Will I ever run as far as to church mountain again?

A friend, a few years older than me, sitting across the room has just returned from the US visiting her granddaughter. In telling us about the visit she observes that this was probably the last time she would make such a trip.

Growing older is insidious. I don't like to admit that I am growing older, and certainly not that I am growing old, but every so often I catch myself thinking I might never do or go to such and such again. Or thinking that there is no point upgrading certain equipment or software because what I have will last me through. So I kind of plateau or worse still start going downhill. There is of course some truth in this position, but the negative implications get me in the belly - that gnawing feeling that not all is well. Taken further I think they'd call it depression but I'll not give in that easily.

But, honestly, why upgrade my CAD software when that which I have does all (or at least most) of what I need? And in any case I am gradually retiring my design business. Or why learn the latest programming languages when what I have used till now does what I want and, may I say, often does it more slickly that the new fangled stuff. Threads and generator functions indeed. When tackling a longer than usual run I wonder if it will be the last time I will run that far.  Mind you, I have no intention of giving up trying.

We watch Meg (she's the dog, now way past my age in dog years). She has rheumatism in her back legs, has suffered mini-strokes so holds her head on one side, is almost totally deaf, and is far less sociable than she used to me. One day she will die. And that will be that. Till then we feed her, try to make her life livable (she doesn't complain - dogs don't).  I wonder what I'll be like at that age? Or what it will feel like, same old me but in a crustier and less forgiving outward shell. I don't know and I confess I am a little apprehensive - not so much of death but not at all liking pain or inconvenience.

Short term memory loss is another getting-older thing. I go to the loo, flush it, wash my hands and then wonder - did I flush the loo? One learns to manage this by having only certain places that one is allowed to leave things like shoes, wallet, gloves and the like. But it is still endemic and a nuisance. And the management schemes are very well until one's customary ways are interrupted.

On the other hand I am glad to be alive. I am very thankful that I discovered barefoot running and am (still) able to go interesting places on my own and totally under my own steam and with no help from Adidas or whoever thank you very much. I don't have to pay subscription fees for my exercise and the world is my gym. Although I admit to buying foot moisturising cream. And I am so thankful that I still find enjoyment in seeing beauty, hearing music, tasting fish pie... even if my senses are dulled.

Testimony to a very low lake

Several years ago the level of the Blessington lake (or reservoir) was artificially made low so that work could be done on the dam. This year the lake has become quite as low as it was then but this time it was due to lack of rain.

On returning from two weeks in the UK I noticed how much lower the level had become and decided to run around the Kings River end on Saturday afternoon (a week ago) to suss it out, it being a warm and sunny day. The experience satisfied. The area where the Kings River enters is normally flooded and out of my depth but now the river channel was narrow and shallow, with large sand banks exposed. And I met some regular fishers who asked me where was my dog! I think these were the same folk that, several years back, had helped me find Meg after she had run off after some rabbit or whatever.

I figured I would repeat the exercise one morning this week. Somewhat foolishly as it was only 7 degC and, scantily clad as usual, so I got rather cold. But having got half way around I had to finish which I duly did and am here to tell the tale. No swimming though.

This Sunday afternoon the weather was clement and, having attended to two WC's in the house here that had broken (story of my life) but having nothing else pressing to do, I set out again, this time armed with a camera.  The latter was because I reckoned the lake, so low, warranted Special Attention. I passed the usual fishing regulars and several others.

S'funny. My son went off fishing at much the same time as I left for my run. And these men I passed who asked after my dog: doubtless they look at me, besmirched with mud, and think 'crazy guy'. And I look at them with similar lack of comprehension. But we share the same lake amicably.

As usual you can enlarge my pictures by clicking on them.

My route around Kings River end of lake from Bing maps

To start I cross the bridge and climb over the parapet at 'A' and go around the Kings River end of the lake in an anticlockwise direction (the same course as my son and I did many years ago on mountain bike and petrol scooter, only that time the tide was in). I run where I can, but some areas are too stony and slow me down. The course would be very difficult it tackled shod.

Lots of dykes, ditches and hedges not normally visible

And a zillion new islands and penisulae

And all rather muddy

From 'B' looking back towards the bridge

The level has never become low enough to access this island near 'C'

Ancient roadways appear - this one at 'D'

This stream at 'E' is normally an inlet to the lake

Kings River at 'F'

Kings River looking towards lake - note the people!

