The Shropshire Way Run Part three: the final push for that cool crisp beer

It was the same routine as the days that had gone before, but with an added element: I would have a chum to run with for the remainder of the Way.

I met Dharmesh only once before: a good friend got in touch awhile ago asking if I could host some end-to-enders (aka Land's End to John O'Groats cyclists) she knew. I said of course we could (I've received so much wonderful hospitality from strangers on my own travels, it's high time I start repaying some of that to the world!) and a friendship with Dharmesh and James was born. Dharmesh, being a keen runner, offered to support the run when I told him about it, and true to his word, he came prepared to run with plenty of good chat to keep me distracted from the growing aches and pains in my legs.

So off we went, disturbing a quiet country lane with our conversations about triathlons, compression socks, work, life, and generally putting the world to rights.

Running chum!

The major climb of the day was up to the top of the Wrekin, which was steep and unrelenting. But it was wonderful to make it up and over the rise - to finally reach the top of a hill with a full 360 degree view that could actually be seen (so many of the big climbs of the week had been shrouded in mist, with the reward of a view at the top falling short of expectations) was a real highlight of the week.

Enjoying a view at the top of the Wrekin!!

After this, the day was spent making our way north, through many a field and nettle patch.

A great advantage of having another runner (and a particularly sprightly one at that) was that he was able to film short videos of me running along the Way, so we could send something a bit more interesting to Sarah than just me and my face talking to the camera whilst very out of breath.

So there we were, jogging through an apparently empty field, Dharmesh having a whale of a time running circles around me with the camera. When he gave it back (still recording) I turned around to notice a stampede of cows heading our way.

This was when I discovered that out of the two 'fight or flight' modes, when it comes to cows, Dharmesh is definitely a 'flight' sort of person. We weren't all that far from the gate, so I slowed down to try and calm the cows (so we wouldn't give them something to chase, which is what cows generally like to do:from my own countryside experience, if there's something nippy, cows are curious and will give chase, unlike sheep, which tend to run away very quickly) all the while Dharmesh is practically skipping in his determination to get to the gate, questioning my sanity at choosing to walk rather than sprint to escape. Meanwhile an elderly lady was in her garden brandishing a stick at the cows, asking them politely to slow down and leave the crazy people alone...needless to say, we escaped the fearsome cows, and henceforth I will continue to chuckle and remind Dharmesh of this moment every time I see him.

Onwards through to High Ercall, where we paused for some lunch - dad had thought ahead, and managed to purchase more quiche, a storming idea after Thursday's monumental quiche success...alas the problem with having such a splendiferous slab of quiche the previous day, any other type of quiche was going to struggle to rise to the expectations of such quiche supremacy...it was not meant to be, the quiche was full of water and tasteless by comparison. We managed to wolf down a couple of slices each before it got to the point where it really wasn't worth the effort anymore, and instead tucked into flapjack and slurped some tea.

The afternoon was spent trying to keep cool, as the sun was really beating down on us - it truly has been a glorious Indian Summer, although maybe a tad warm for long-distance trail running (I know people do the Marathon des Sables in the desert, but I'm a natural over-heater like both of my parents, and feel far more comfortable running in wet and cold conditions).

It was a great last few miles running through fields of freshly-turned golden straw. It was decidedly less lovely running through what appeared to be a field full of nettles - I'm not joking when I say this, it was almost as though the field had been planted with nettles for a harvest crop, it was such a bizarre moment!

We were joined by my dad for the final couple of miles along green lanes, past a cottage that my family lived in for a few years when we were small, to Lee Brockhurst. The terrain being relatively easy, the day was finished fairly early for a change.

Even better, on route home, a fellow cycle tourer came into view - David Steel, a good friend from uni, was staying the night. He was in the first week of pedaling from Glasgow to The Gambia in West Africa - what an incredible journey!! I haven't seen him since graduating, so it was great to have a catch up, and to hear about all his adventures, even for just an evening.

A group of wacky adventurers - David cycling through Africa, Dharmesh the Ironman-to-be, and me :) 

We all departed for bed with tired legs, full bellies and anticipation for the next day...the final day...





I woke up tired and stiff, the joints and muscles not wanting to go, but they were dragged into running kit for one final day of roaming.

We wished David luck as he pedaled away, and headed to our own departure point. My friend Charl was taking over support crew duties for the day, and was ready to roll with dad Keith in the navigation seat. Off we jogged, with light hearts and light packs - we would not be going too far until we saw everyone again.

We made our way into Wem, and passed the Castle pub where I used to work. I hugged the landlady as we passed, and immediately bumped into my Grandpa, who wished us well on our final day of running.

It was a real treat to be joined by Mike, Jo and Emma for the miles up to Grinshill. Plenty of chuckles  ensued about Mike's hangover - he's reached the ripe old age of 26, and  claims he's at the point of not being able to drink more than 3 beers without suffering...the rest of us, still sitting in the youthful 25 and under category, can otherwise enjoy copious quantities of alcohol without such repercussions....supposedly!

