Getting back

Motivation zero, I need to remind myself that it’s less than a year since my last Great North Run. This year, post-covid, I’ve completely lost my confidence for outdoor running. Its solitude and rhythm was my headspace, my thinking time. I miss it, and need to find my way back into the habit. It’s not the same, but I’ve joined the gym again. It’s where my running began, two decades ago. It’s where I convinced myself that, if I could manage twenty minutes on a cross-trainer, I could easily run a half marathon. I soon discovered it wasn’t easy, but it was addictive.

Getting back to the gym has had other benefits too. With a carefully planned route and newly acquired panniers to carry my kit, I’ve blown the cobwebs off my bike. It’s been exhilarating, but I’ll always be a fair weather cyclist. I’m probably a fair weather swimmer too. On a sunny August evening, with the tide coming in over warm sand, conditions were perfect for my annual North Sea dip with daughter. Her access to the beach and sea is enviable. This far from the coast, a pool’s the easiest option. That’s what enticed me back to the gym, so I was sad to get a text reporting that the pool is closed this week. I’ll be back as soon as it re-opens.

‘Will you be doing a triathlon next?’ asked a friend, who’s never observed my head out of the water swimming style. With a recent yougov survey suggesting that a whopping 27% of us reckon we could qualify for the 2028 Olympics if we began training today, it might be a dream for some. Thisgranny has no such ambition. It’s a very definite no. I know my limits, I might get back to parkrun, but I won’t be training for a triathlon.

The Gap

We stayed at Twice Brewed on the wall. A family gathering, inspired by the serious runner in our midst. We saw him briefly as he passed. His effort was our excuse to revisit Hadrian’s Wall. High on our agenda, and just around the corner, the solitary tree at Sycamore Gap. It was still standing when we booked. We knew the tree was down, we could hardly have missed that news. We couldn’t anticipate the shock of its absence. The emptiness of the space. How much worse to have been the ones to find it felled on that bleak September morning. Just why?

Our runner finished in good time and fine fettle. The week since our return was marked by coughs, colds and infection. It’s been the story of the last few weeks. I returned from my May retreat, thankfully well rested and very much on top of my coursework, to a time of simply being granny.

My solitary break energised me. I travelled to Grasmere by train and bus; ran and wrote each morning, walked in Wordsworth’s footsteps in the afternoons. I ran the same route each day, watched morning mist rise to meet clouds nestling in the valley as I headed away from Town End. Around the village, little stirred. Buses hadn’t begun to arrive. No queue for gingerbread. People sat behind panorama windows of B&B conservatories ordering their full English. Briefly, I became part of their view. Deeper into the village, air conditioned vans discharged chilled packages ready to be freshly baked, here, on the premises. Later I’d return to find grey slate eclipsed by brightly coloured coats and remember my moment of solitude as I too merged into their midst.

This week’s travels take me to the Southern edge of Coniston with Mr A. Both convalescing from our coughs, I’m not sure how much walking will get done. Resting, recovery and reading are firmly on the menu. No running.

Mayday

A distress call, or a celebration of the beginnings of summer? Either way, along with the biennial flowering of our honesty, May Day’s taken me by surprise.

It feels as if we’re only just beginning to put the grey days of February behind us. I need to remind myself that we’ve already celebrated Easter and a clutch of spring birthdays, and enjoyed some sunny days. I’ve spent several long days in the garden and been lulled into a false sense of security that it might be ok to plant out some of last year’s carefully nurtured seedlings. The sweet-peas, seeds planted outside a few weeks ago, are cautiously emerging from the soil bringing hope and anticipation for the summer ahead.

I’ve been pleasantly distracted, not only by the garden, but also by my adventure back into academic life. Four decades on from graduation, I’ve become a student again. No regrets, I’m bringing my life experience into the world of creative writing. And loving it. Freed from the world of financial reporting, my creative side has been unleashed. It turns out that some of my stuff is quite good, people actually like to read it. I’ve battled with my biggest critic, the inner one, the one that labels me imposter.

‘What are you writing?’ Mr A asks often. ‘Nothing much, just course-work,’ is my usual reply. Nothing to see here… I’ve changed tack now. This week, I let him see some work in draft. ‘I’ve written another story,’ I said. ‘Would you like to read it? Tell me what you think is happening here…You don’t have to, not unless you want to…’ His verdict, ‘gripping’, combined with a handful of pencilled editing marks, has left the imposter within me temporarily maimed.

And yes, to those who like to ask, this granny does still run. Three short runs last week. And I’m off on a writing retreat at the weekend, filled with good intentions that my running shoes will punctuate my days. I will return with better habits.

Scones or scones?

The writing classes are on a break for the summer holiday; but we have become friends, so we arranged to meet for coffee and scones. We met at the independent tearoom upstairs in the last remaining Victorian arcade in our town. It’s tucked away and even locals seem largely unaware of this hidden asset. It’s just up the stairs beyond the tweeting bookshop @imaginedthings.

We set up the meeting on whatsapp. I confidently suggested the venue and commented on the availability of scones. Scone, to rhyme with gone. One by one the group arrived. We each ordered, selecting coffee or tea, and making our choice of strawberry and elderflower or sultana scone; with butter or with cream and jam. So many decisions to make.

It soon transpired that there was a hot topic of debate, knocking even Brexit off the agenda for a while. At least one in our midst, Cornish by origin, was not here for the scones at all. She was ordering a scone, to rhyme with own. We called upon the owner to arbitrate. His wife had made the scones on the premises, so surely he would have some expertise in the matter of pronunciation. He did, unequivocally, scone (as in gone). By the time we needed to pay, each listing our purchases to pay off our debts, we were all pronouncing that we had eaten scones. Excellent scones, there was no debate about that.

It was a relaxed morning, no writing done but plenty of book choices shared. The group began as individuals signing up to a class; but there has been a real bonding over the year. We have really learned to laugh together. We’ll be back for more scones before term starts in September.