The Shropshire Way Run Part 2: The end of the beginning

So it was, I suppose, the end of the beginning: I'd survived the first two days with minimal damage, and was still getting up out of bed with energy enough to stomach food and get moving again. I couldn't yet start thinking about the end, but the beginning was well and truly behind me.

Having studied the map, the first few miles should have been a relatively 'easy' start to the day: not much by way of climbing, the most part consisting of low lying fields with little to trouble me...as ever, the proverbial 'sod's law' cackled with glee as I headed out onto the trail.

Back at Stokesay Castle,

The map that I was using was perhaps a little outdated. I was meandering my way through innocent fields full of sheep, until I encountered a hedge with no stile where it ought to have been: this was a first. After a little thought, I trudged to the bottom of the field where an alternative path ought to have been following the railway line. Lo and behold, a dilapidated stile awaited me, along with the next section full of young frisky bullocks and overly protective momma cows to contend with. After being pursued across two further fields by an ever growing herd, I was fortunate enough to escape.

Benign start to the day...

Into a green lane that was happily overgrown with nettles, brambles and wild roses - a lovely glade of colour from a safe distance, at close quarters, decidedly less so. I spent the next ten minutes battling my way through, having already come so far it would have been foolish to turn back when I could see farm buildings mere metres away from where I stood. Emerging from the 'path' smothered in stings, scratches and mud, I staggered across the farmyard to the safety of the road, the farmer not even glancing in my direction despite his dog's most enthusiastic and rather aggressive barking.

A few miles on I burst onto the golf course at Ludlow; a collection of elderly gentlemen clearly found my presence on the greens entertaining - a sweaty, bedraggled woman trying to avoid the swing of clubs and flying balls must have been a slightly alternative golfing experience for them...

Ludlow in the distance

To say that I was not in the best of moods when I reached the market square in Ludlow would be an understatement. I was overheated, I'd twinged my groin whilst trying to avoid cows, and I was behind schedule - the first time this had happened so far. I tried to find some shade and stretch, and did my best to stay calm: I'd only gone 8 miles so far, and with a challenging afternoon ahead, I'd hoped to be faring better at this stage in the day.

Trying to keep a cool head (both metaphorically and physically, I doused my headband in water and donned a cap to complete my 'I'm abroad in the heat' chic) and trudged onwards towards the Clee hills.

I was making steady progress, until I managed to undo a lot of the progress I'd made by taking what I thought was a sneaky short-cut down a short path to what I assumed was my next destination. What  had been achieved was the exact opposite: I had somehow done a U-turn and ended up towards the bottom of the hill that I'd just climbed - that will be the last time for a very long time, that I attempt anything close to a short-cut!

Tired, sweaty and struggling

It was at this point that I had my first and only moment of seriously questioning whether this running business was a good idea. I simply couldn't understand why I was choosing to put myself through this madness - well, I knew why I was doing it, but at that moment in time, I was not enjoying myself, and every part of my being knew this.

When I finally worked out where I was, my heart sank. I chuckled bitterly to myself, resenting my poor navigation as I began to cut another path back up the hill.

Muddy work

Fortunately, dad came to the rescue: the brew kit was brought out of the car, along with camping chairs, and we paused by the church in Knowbury for some lunch. The tea did a great deal of good: it comforted my aching body and as I sat there, I began to accept that this would be a long and arduous day. When I understood this, my body and mind began to relax and I saw the fun of it all once more.

Time to go and tackle the big ones.

Dad is one to look at the contours on a map and tries to judge height variations for the miles ahead: as someone who tends to neglect this useful addition to maps (I come from the school of 'well I'm going to have to go over it anyway so I may as well crack on and worry about the numbers later'), I was grateful for him voicing these interpretation, as I could mentally prepare for the final section of the day: the Clee hills.

Titterstone Clee in the distance

First up was Titterstone Clee, which I managed to tackle surprisingly quickly. Then it was a long sweeping descent into the valley separating Titterstone from Brown Clee. I lost a fair bit of altitude, so when the trail began to steer steeply upward, I knew I was in for the long haul.

Top of Titterstone - the smaller of the big two done!

Half way up the second climb...looking and feeling rough!!

To keep entertained, I like to sing songs: this climb featured a variety of tunes, notably 'Aint no mountain high enough', which is a stalwart of my music-running repertoire. This then branched into quoting lines from Lord of the Rings: I couldn't resist putting on my Gollum and trying to make my through the marshes on Clee Burf, the flat, moorland crossed with bog that precedes Brown Clee.