We made it to the top of Grinshill and celebrated heartily with tea and bacon sandwiches. Grinshill is the first place that I started running when I was six years old (I went to Clive Primary School, and enjoyed running wild on Grinshill in the cross country club for years) and it's still one of my favourite places to run even now. the Way doesn't go to the top of Grinshill, but it was well worth the short detour. It would have felt wrong to simply jog straight on through.

Still one of my favourite places to run, and just to sit and enjoy the view

A wonderful distraction for sore legs!

It was a swift run down through Grinshill and through the fields to Hadnall and then along to Astley, where we saw Charl, Keith and Sarah by the tiny toy church. We made it a brief stop: my thoughts were finally drifting towards the finish line, and the longer we delayed, the more twitchy I was becoming, and it was all the harder to get going again.

The afternoon was full of very hot running. Dharmesh was, quite rightly, enforcing regular water breaks for the sections. I was grateful that he still had plenty of energy so he could do most of the thinking for me. It left me with the task of navigating, which had become so much of a habit that running without a map in hand felt quite unnatural.

We had fantastic views of Haughmond Abbey, the remains of the Augustinian Abbey making a wonderful checkpoint for the final few miles of the Way. Then it was over the road and along a beautiful woodland track, the shade of the trees a welcome relief after so long exposed in the expansive fields.

Haughmond Abbey - the end is in sight!

The last few miles rushed by, and before I knew it, we were by the weir, with one final mile remaining.

The riverside path was a bustle of people, all enjoying the glorious September sunshine. We jogged on by, singing 'Don't stop me now' loudly and unashamedly  - however the singing led to a significant increase in pace, so we quickly became out of breath and returned back to slow plodding; it would have been quite something to burn out and dehydrate in the final mile so I couldn't finish!

Dharmesh sprinted on ahead so I could finish by myself - as I saw him bound away like a leggy gazelle, I was left with my thoughts...which I can't really put a finger on. It felt odd to have a finish that wasn't a non-entity. Every long-distance trip I've done, I've finished alone, and enjoyed a quiet ending to a spectacular journey, so to be surrounded by people I knew, to run the final few metres in the knowledge that friends and family were waiting for me with fresh clothes, water and food, and the all important celebratory beer, was exciting in itself.


It had been a whirlwind week of emotions, and exploration: I'd learnt about and discovered so much about places that I'd only heard about, finally spending some quality time experiencing the county that I've grown up in. All whilst running and pushing myself far beyond what I thought I was capable of. I suppose I simply felt lucky that my body coped so well that I could enjoy so much of the journey, and glad that I had simply taken the decision to try something that I'd never done before.

I remember trying to capture my thoughts on camera - I'm not entirely sure what I said, but I did manage a spectacular fail of dropping said camera just as I came into view of the bandstand and the gang awaiting me there...maybe having people waiting for me to finish something is not the best idea after all?! At least I didn't fall over...

And that was that! I reached the bandstand after picking up all the camera pieces, quickly whipped off my trainers, and cracked open a delicious chilled tin of Brooklyn Craft beer. That first slurp was absolute heaven. There were hugs all round, and then a swift departure to the closest pub for celebratory wine and chips in copious quantities.

It turned into a wonderfully lazy afternoon of chilled beverages by the river, with the sun slowly starting to sink, the day drawing to a relaxed end. All that awaited was a blissful hot shower to start the vain attempt to clean my filthy toenails and ease my aching muscles, and a long deep sleep.


I refer once again to that simple yet powerful quote from the awe-inspiring Terry Fox.


'I just wish people would realise that anything's possible if you try; dreams are made possible if you try'.

I feel I can comprehend this more fully even compared with my cycle across Canada - the distance I covered this week, I could have covered in just over a day on two wheels. But the challenge involved with running this distance presented a far greater test of my abilities than pedaling across the breadth of a continent. I was pushed to train, and focus my efforts in order to give myself the best possible chance of completing something that I genuinely wasn't sure I would reach the end of.

And so I can honestly say that this past week, I tried bloody hard. I sweated, I ached. bled, grunted, blistered, yelled with frustration, questioned my sanity (I'm used to other people doing this one, but not me!) dealt with the wild beasts of Shropshire (well plenty of cows, sheep, ponies and dogs) and came out the other side with a far stronger mind, and thick callouses on my feet.

It has been a week of trying, a week to be proud of.

Over and out.

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.

The Shropshire Way Run Part 1: From elation to exhaustion

The run is finished! I'm still in relative bemusement that I have made it through the week with comparatively little by way of injury, toenail loss, digestive issues and mental exhaustion, but incredibly, here I am, on the other side, enjoying a brew and contemplating how quite to tell the story of last week...

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.

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.

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.

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...

Squeezing into Bishops Castle

Best building in town - zip and jigsaw house?!?!

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!