All this area is normally flooded

Fording the river knee deep, it is usually an out of my depth swim

A week ago the river was a mere stream. And I've seen it far more bloated than in this picture. One needs to watch the weather before making assumptions about its depth and flow.

Looking up Kings River, all this is normally part of the lake

Looking back along the river né  lake from 'G'

This and a piebald horse were near 'H' on all three runs

Near 'J' looking south

Near 'J'

Note the partially submerged fences

A Very Muddy Place near 'K'

Ordance Survey Ireland have an on-line map service where you can overlay a modern map (of the lake) with a historic map (dated 1888-1913, before the lake was flooded), which shows the above fence-lines. The photo above was taken from where the stream (blue) crosses the fence-line (orange).

Back to the bridge at 'L'

The closest post is dry when the lake is "normally low"

Civilisation

Historic thunderstorm hits

Historic because in the 35 years I have lived here this is only the second overhead thunderstorm that I can recall. The first was ages ago and it was particularly memorable because it sort of circled us so lasted quite a long time, long enough for me to go running in it. I stood in the forestry area with rain sluicing over me Mowgli style, lightning all around.

But this one, which occurred yesterday evening, chose as its debut our Thursday meeting of all times. How can one properly enjoy a thunderstorm when one is meant to be in a meeting? It turned out that I missed a bit of it anyway because I noticed Meg (the dog) wandering past the window in the pouring rain, and then wandering back somewhat desultorily. Meg is also historic - not only virtually deaf but also quite arthritic and has just had a stroke - so a bit decrepit.  I look at her and wonder which of us is the more decrepit: I think, I hope for my sake, she has overtaken me (dog years passing somewhat faster than man years).

So I left the meeting to go and rescue Meg. She often ensconces herself in the porch of my office so that where I initially took her. The entrance to my office is at the lowest corner of the courtyard so is subject to flash flooding: the porch floor being not much higher than the outside. You then step up from the porch to the office proper. This corner of the courtyard was starting to flood by this time and I soon realised that the porch was in jeopardy too so I transferred said bedraggled and somewhat senile dog into my office. By this time she was shivering with wet and cold.

It rained and it rained and it rained. Piglet told himself that never in all his life, and he was goodness knows how old--three, was it, or four?--never had he seen so much rain. Days and days and days. Until the water rose above the threshold and started flooding the porch. At its zenith I suppose there was 3 or 4 cm of water over the porch floor - thankfully a ways to go before gaining my office!

Meg ensconced

The flood waters rising

The zenith

What it looked like outside

Only later did we realise that the storm had taken out our PBX (local telephone exchange). On opening it this morning there was evidence of a discharge and the whole thing was dead. I have ordered a replacement. In retrospect if I had unplugged the incoming lines the unit might have been saved. Retrospect is not all that helpful.

Moreover, this afternoon I was called to a neighbour's house where the storm had destroyed a plug-top adaptor supplying their cordless 'phone, had fused a couple of outside lights, and had exploded the fuse inside their automatic gate controller.

I don't think any of these artefacts were due to direct hits: a direct lighting hit would surely be much more destructive. Rather it is just static "in the air" but a bit scary how susceptible electronic gadgetry is to an EMP. How fragile we are when faced with an Act Of God.

I said - I'm not deaf!

Meg (the dog) is deaf. Actually she's not quite. If she is not looking your way and you walk up to her across the gravel, she will first hear you when you are within about 3 feet and then suddenly jump. So we try not to do that. Most of the time she lives in another world, a world of silence, broken only when someone gets sufficiently near to per her.

Michael (the human) is not deaf. Not quite. My hearing is impaired, not unusual at my age, so that loud sounds become distorted and deciphering conversation in a crowded room is nigh impossible. During church worship I keep as far from the drum set as is feasible. During community meals I live largely in another world, broken only when someone next to me speaks sufficiently clearly for me to engage.  I don't mind this, except that it's a bit antisocial and I sometimes miss what's going on.

