When it came to packing for our honeymoon escape, Lynn made it abundantly clear that running gear would not be required.

I don’t know if it’s my inherently sulky nature or my winning smile but as usual I got my own way and after sneaking a bag of sporty regalia into the boot of the car I managed to hijack a planned walk into a run/walk combo.

I don’t get walking. We had a beautiful route planned along the South Coast Path but to walk it would have taken forever. With a relaxed run you get to walk up the impossibly steep bits, run past the boring bits and arrive at the pub long before the hikers have chance to nick the best seats.

The route really was a beauty. If you are planning a trip in the Cornwall vicinity I’d strongly recommend checking out the website of the SouthWest Coast Path where you can download maps and instructions for a myriad of local walks.

Having packed our gear in rather a rush and under cover of darkness, it was no surprise that I forgot a few vitals such as bumbag and hydration pack. I had emergency pint and ferry money jangling in my trouser pocket and we had to survive on the hottest day of the year with a 330ml recycled bottle between us. I assumed there would be loads of supplies on route but should have smartened up when the birds of prey started to circle above us the moment we hit the trail.

It was stunning yet desolate and most signs of civilisation were now in ruins. A tap in the local graveyard saved us from shrivelling up in the sun.

We ended the run stumbling into the pub for a pint of Tribute, it could so easily have been 2 pints but we had rivers to ford and it would be so much easier with a few coins for the ferry service. I left the GPS running for the river crossing in a vain attempt to boost the pace stats which still remain shamefully sedate.

Great day though.

Originally published on my warriorwomen blog.

I’m as happy as a generally grumpy person can ever expect to be, but occassionaly I get it in to my head that perhaps I’d feel more at home somewhere else – the eternal grass is greener scenario.

This weekend, in search of lush lawns, I headed to Hebden Bridge.

Hebden Bridge is the UK mecca for guardian readers and “alternative practitioners”, and I’ve long held the view that the place would be enhanced by my presence. The “AP” euphemism was suggested by the local lesbian hotel and I’ve adopted it as a subtle way of getting this post past my mum.

I was accompanied by Lynn who was prepared to indulge my fantasy of returning to Yorkshire for a life revolving around yoghurt, communal vegetables, alternative practitioners, real ale and hill runnning (not necessarily listed in order of importance). Given that this weekend was forecast to be the wettest and windiest of the year, and even saw 1500 hardman mountain marathoners evacuated from the area by helicopter, I think it was incredibly public spirited of her!

My new home presented itself well, with a rather fabulous olde worlde railway station but friday night in dowtown Hebden was disappointly bereft of AP’s who appeared to have been replaced by spirit swigging teenagers – my favourite variety.

I’d planned an early start for our Saturday morning hike through the hurricane, but at 11am we were still struggling to swallow the locally sourced alpaca sausage that came bundled with the hotel room. I’d like to blame my sleep loving companion for the late start but I might have delayed the proceedings a little bit by leaving the walking guide hidden under the discarded and pre-requisite guardian on the Leeds train.

We got a map, which promptly disintegrated in the downpour and headed off with the plan to stick to the right handside of the river. A cunning plan, almost immediately rejected as we found ourself on a path, flanked on our right by a raging torrent and a strangely spotty youf holding a bottle of empty red wine. I thought he had puss coming out of his pores but apparently he’d just stuck his head in the river. A tick in the box for staying in London methinks!

The walk was random, preciptous and extraordinarily muddy but I enjoyed it immensely. My enjoyment always seems to be enhanced by adverse conditions. Seeing other walkers approaching me with a hang dog, god isn’t this awful expression, always makes me smile, and I think Lynn may have been cast in a similar mould.

Here’s Lynn, striding off in the wrong direction – in fairness the visibilty was somewhat impaired.

6 miles later we were sitting in the local cream tea house, being served by some of the local sullen teenagers – “What dya wan?!”
It’s a strange accent and in the mouths hungover teenagers it doesn’t go so well with the concept of “customer service”. Another tick in the box for London I’m afraid.

In order to swing the balance in favour of Hebden Bridge the hotel decided to throw a lesbian disco in our honour and although we did our best to miss most of it, we caught the tail end and were introduced to the hip and happening alternative practioners from the North Yorkshire vicinity. I have to say it was an eye-opener. My fashion sense clearly needs an overhaul if I ever hope to fit in, but I was pleased to discover that they still play the tunes from my early years at women only discos. 4 non blondes most definitely needs to stage a come back on my running playlist!

My dreams may have been shattered this weekend, but I’m not bitter. It ranks as one of the best weekends of the year and has given me a new found passion for running in wet and boggy conditions. I’ll be spending this weekend searching for good ole London mud and hills.