The final ascent I spent feeling nauseous - perhaps one too many jam sandwiches, or the fatigue was catching up with me. Every step my stomach churned, desperate for the day to be done. Reaching the trig point was truly the climax of a very difficult day - the tallest point in Shropshire had been conquered after a grueling 24 miles of grunting, hobbling, cursing and downright grumpiness. I was exhausted yet elated once more, and downright proud to have overcome the obstacles thrown in the way to reach this point.

Descending was not exactly a jovial whirlwind, more a delicate, tender stumble to try and minimise any joint pain. And the day was done. I was half way, and had managed to complete 75 miles in three days. Onwards to Thursday...

Such a cool find at the end of day 3 - a phone-box turned mini-library, and also egg trading apparently!

Heading out on Thursday morning held fresh challenges. A heavy mist had descended, and I couldn't see more than 50 metres in any direction. The trees were so thick with dew that it almost sounded like it was raining - another day for soggy feet from the start.

Longhorn cows just visible through the mist

Time seemed to slow as I made my way along the trail, trying to be as vigilant as possible to avoid getting lost. After a few miles and more than a few confused moments, Wilderhope Manor loomed out of nowhere, reassuring me that I was indeed following the right path.

What was soon to follow was possibly one of my least favourite experiences of the entire expedition: the Way passed through a farm, following one long relatively straight track right through some farm buildings. There were even signs that pointed you in the right direction. That 'right direction' led straight through a section that was clearly frequented by cows, so much so that I was soon ankle deep in slurry. Although it was only for a short while, it was most definitely long enough for me to determine that, in future, I would most certainly be taking a detour from this particular section.



Fortunately, a brew and a sit down (not in the car, dad would not let me in) was waiting for me only a short way further.

Recovering from the slurry experience

A short way further on, I became so shrouded in mist in the middle of a field that I simply walked in what I hoped was one direction across the field. I found myself once again on the wrong side of a hill, and entirely gone astray from the Way. Conversely to the previous day, I felt strangely calm and uncharacteristically nonchalant about the whole situation: I had rather enjoyed the feeling of being almost entirely engulfed by the mist, not knowing where I was, surrounded by the silence. It was thrilling and peaceful in one. So I didn't particularly begrudge the knowledge of being off-course; at the time, it had been worth it.

Much Wenlock was still a welcome sight - plenty of tea and pasta was consumed whilst chatting away to an old lady with an adorable long-haired dachshund, whose tummy was so low that the hair swept the ground as he walked.

Spending time in Much Wenlock

I was getting bored of pasta at this point, so went on the hunt for something tasty for lunch. It had been one of those days (and I'm sure many other people have experienced something similar) where every food that I ate had not, for whatever reason, quite hit the spot. And although I could not quite put my finger on what it was that I was craving exactly, I knew that I would not be satisfied until I managed to find whatever it was.

After a hopeless search in the local grocery shop, we came across a butchers, where there was some fine looking quiche in the window - what luck, it was exactly what I'd been looking for! I had the best, hench piece of cheese and tomato quiche that I have had in years. It was a fantastic bake, zero soggy bottoms to be had, the filling held well, and tasted sublime. To say it was gobbled down in top speed would be an understatement!

Setting off with the mothership

The afternoon held a yet another new experience - I got to run with someone for the very first time: my mum joined me for the next five miles. And what a five miles she chose! It was glorious - the first section fields and uphill, but the last two thirds was glorious woodland trails, gently sloping downhill all the way to Ironbridge. Mum didn't appreciate the heat - she's most definitely a winter runner, preferring snow and rain to blazing sunshine -but it was lovely to have some company. We celebrated reaching Ironbridge with ice creams. The town itself felt quite Mediterranean that day, plenty of cafes with people sitting outdoors, and others strolling up and down the high street with that delicious, almost lackadaisical style that so often fills my mind when I envisage small towns in Italy or Spain.

Trying to teach my mum how to use my camera

Meeting Sarah and Dad in Ironbridge

The romance of it all was only enhanced when I climbed up through the town and past the church, the views over Coalbrookdale glorious in the afternoon haze.

Beautiful Ironbridge

Tea Kettle Row!!!

Heading towards Little Wenlock

The final stretch towards Little Wenlock passed by swiftly, and I was met by Sally and her two girls for a final sprint finish to complete day four. It was lovely to see them turn out at the end of another long day out. After a brief catch up, it was onwards to our next home of the week, plenty of good food, good company, and long dreamless sleep.

With the lovely Sally at the end of Thursday

Winning.