Last year I talked about doing this route and, with no engagements bar breakfast before the 11am service at St Mary's and with my cold in abeyance, I set off shortly after 0600 for my last barefoot run in this trio, armed with android OS map, Forerunner 15 and cell-phone. My previous estimate had been 15 miles - in fact I had to make a slight detour at the end to top 14 miles. The average speed was 4.85 mph including stops, with altitude from 68m along the river to 250m at the beacon. Total duration just short of 3 hours.
Culm water meadows
Through Uffculme water meadows
I'm enjoying reading The Old Ways by Robert MacFarlane who writes "Footpaths are mundane in the best sense of sustained by use, they constitute a labyrinth of liberty in a privatized world of barbed wire and gates, CCTV cameras and 'No Trespassing' signs. It is one of the significant differences between land use in Britain and in America that this labyrinth should exist. Americans have long envied the British system of footpaths and the freedoms it offers, as I in turn envy the Scandinavian customary right of Allemansratten (`Everyman's right'). This convention - born of a region that did not pass through centuries of feudalism, and therefore has no inherited deference to a landowning class - allows a citizen to walk anywhere on uncultivated land provided that he or she cause no harm; to light fires; to sleep anywhere beyond the curtilage of a dwelling; to gather flowers, nuts and berries; and to swim in any watercourse (rights to which the newly enlightened access laws of Scotland increasingly approximate)." and later quotes Nan Shepherd who in 1945 wrote "with a burn that must be forded: once my shoes were off, I am loathe to put them on again. If there are grassy flats beside my burn, I walk on over them, rejoicing in the feel of the grass to my feet; and when the grass gives way to heather, I walk on still. Dried mud flats, sun-warmed, have a delicious touch, cushioned and smooth; so has long grass at morning, hot in the sun, but still cool and wet when the foot sinks into it, like food melting to a new flavour in the mouth." which sentiment both Robert and I heartily agree with. And so I reveled once again in running through the Culm water meadows
Culm water meadows
These meadows I had to share with a surprising number of cows. For caution's sake I slowed down so as not to frighten them and made it through without being trampled on.
Hunkin Wood to Culmstock
You can clearly see the path of the long past Culm valley railway in the map above. My track in red crosses it at the picture below where I saw the most tangible evidence of the railway. Otherwise all I saw was faint suggestions of the course in the field boundaries and vegetation.
Culm valley railway bridge
Aberdeen Angus? as I approached Culmstock
The quaint road bridge at Culmstock
Strange place to see a totem pole
Water meadows past Culmstock, destination in view
Having crossed the river, the path I follow only faintly embosses the grass
from Culmstock to the beacon
The path is definitely ascending as I reach Pitt Farm which turns out to be perhaps the dirtiest farm I have encountered. Where my path turned northwards a tractor had been deposited across the track doubtless to help channel the cows to their morning milking. I wondered what colour the milk would be: they had left a veritable river of cow-muck through which I had to pick my way. Thankfully wet grass is wonderful for washing one's feet!
I can assure you it was worse than it looks!
Rights of way are maintained so well in England
Half way up
Here be boggy ground - thankfully I had no shoes
Mission accomplished!
Views from the top
Willand is out there somewhere
Inside the beacon
Here's how it worked
Neighbouring beacons
When one has no flask of tea, no sandwich or Crunchie bar, there's not much else to do once one has taken a zillion photos to prove the feat. To lay down and rest would be disaster - I'd probably never get up again! So I started back cautiously by following the track north for while.
Riot of gorse and heather
And did plain boring minor-roads all the way home. But I did meet a horse and its rider and was able to out-run it.
Up at 0600 on Saturday - once again not enough time for the beacon as we have visitors for lunch and much to get ready. The track for this and the previous and next barefoot runs were created by my Garmin Forerunner 15 but for guidance I also carry my Android running Oruxmaps with OS maps loaded courtesy of Mobac and, at Ali's suggestion, a cell-phone in case of disaster. It took the Android 50 minutes to get first fix - I think it doesn't like doing this whilst I am moving.
The route - the B road to Halberton where I turned right, crossing the A361 North Devon Relief road by a devious route in search of foot-paths. The only one I found was plagued by cows (I am slightly wary of cows, they have been known to kill hikers). The village of Uplowman because it is in the upper reaches of the river Lowman I suppose. Then back via Sampford Peverell.
Typical Devon lane near Sampford Peverell
This photo is especially for my American viewers who might be scared driving along such a typical Devon back-road, one car wide with high hedgerows either side!
