I've decided to break down the week into three sections, it feels right as I feel too much detail would be lost by lumping it all together, but then not dragging out each day with the usual 'I had yet another steep hill to climb' drivel... so here we go: Part 1.
0615 felt far too early to drag myself out of bed, and I did momentarily wonder why on earth I was getting up at that time, and then joltingly remembered that today was it - six months of training, planning and cajoling people for help had culminated into a loosely cohesive expedition to run the Shropshire Way.
It even felt odd having to go to a prescribed start line; my previous adventures having always started from the front door of where I was staying. Walking with my mum who wanted to see me off, we bumped into one of my teachers from school - what a surreal moment to be divulging a condensed life story to Mr Brown, just minutes before starting the next chapter.
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| Excited to get moving! |
It felt wonderful to finally stretch my legs and take those first few strides away from the bandstand, my mum and Sarah wishing me luck. I was filled with plenty of energy from a severe taper, and I was chomping at the bit to get some miles under my belt.
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| And she's off! |
As I made way out of Shrewsbury, there was a wonderful feeling of excitement that I had to keep a little in check - not wanting to burn out on the first day, or indeed, overdoing it so I manage to twist an ankle in the first few miles and then sit on my backside for the rest of the week with a face like a fish...but as I hit the first hills, my lungs breathing the fresh air and hair whipping around me in a frenzy in the strong breeze, I felt at home and thrill of what I was doing well and truly hit me,
I made it to Bridges - a small hamlet with an excellent pub. Those first 16 miles had zoomed by; it had been good foresight to recce that first section of the Way after all, if only to settle my nerves on the Monday. From this point until the final day, the entire trail would be virgin territory for me, the majority being routes, hills and towns that I knew about, had talked about with people, could even visualise, but had never been to, and would struggle to place on a map.
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| Pub time! |
All this, I pondered over some pasta and a brew, whilst my dad settled into his role of support crew for the week - aka spending a great deal of time roaming around the country lanes of Shropshire, and exploring all the towns that he'd cycled through on many occasions, but had never spent much more time in.
But it was time to be off: a change of clothes and a quick stretch, I trotted off to the first significant checkpoint of the journey - Stiperstones. This is a local landmark, a truly stunning, other-worldly ridge of rock that carves its way through the landscape, with a fantastic craggy outline that looks like nothing I've ever seen. I've been here before, but I've never walked along the entire ridge, and to reach it from the very bottom of the hill (roads from all directions are very steep to reach this Site of Special Scientific Interest and Nature Reserve) felt like a huge achievement in itself, never mind dodging all the cows and the pats in the fields leading up to it.
It was impossible to run along the ridge itself: the walks are made up of irregular rocks that jut out the ground, so much so that you try and trot a few steps and before long you've caught your foot on one and nearly go flying...so you check yourself, walk for a few steps, get to section that you think is runnable, start to trot, you catch your foot...
To make it to the trig point felt like a real milestone - with the hills stretched out all around me, I knew and felt myself to be on the edge of the true wilds of the county. My dad pointed out a few of the hills that I would be encountering over the next few days; I have to confess I didn't listen all that well: I was too busy enjoying that blustery wind and drinking in the scenery.
I started to head southwest, towards Bishops Castle, making my way via 'The Rock', where I attempted my best (terrible) Shirley Valentine impression - luckily noone was around, although I'm certain a few sheep sniggered at my pitiful efforts.
Crossing over Linley Hill gave me perspective on the sort of landscape I was heading towards - a few small hamlets dotted here and there, plenty of rolling hills and narrow lanes to separate them, with Bishops Castle practically a conurbation by comparison.
The final few miles towards the end of day one, the novelty of starting had not quite worn off, particularly as I was bolstered by a farmer shouting good luck to me - he'd seen my picture in the local newspaper and asked 'if I were the one doing the whole Way'...yet another surreal moment to add to this extraordinary Monday.
I came barreling down the high street in Bishops Castle, plenty of passers by looking on and clearly wondering why this woman covered in mud was hurling herself down the road with a slightly manic gleeful grin on her face. But I'd made it, day one complete! All that was left was a good pub dinner and a decent shower and stretch to round off a glorious day - I'd covered 27 miles, further than I'd ever gone in one day on two feet...
Tuesday dawned: summer was still trying to make itself felt, grappling with autumn to have a final few days of fun before retiring for the year. I awoke early, with a sore right knee, but apart from that nothing that required any significant attention.
I struggled to eat however - whilst dad tucked into kippers eggs and toast, I struggled my way through my usual breakfast: the stalwart that is porridge with jam, something that I normally enjoy with such readiness, felt like thick paste in my mouth, and clung to my innards as my body attempted to digest it. Eaten by any other porridge lover, it would have been a dream in a bowl, but for me on that day, every mouthful was a real effort.
After checking maps and togging up, it was time to get out and running once more. The next eleven miles were a contrast: low-lying sheep-filled fields, the grass thick with dew that soaked my feet in minutes, interspersed with brutally steep inclines and descents through woodlands and farms. Each incline was worth the sweat dripping down my nose and screaming calves - reaching each summit afforded yet another glorious view of the rolling countryside I'd immersed myself in for the day, the sun now high in the sky, bathing each miniature valley with golden light.
It was a stunning descent into Clun (the lunch stop for the day); I ran along a grassy ridge before it gently sloped its way down towards the small town, reaching the River Clun and winding its way through green lanes and more fields until the ruins of Clun castle were in sight.