In this morning's church we were encouraged to have a relationship with the Holy Spirit and were told that it was not good enough to talk only to the Father or Jesus. I chewed this over. I don't think I consciously differentiate in my prayers between the various parts of the Godhead. Does this mean I am missing something? I reckon I have some understanding of the different functions of each part, but it does seem a bit strange to me to address "the Holy Spirit" and I don't see any Biblical precedent for it and so I left confused.

Tripartite man

The colouring in this picture, grabbed somewhat at random from the internet, suggests that the "spirit" is the most important part of the human makeup, using the same logic as the king is the most important because, after all, he is king. Which doesn't necessarily follow.

The Bible is pretty consistent in its dividing of man into body, soul and spirit through both the old and new testaments, even if there is only one verse that actually includes all three. And it is pretty consistent in its word usage which I could go into but this is hardly the place and anyway I am no language scholar so would probably get it wrong.

I'm on this subject because we've been studying it in church and reading some of Watchman Nee and had several sermons on the subject. It's not that I am opposed to the doctrine but it seems strange that, in all 6,000 years of modern history, man is still uncertain about his makeup. I've spent some time recently thinking about this - trying to see inside myself and figure it out. The bits of my body that I can see are pretty obvious but beyond that it gets fuzzy.

I struggle with the idea that I have a spirit which can communicate with God but only if I am a Christian. True, there have been times when I would say I have "heard" God in that I have known that a particular course of action was what I had to do. But I'm nowhere near the league of constant dialogue that some suggest should be the norm. I'll go along with Jesus' "my sheep hear my voice" as a statement of fact, but not as "my sheep ought to hear my voice" which is what I sometimes hear. But Ali says what I hear is not necessarily what is said.

I like this definition: He knows there is only one thing that separates us from the beasts: is is that everyone carries his Eden, an inner realm of silence, and this is what some call the soul, having no other name for it. The point is to allow people to reach it, be blessed by it, even briefly, to save them from the filthy under-murmur of living. (Joseph O'Connor, Ghost Light).  This expresses rather well that which I inwardly long for. I may have a conversation with Meg (the dog), stroke her, give her the odd biscuit - but there's nothing deeper there.

I'm looking for an equally good definition for the human spirit. 

There is this: For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart. I think of carving a chicken - if under-cooked it is remarkably hard to separate the leg joints even with a sharp knife: how much harder to get to the marrow? The suggestion is that the soul and spirit are not easily divided and that marrow (thus spirit), though hidden, is essential in its role to produce blood cells, the stuff of life. Perhaps my answer is that I can no more detect the existence of my spirit than I can my bone marrow!

Running barefoot in the dark

Running in the dark

About this time last year I moved my early morning barefoot runs to lunchtime because it's hard to keep tabs on a dog you can't see. Sadly Meg has recently got very deaf so it is not safe taking her running any longer. So far this year, not encumbered with Meg, I have decided to keep my early morning runs even though at 0630 it is still very dark.

In fact I have not yet experienced total darkness. Either moonshine or clouds reflecting nearby city lights has given sufficient light. I carry a flash-light with me but strictly only for emergencies and to ward off inquisitive cars. I follow a predefined route that I know is reasonably barefoot friendly. And, voilà, so far it has worked.

There are, of course, dangers in running barefoot in the dark but largely avoidable. Or in extremes of hot or cold weather. Similarly with running in the rain. I suppose the bottom line is to be sensible. But whenever was I that?

Dead as a Dodo

My proverbial namesake

Deaf? Actually, not that bad, thankyou. I am not extinct (yet). And yet I struggle to hear when the noise level is high. Like when we eat together, 35 of us including three infants who can be LOUD. Often it is actually uncomfortable and I find myself withdrawing from conversation, not even trying, and occasionally even leaving the room. And I note that Meg's hearing is getting worse. I habitually run (barefoot of course) first thing Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Simply opening the latch on the back door used to be enough to wake Meg, some 30 yards away in her kennel, but now she doesn't hear and I have therefore given up taking her with me on my morning runs. I do not want to call out loudly for fear of waking the more sensible of our folk who stay in bed.

It is not so much sheer volume that causes my hearing difficulty as cacophony. I am very pleased with most of Celibidache's Bruckner because I can generally make out the individual instruments: the recordings I have have clarity in this respect. But with some music, especially home-grown such as our praise services, all the sounds can muddle together and become, for me, harsh and verging on painful. And why does music now-a-days have to have constant drum beat?