Tiverton Parkway
I just happened upon two trains as I crossed the foot-bridge at Tiverton Parkway station. And then home along the bicycle corridor created in part reparation for having moved the station from Willand to this odd location miles from anywhere.
Battling a minor cold, it's 0600 hours on Friday morning and off for my first run during this stay at Ali's mother's. Not enough time today for my planned run to the beacon q.v. so just down to and around Cullompton.
Early morning on the M5 looking south
I saw the first suggestion of mist as I crossed the M5 towards Cullompton but from there on the mist was heavy and, concerned for my own safety on the main road, I changed plan and turned off towards Brithem Bottom where I found a foot-path, then back towards Cullompton, another foot-path and then along the river Culm.
Pond farm
Sutton Barton
Sunshine magic
More magic just south of Tesco's
Cullompton Community Association fields
Back along the east side of the river
Hallmark selfie
From Cullompton back home via Long Moor was a route I have traversed several times and thus unworthy of any new photos!
Two things from a web site entitled "10 Things That The People Who Love Their Lives Are Doing Differently":
- They do things because they want to do them, not because they believe they have to do them. - They don’t bother changing others, but instead learn how to deal with them appropriately.
Differently? For me I think not, and neither were any of the other eight any surprise. And yet I still find myself often dancing to another tune. But who is the piper?
Is it when I don my Christian hat? Not that I ever take it off - I just think about taking it off. A bit like Kipling's Muslim Mahbub Ali'So says my Law--or I think it does'. I wonder what God wants of me and to what extent I should "be faithful" to those I fellowship with. Hmm. Like what would Jesus do? Not that I would ever wear one of those bracelets. I abhor anything unnecessary being attached to my body. And, no, I do not have a wedding ring - I don't even wear a watch unless it is the GPS variety and then only for a short period. So does that make me a hedonist? Or an ascetic?
Christians are often accused of thinking it is somehow wrong to enjoy oneself. Something to feel guilty about. This quote from Chelsea Handler, who doesn't come across as a God seeker herself, sums up the absurdity nicely: "I think only hedonists believe in God, in the same way that I think only hedonists have babies."
Then there is the Buddhist's "middle way" a path of moderation, between the extremes of sensual indulgence and self-mortification which sounds to me a bit like a cop out.
My drainage canal on the lake shore
Joining the ponds to the lake proper
So is it wrong to make canals in the sand at my age? Or to run barefoot imagining I am a locomotive following a well graded permanent way along the lake shore, carefully choosing places to cross gorges and chasms hundreds of millimetres deep carved out over the eons by surface run-off. Or messing in mud. Or taking random photos of cows whilst I am on a run. Or posing for ridiculous shadow selfies. All on my own. Or, on a slightly more serious note, randomly improvising on the piano, or humming a favourite tune in parts. Combining colour filters in a search for the ultimate hue. Maintaining a blog that few read. Or, as the song goes, climbing mountains or jumping in a lake. Enjoying a Cherry Bakewell. Is it not possible to praise my Maker in such things? Rather than being restricted by accepted evangelical/charismatic liturgy and the paraphernalia that goes with it?
A random stock photo - not me, but it might have been
Looks like it runs in the family...
And this is me - yet again!
We non-conformists watch Catholic or high-church antics with mingled horror and disbelief, and yet how much of what we do is likewise mumbo-jumbo to the average agnostic? Lord save me from doing things just because some implied rule book tells me I should. But on the other hand Lord save me from only ever doing things just because I want to. There has to be a better reason, like "hath God said?". But I wonder just how much He does say and then, in the absence of such direction or other constraints like "love thy neighbour as thyself", why not enjoy life: abounding as well as sometimes being abased?
Here's another thing. I'm not good with words. Hence this blog as being just possibly a better way for me to communicate. Typically I will re-read and make changes to a longer post like this one many time and over many days, a degree of freedom one does no have with speech. And besides, when speaking, especially in public, I often fail to get across the very point I set out to make. In an argument the other person can easily walk all over me. When I was very young I was given speech therapy and they said I was lazy. With worship songs that we sing, I know the music but often cannot recall the exact words. I do not believe I have ever written poetry and am probably incapable of it. It is not that words have no meaning for me - I marvel when I read a book that is (IMHO) well written and I have even been known (though rarely) to appreciate poetry. I am a slower than average reader and am intimidated by small print or excess or flowery description. What interests me in a book or a film is believable fantasy, portrayal of character, the set, and music - more than plot - and if I identify then I long to know what happens to the protagonist (or the actor) afterwards.