For all the glorious scenery however, my body was not appreciating the extended activity as it usually would: eating was becoming an issue, and my brain felt tired from the continued efforts of navigating and checking the path for potential obstacles (ask any runner, and they will tell you that trail running is exhausting for the mind as much as the body, as there is the added element of focus required to keep your feet on varied and unexpected terrain - a grassy field, for example, may seem appealing, but it actually a minefield for mini craters made by farm animals, a recipe for disaster in the ankle department!).
I took the executive decision: it was time for a serious nap. I struggled down some food and then bunkered down in the car whilst dad took the opportunity to frequent the local art gallery and museum (incredibly Clun, despite being the smallest town England, has both an art gallery and a museum?!). As I dozed off a storm raged outside, thunder and lightning and heavy drops beating the car.
The rain started to ease, and I knew that this was the moment to get ready and go.
I took it very gently, pottering my way around and over Sunnyhill; Mistyhill may have been a more appropriate name - the trees were shrouded in thick mist, the storm having done very little to abate the muggy, thick air.
But my spirits began to lift as I flew down the hill and on towards Kempton. It was a fantastic trail to follow - simple tracks that past crumbling cottages and farms with gaggles of geese and swarms of young pheasants. I whooped and felt the pains of the morning lift, hurtling through the woodlands and fields.
Even the final climb up and over Hopesay Hill did not compare to the arduous trudging that my heavy limbs had dealt with in the morning; the climb was brief, the view glorious, and the descent muddy - just how I had envisaged it.
I caught glimpses of Stokesay Castle on the final few ascents on the outskirts of Craven Arms - this is apparently the best-preserved medieval fortified house in England (makes it sound like a very robust bowl of branflakes...), but it was a beautiful sight to behold as I made my final strides of the day.
Day two, was finished. My legs were feeling tired, my knee still aching a little, but my mind was refreshed and I was hungry - I could not wait to eat!
The final few miles towards the end of day one, the novelty of starting had not quite worn off, particularly as I was bolstered by a farmer shouting good luck to me - he'd seen my picture in the local newspaper and asked 'if I were the one doing the whole Way'...yet another surreal moment to add to this extraordinary Monday.
I came barreling down the high street in Bishops Castle, plenty of passers by looking on and clearly wondering why this woman covered in mud was hurling herself down the road with a slightly manic gleeful grin on her face. But I'd made it, day one complete! All that was left was a good pub dinner and a decent shower and stretch to round off a glorious day - I'd covered 27 miles, further than I'd ever gone in one day on two feet...
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| Squeezing into Bishops Castle |
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| Best building in town - zip and jigsaw house?!?! |
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| Slightly sore back of my right knee, so plenty of hot-cold therapy was had! |
Tuesday dawned: summer was still trying to make itself felt, grappling with autumn to have a final few days of fun before retiring for the year. I awoke early, with a sore right knee, but apart from that nothing that required any significant attention.
I struggled to eat however - whilst dad tucked into kippers eggs and toast, I struggled my way through my usual breakfast: the stalwart that is porridge with jam, something that I normally enjoy with such readiness, felt like thick paste in my mouth, and clung to my innards as my body attempted to digest it. Eaten by any other porridge lover, it would have been a dream in a bowl, but for me on that day, every mouthful was a real effort.
 |
| Ready for the off |
After checking maps and togging up, it was time to get out and running once more. The next eleven miles were a contrast: low-lying sheep-filled fields, the grass thick with dew that soaked my feet in minutes, interspersed with brutally steep inclines and descents through woodlands and farms. Each incline was worth the sweat dripping down my nose and screaming calves - reaching each summit afforded yet another glorious view of the rolling countryside I'd immersed myself in for the day, the sun now high in the sky, bathing each miniature valley with golden light.
It was a stunning descent into Clun (the lunch stop for the day); I ran along a grassy ridge before it gently sloped its way down towards the small town, reaching the River Clun and winding its way through green lanes and more fields until the ruins of Clun castle were in sight.
For all the glorious scenery however, my body was not appreciating the extended activity as it usually would: eating was becoming an issue, and my brain felt tired from the continued efforts of navigating and checking the path for potential obstacles (ask any runner, and they will tell you that trail running is exhausting for the mind as much as the body, as there is the added element of focus required to keep your feet on varied and unexpected terrain - a grassy field, for example, may seem appealing, but it actually a minefield for mini craters made by farm animals, a recipe for disaster in the ankle department!).
I took the executive decision: it was time for a serious nap. I struggled down some food and then bunkered down in the car whilst dad took the opportunity to frequent the local art gallery and museum (incredibly Clun, despite being the smallest town England, has both an art gallery and a museum?!). As I dozed off a storm raged outside, thunder and lightning and heavy drops beating the car.
The rain started to ease, and I knew that this was the moment to get ready and go.
I took it very gently, pottering my way around and over Sunnyhill; Mistyhill may have been a more appropriate name - the trees were shrouded in thick mist, the storm having done very little to abate the muggy, thick air.
 |
| Easing into the afternoon |
But my spirits began to lift as I flew down the hill and on towards Kempton. It was a fantastic trail to follow - simple tracks that past crumbling cottages and farms with gaggles of geese and swarms of young pheasants. I whooped and felt the pains of the morning lift, hurtling through the woodlands and fields.
Even the final climb up and over Hopesay Hill did not compare to the arduous trudging that my heavy limbs had dealt with in the morning; the climb was brief, the view glorious, and the descent muddy - just how I had envisaged it.
I caught glimpses of Stokesay Castle on the final few ascents on the outskirts of Craven Arms - this is apparently the best-preserved medieval fortified house in England (makes it sound like a very robust bowl of branflakes...), but it was a beautiful sight to behold as I made my final strides of the day.
Day two, was finished. My legs were feeling tired, my knee still aching a little, but my mind was refreshed and I was hungry - I could not wait to eat!
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