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| The beach near Holkham, North Norfolk |
Free from the shackles of the City, the beach is mine to
roam under a wide sky. I will leave my footprints and sweat in the sand. From a
cottage in Wells-next-the sea I set out, running shoes showing the wear of
three months triathlon training. My big toes always burst through the thin mesh
of Asics runners in the same place, frustratingly close to where a reinforced
panel curves heel to tongue. I imagine changing the position of my foot inside
the shoe with thicker socks or Chinese binding techniques, before accepting I
just need to buy some new pavement pounders.
The air is cool and fresh with a brisk breeze whipping off
the estuary mudflats where the meandering tributaries run wet and dry in an
endless cycle, revealing subterranean morsels for the thousands of migrating
birds who have come to winter here. Skeins of geese chatter above, jockeying
for position and displaying the magnificent V-shaped formations from which
wartime bomber squadrons borrowed so well. Old bunkers and pillboxes dot the
farmland hereabouts, slowly crumbling reminders of that nation-defining
struggle.
Down the lane and onto the harbour I run. Where the fishing
boats are tied up sharp ocean aromas waft into my streaming nostrils. Young men
in tracksuits and gloves heft crates of the sea’s harvest onto the shore. The
air is fresh and clean. And there are views. I can see further than the next
building, because out towards the sea across the marsh, there are none. I feel
the space. I feel the air. I breathe into my body, drawing strong and true,
expanding and strengthening with each crisp lungful. My pace quickens. I am
filled with the rush of freedom and I make the usual mistake of setting out at
an unsustainable pace. I always plan to run the second half of my route quicker
than the first but with surroundings like these the excitement is
irrepressible.
Jumping over the stout ropes securing vessels to the land, I
pass around the small harbour and the rows of sweet shops and amusements
arcades, swinging north next to the old lifeboat house and onto the seawall.
Dinky sailing boats bob at their moorings, the ringing of their rigging like a
whispered encouragement to un-tether and run before the wind. A large swell
rolls in and the jolly pleasure craft nod excitedly up and down, like playful
dogs tied up outside a shop, tongues lolling. I taste the salt in my mouth, my
strides are long with eyes wide on the horizon, and the sea beckons. It is two
kilometres or so before I reach the car park where day-trippers will later on
stop to stroll and screech. Gaily painted beach huts and dunes lie just beyond,
but that way is not for me. It’s no fun to run on thick dry sand, so I turn
west, into the woods.
The last time I came this way I was lucky enough to see a muntjac, which is a type of tiny deer. It startled me almost as much as I
startled it. I hope for another encounter. Through the kissing gate at the edge
of civilisation and I am away into the glade. Soon the wide blue sky is just
patches glimpsed through the thick stands of proud pines, straight trunked and
reaching. The path takes me further in and up along a natural rise forming the
back wall of the beach. And then there is not one way but many, my choice to
follow whichever sandy track looks most promising and offers the least
resistance through the trees and thorny bushes. I stretch my legs across roots
and lean back to stutter down loose embankments, but always onwards, fuelled
with cool, clean air and solitude, and the promise of the sea glinting at the
edge of the flat beach, beyond the ridges of the golden dunes.
As I run further, the narrow, winding track opens out and I
find myself flying along a smooth, forest causeway, carpeted with pine needles
and all about the vibrant green sprouts of young plant growth tug impetuously
at the sleeves of the stately pines. It truly is a magical place, of elves and
spells and hide and seek. Up ahead, the fallen and twisted boughs of a once
mighty tree lie blocking the way. I pick a path through the thick branches that
curve to the ground from the trunk like the great ribs of a perished dinosaur.
And on I go; deep breaths, eyes focused now near for ankle snapping dangers and
now far, drinking in the beauty. Soon, another change in the wood and the trees
begin to close in all around me, a leafy tunnel is formed, and I duck and twist
past reaching tendrils like a boxer on the back foot, staying out of range.
When I was a child, we used to walk through these woods as a
family. I have been coming here all of my life. Do I appreciate these
places more now as an adult, understanding better how special they are? Walking
was often a reason to grumble as kid and ice cream was the pinnacle of joy. Now
I relish the liberation that comes with plunging into nature, it eases my soul
and soothes my mind. Chatter, chatter, email, phone, plan, lists – STOP. I'm running now.
Not a soul do I see on my way until the green tunnel opens
out, the stands of pines begin to thin and I am running on softer sand, right
at the edge of the beach. The tide is far out and small waves break gently
along the shore, the eternal greeting between land and sea. On the edge of my
vision I can just make out the ghostly shapes of wind turbines, sentinels of
the waves, hazy and mysterious in the distance. Soon, I am sprung from my
reverie by the cheery salutation of a dog walker, and I run off the
sandy track and onto the boardwalk which signals I am almost at Holkham and
the halfway point in my 10 km route. I
press the ‘Lap’ button on my trusty Garmin Forerunner so that it will record
the pace for the first and second halves of my run separately, do an about face
and run back the way I came, retracing my footprints in the sand until they
disappear and I am back in the woods.
I thought of Mum while I ran. I felt joy that she had
brought me to these places and that I will always be able to go there and be
closer to her. And the joy was tempered by a deep sadness that I will never
share the experience with her again. Tears filled my eyes as I ran, rising up
from the profound wells of elation and sorrow that lie not even a stone’s throw
apart, somewhere deep within.
These lines came to me while I ran. I’m not sure I am much
of a poet but I hope they do convey some sense of the place and the emotions.
I run, where we used to
walk
Short of breath where
before we talked,
Of birds and sky,
important things
Childhood fears and
nettle stings.
Escape the city for a
slower pace
Warm days, a sandy,
sunburnt face.
Leaping logs I would
have climbed
Of Cancer there was no
sign
And now I run, but not a
race -
To dry the tears from off my face