Worst Wales and Wessex

We had a glorious and ridiculous week of running last week, in two parts.

Wales –

We finally made it to see my Dad’s house in west Wales. Not worst Wales, that was a mishearing by Nosh. It’s full of amazing old cars in bits mostly (the house, not the country), and we had a fine old time kicking about there for a few days.

According to our training plan it was time to complete our first half marathon whilst we were there. This was a mixed blessing. On one hand we had plenty of time and pasta on our hands, so we were well fed and rested when we started out. On the other, Wales is a very hilly country.

On turning left out of the house we hit an immediate climb, which pretty much set the pattern for the rest of the run. 13.2 miles up and over a hill (mountain?) and then back, innumerable sheep and hill (mountain?) ponies and a couple of mouthfuls of raisins later we arrived back, just before one of the many biblical downpours of rain that week. Then we remembered that we didn’t have access to any washing facilities other than the kitchen sink.

It’s not a run that’s going to go down in the history of speedy runs, but for us it was a brilliant way to hit a milestone, and remember that at the beginning of this crazy plan, a half marathon was the very distant and daunting goal.

Time to crack on and do that twice then…

North Wessex ups and Downs –

Two days later (after visiting the nearest swimming pool 20 miles away at 7am in order to wash) we were back on the road heading towards London, through yet more of the week’s typical storms. We had the vaguest notion of a plan to meet Morven somewhere off the M4. Remarkably we found each other without incident, in a teeny tiny thatched village called East Garston, somewhere on the North Wessex Downs.

Morven had planned a wonder of a day running and swimming in this pretty part of the world, so we set off first on our run. I am still unsure how far we went – maybe 6 miles or so – but we felt like we were training for the army. We went up and down hills and farm tracks so wet and rutted with tractor tracks that you had to decide how exactly to place your feet in the pitted mud. It was bloody marvelous.  The same post-van passed us twice on the run, and then once whilst we were lying facedown on a tiny strip of grass trying to do planks. He must have wondered what the heck we were up to.

We ended up covered in mud and pretty wet, and tried to clamber down into the little stream running through the village to wash our faces and feet, before heading off to our next location of Hurley to wild swim in the Thames. Sadly the Thames was having none of this, as the week of rain had taken it’s toll on the force of the river. Despite determinedly running through the rain and ignoring signs not to go further Morven and I had to eventually admit (when we came across a fence about twice my height, through which the raging torrent which was once the river that ‘The Wind in the Willows’ was inspired by) that swimming wasn’t on the agenda for the day.

And thus we carried on to our next adventure in our post-run muddy and sweaty state….