I prefer emails to telephone calls. I will do almost anything to avoid the latter. With an email there is at least the chance to make changes before pressing the button. But I know folk who are quite the reverse and sometimes we don't meet.
Why am I saying this? Because the liturgy and paraphernalia I mentioned above is so bound up in words and, where does that leave those of us who struggle with speaking? - I have noticed how such people easily get side-lined. Because so much value is placed on words.
My work involves programming. Writing assembler for a RISC processor is great - there are only about 50 instructions to remember: I can memorise that many and then I am in total control. Assembler is simple and deterministic. An op-code such as "incf 23" increments the value in memory address 23 and takes exactly one machine cycle to execute. At the other end of the extreme a language like C# is very verbose and maybe few programmers know all the vocabulary it offers. C# is very clever and, given such knowledge, enables you to do very smart things with just a few lines of code, but don't expect a known result in a known amount of time! I am not comfortable with programming in C# because I can't remember all those words and thus feel out of control.
Granted that the Gospels are more about Jesus but you'd think they or maybe Paul's epistles would mention his disciples - but for most of them there is little or no record of what they said or did. Simon Peter is of course the exception. And yet I suppose the rest of them were chosen for a reason. Take Matthew - we suppose he wrote the gospel bearing his name and yet there is no record of what he did or said in the whole of the NT apart from the fact that he was a tax collector and followed Jesus immediately when called.
One other disciple in particular comes to mind. Dear Thomas, pragmatist to the end. I say "dear", of course, because I identify with him.
In the four very obviously ordered lists of apostles (Matthew, Mark, Luke and Acts) he comes half way - neither most nor least noteable. His three other mentions are all in the gospel of John.
Dean Jones in John on Patmos
In chapter 11 he makes a possibly snide remark which Adam Clarke comments well on. In chapter 14, whilst Jesus is explaining spiritual truths in somewhat mysterious language, he interjects "we haven't a clue what you're talking about so how can be possibly know the way?" And finally, post resurrection, we have Jesus appearing to and showing his hands and side to the disciples, but Thomas happens not to be there. On catching up afterwards he remarks indignantly "Unless I see in his hands the marks of the nails and place my fingers into his side, I will never believe" which Dean Jones impersonates rather well in his John on Patmos. Dear Thomas. I hope I would have done the same, for I'd certainly have thought it. Maybe the more "spiritual" among us might despise him (and me) for lack of faith - such folk might consider themselves spiritual but I think they do not understand the word.
Eight days later, Jesus (though the doors were locked) enters and announces himself with "Peace be with you" and in the very next breath, wonder of wonders and never mind the other disciples there, he says to Thomas "Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side." No ticking off, no putting down, he meets Thomas just where he is and supplies just what he needs to evoke his response "My Lord and my God!"
Martyrdom of St. Thomas, by Peter Paul Rubens
Wanting, as always, to know what happened to the protagonist, I did a bit of research and found that there is good reason to believe that Thomas later traveled to India where he preached the gospel and was martyred. Less certain is the tradition that he was killed by a sword being thrust into his side.
In this short life that we live there is a whole lot more than talking.
I have succumbed again to the inexorable passage of time, bidding farewell to my younger daughter early this morning. Our loss is Oz's gain I suppose. As soon as the inevitability of the departure dawned on me a few days ago I started thinking how wholly inadequate I have been through her life - if only I could feel more of what she feels, and vice versa - do we have to live in, indeed be separate universes?
On the whole my parents raised me well, even if sport was not on the agenda. I did school, got married, had children and sort of did my best to raise them, my children grew up and now lead their own lives - and what was all that about?
But at least I have some pictures to remind me of the good times! I love you, Kate.
Today we hiked up Lugnaquilla, the highest peak in the Wicklow mountains. Either the GPS watch or those satelites it follows were playing up hence the impossible elevation profile. We all got thoroughly wet but enjoyed it none the less. I traveled barefoot only once on grassy terrain as my feet are suffering from several splits despite various attentions.
Steep ascent
Tiffin
Art's lough mid distance and the Irish Sea on the horizon
Then the cloud came down followed later by drizzle
Somewhere between these two pictures we made it to the summit where it was in the cloud and wet and cold and windy so we left after stuffing ourselves with chocolate and mini cheddars.
