A Tale of Two Cities - Part 1

It is the first morning of a weekend in the countryside, staying with relatives in Yorkshire. My sleep was disrupted by a busy brain and I wake before anyone else. When, as an insomniac, you accept defeat, acknowledging that unconscious rest is beaten, you have a choice; lie awake and think or embrace the day and begin. I would be insane to miss this opportunity to run through unknown green places. I find great joy in journeying under my own exertion through the beauty of natural spaces. It is a tonic for mind and soul. So, I get up.

I leave the house asleep and step out in the freezing air. I am woefully underdressed in a vest and shorts, white-socked toes poking through the sides of my broken running shoes. The sky is blue and the temperature is not much above zero. The village of Goldsborough is still very much in bed as I run past the red phone box, the old post office and the pub. I stretch my legs over icy puddles and head away from the houses towards the lanes and farmland. My road swings around to the east and I am greeted full in the face by the low winter sun. Blinding but not yet warm, its huge presence like an irrefutable alarm clock to a frost covered landscape. Now that massive ball of gas is in the ascendancy and the elegant half moon, still proud but fading, slips towards the horizon in her chariot to continue the never-ending celestial chase.

Away from civilisation

There is an opening in the hedgerow and I run off the tarmac and onto a muddy track. The sun is so bright I have to concentrate on the ground in front of me and try to pick a way, sliding through the sticky treacle. Through a creaking gate and I am running across a softly undulating field following tractor tracks and watching my breath take form in the air. I have no planned route but will keep following the yellow arrows attached to posts indicating the way of the footpath. At the edge of the field I eschew the stile and leap the cross-country fence built for horses. I am into the woods, dodging the quagmire and ducking the low branches of the naked trees.

Below and to my right, the River Nidd wends its silent way, curving gracefully between grassy banks. A great fishing spot, my uncle tells me, where he spent many happy hours as a lad, pitting his wits against nature.

A step back in time

I break through the tree line and I am running across a wide lawn towards a huge house, Ribston Hall. From behind a tree I watch the many-windowed mansion as a scene from history plays out on the driveway; an elegantly-frocked lady descends from a horse drawn carriage, taking the hand of the footman as she fans herself. The cold is clearly going to my head.

Continuing my jog through a period drama, the path takes me across the Nidd on a grand stone bridge, between two gatehouses and beneath a carved crest. Onwards, towards the edge of the farmland where a modern house is waking up. A Land Rover Discovery sits idling at the front door before a man in a flat cap gets in and drives away. A bit further ahead I pass two dog walkers and pant them a morning greeting to no response. Perhaps they were surprised to see a man in a vest running across the field. It is the 18^th Century after all.

Impossible to ignore

The cold is beginning to bite as a bitter wind whistles across the open ground. My Garmin tells me I have covered 5.6km, which seems a nice round number to call the halfway point and so I turn back the way I have come. Now I am heading into the wind and tucking my thumbs into clenched fists does nothing to alleviate the sensation of fingers being flayed fleshless by the steady onslaught of frosty air. Running without gloves was a bad idea. I bend forward into the breeze and attempt a smile; enjoy the beautiful surroundings because tomorrow you will be back in the concrete jungle. The cold seems to slow my body down and the tranquillity of the landscape becomes a secondary concern to the sensation of running naked across the Arctic tundra. This would be a bad time to bump into the ladies of the Hall.

Twenty-five frozen minutes later and I am attempting to remove my muddy trainers at the door of my uncle’s house. My numb fingers are about as dextrous as a side of ham and a few whispered curses are needed to uncouple myself from my filthy strides. Under the hot shower my hands begin to defrost a little too rapidly. The deep ache and tingle of blood returning is reminiscent of school days and uncomfortable minutes spent thawing in the changing room after rugby training on the wintry pitches. In those days I had no choice. This was voluntary. As my temperature returns to normal I feel the familiar sensation of calm descending over me. It’s good to be alive.

You can see my Yorkshire run here