excuses for the absence of homework are well rehearsed. I am also beginning a non-qualification course in theology. Ahead of the first session I am experiencing the anxiety of promotion to the juniors (KS2 in the modern world); the fear of an expected level of knowledge that I cannot meet. In a moment of role reversal, my daughter tells me: no need to worry, unless they’re expecting you to teach the class.

On the running front, I am painfully aware that after last year’s marathon I declared that I would ‘only’ run the 10 mile route this year. It’s just 6 weeks away now, so I’ve started to build up the training runs. A little late, but I’m sure that I’ll make it to the starting line.

Conditions being forecast to be good, late on Saturday we walked down to St Mary’s lighthouse to watch for the Northern lights.

Over the past week, we’d walked across the country east to west following the Hadrian’s Wall trail. It had taken six days for a group of friends to cover 84 miles from Wallsend to Bowness on Solway. Our daughter and son-in-law picked us up on the far side of the country and whisked us back in just over two hours.

Showered and fed, we were ready for an evening stroll. The tide was out, leaving the causeway to the lighthouse clear. The others, with better eyesight than mine, decided they would walk onto the island. This was an adventure too far for me, so I waited in the darkness beside the sea.

I had been standing alone for a while, cold under the starlit sky, when I heard footsteps behind me on the causeway. I looked around and saw the dark outline of a warmly wrapped man, hood forward over his face. For a moment, I wondered whether I should shrink further back into the shadows, remaining hidden from his view. I decided against this strategy and spoke out, confident in the good nature of most people. ‘Hello’, I said, closely followed by an apology as he jumped in shock, having been quite unaware of my presence.

He set up his camera, waiting for the light display that never came. I explained that I was waiting for my family to come off the island. As we left, I wished him well and mentioned the beautiful photograph of the lights over the lighthouse which I had seen a few years ago, on the front page of The Guardian. ‘Oh yes’, he said, ‘that was one of mine.’

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This granny loves paddling. Shoes off, sand between my toes, cool waves washing around my ankles. A slow walk along the tide line is a little taste of heaven on earth. Feet numb, brain chilled; I can walk for miles in the shallow water.

But then it’s over. Feet need drying. I may not have thought about this before I kicked off my shoes, pulled off my socks. I’ve probably not brought a towel. And, is there anywhere to lean? Wash off the sand in the sea, stand firm on one leg, shake opposite foot, slide damp foot elegantly back into sock and shoe. The wobbly reality is inevitably less graceful, involving several failed attempts to get foot into sock.  I need to improve my balance.

I commit to go to Pilates classes to work on my core strength. It might improve my running as well as my balance. I place my mat at the back, out of sight of the mirror. ‘Just lift your feet off the floor and back over your head, rotating them slowly three times’ says the instructor effortlessly, whilst demonstrating the movement. I engage my core, such as it is, and lift my feet. Or more accurately try to lift my feet. They don’t rise far and they crash back down. ‘Don’t worry if you can’t manage the full movement’, he says. So I don’t worry. I just keep on trying, persuading myself that the effort may do some good.

I won’t give up on the classes. But I have made a mental note to take my flip flops to the beach.

We’d planned a long distance walk last week, just Mr A and me. The Stanza Stones trail from Marsden (home of poet laureate and author of the stanzas,  Simon Armitage) to Ilkley; nearly 50 miles over 3 days. The forecast for the week was wet, getting wetter: rain and more rain. The walk could be a miserable one. Our accommodation being cancellable, we cancelled.

We, or mostly he, kept watching the forecast. We knew that we could still do the walks, setting off from home by train and returning each evening. Forecast for day one was wall to wall rain, so we stayed home. Pent up like caged animals, we bickered like small children on a wet playtime.

Day two, the forecast was better so we caught an early train. Changing twice: Leeds and Huddersfield, we arrived at Marsden station well before 9am. It was damp and drizzly, but good to be out in the fresh air. We set off along the canal towards the Standedge tunnel, through which I had travelled on a narrow boat some forty years ago or more. This time we walked over the top, past the ventilation shafts of the canal and railway tunnels.

The first stone, Snow, sits in a quarry above the A62. We stood in awe and sunshine reading the chiselled verse. Then off we went, in excessive anticipation of the bridge carrying the Pennine Way over the M62. It’s fascinated me since the early 1970’s when we made our first journey over the newly opened motorway, avoiding the stress of navigation through the hills from our home in South Manchester to my Gran’s in County Durham. Dad would point it out as we drove under it, each and every time. I did the same with my children. Walking over it did not disappoint and no doubt next time I drive beneath it, I will need to mention that I have walked over it.

On we went, passing through a corner of Lancashire and back into Yorkshire. Over dams built high in the peaty hills to create reservoirs and manage the canal system. The second stone of the day was Rain. Experienced on a damp, but not washed out, day.

A brisk walk from there, on the level and then steeply downhill to Hebden Bridge just in time for the train home. Nearly 20 miles covered, with 2 of the 6 watery themed stanza stones visited.

Day 3 was wetter than day 1. We stayed dry in a National Trust property. Just 2, not too wet, commitment free days required to finish the walk.