He went for a run one day and didn’t turn right

Saturday 4pm and time for a run (bare foot). I called "Meg!" several times but no dog came - is she getting deaf in her old age? So I went alone starting along my usual route but, when I came to the usual right turn, I kept straight on and thus committed myself to a much longer route. A route I cannot take with Meg because it includes a few miles along a busy main road with no footpath.

The route is over 8.5 miles in total. I made it back OK though I found the last bit hard work.

I've coined a new words: "Carincidence" or "Concarrence" meaning when two vehicles travelling in opposite directions along a road happen to pass at just the point where I am running. This afternoon carincidences occurred a good deal more often than normal statistics would suggest and at times I was forced to climb momentarily into the hedgerow to allow free passage to the cars which, it seems, imagine they have the right of way.

I have been running barefoot for many years now and still have never met or even seen another barefoot runner. So strange when, for me, the experience is so liberating.

Catching your dog?

Today, whilst running (barefoot) with Meg, it happened again. Maybe three times now an oncoming car has stopped and the driver rolled down his window to ask "are you trying to catch your dog?". On replying in the negative the driver went on to explain "because you were running in your bare feet..."

Is there some mysterious connection that has hitherto alluded me between loosing one's dog and running barefoot?

And why this "running in your bare feet" as if I were putting them on like shoes? Maybe I run on bare feet (who doesn't?) but I certainly do not run in them. Why not "running barefoot" or even, since shoes are the exception, simply "running"?

Miles with Meg

Sunday afternoon, down to the lake with my son, his family and friends, then a ten mile run with Meg. It was cold but very beautiful. One oncoming car stopped short and the passenger got out and and came up to me, very concerned, saying "you have bare feet and it is very cold..." I tried to explain that I was fine, my feet were fine, but I do not think she was convinced. I didn't get as far as pointing out that the dog was bare foot too. Actually my feet were not at all cold but my hands (also bare) were. Holding a camera doesn't help.

My latest grandchild (and mother)

Cameras are contagious

Two more grandchildren

My son

A study in Cow and Dog

Kings River forked rock

Just to prove it was cold

Wild flowers

These pictures were taken at home today as my final fling before going to AK. The weather here is so glorious.  I hope that it is not too far fetched to call my daughter a "wild flower"!  Oh and, following the accident on Sunday, Meg is at the vet having X-rays: her back leg is very swollen.

Meg cider

Meg, the one and only, star artist in this video, got knocked by a car this afternoon. It wasn't the car's fault - the driver was aware of Meg and was going slowly: it was the fault of yappy dogs who frightened Meg whilst she was inspecting their smells, and she shot out from the kurb just as the car was passing slow. I think, I hope she will be OK - no bones appear to be broken, no obvious wound, probably just a bad bruise or two. I guess we'll see tomorrow.

Bicycle

Sorry, no pictures, but doubtless there will opportunity in subsequent posts on this subject. I was about to ride this new acquisition for the very first time when the heavens opened and all manner of sleet and hail and snow fell out. So instead I took Meg after a short run - a bit cold on the feet but I survived - and then, after a hot bath, busied myself with transferring bike computer, lights and pump from old to new bike. Obviously the new bike is a very different breed as nothing fitted easily. I then took it for a quick spin to the end of the road and back and almost died of hypothermia. Oh, and half way along the road I realised I had forgotten the helmet. It is going to take some self discipline to remember this inconvenience.

My immediate reactions: the ride is much harder than I am used to: the guy in the shop had inflated the tires to 100psi which he reckoned was good but is much harder than I am used to. The bike feels scarily insubstantial. The front derailleur is not working - doubtless not adjusted correctly. To rear derailleur is fine and it is so nice to be able to change gears so easily. The ride was hardly long enough to do justice but, I reckon I'll get to like this bike.

Next I'll have to find something for Meg to ride else she's going to be missing out...

Cold drizzle

9.5 miles in cold drizzle with Meg and no shoes, topped with a hot shower, a cup of tea and a packet of King cheese'n'onion crisps!

Dogs I have known

My paternal and maternal ancestry were as chalk from cheese.  My mother's people were reasonably normal English folk - afternoon tea with sandwiches type and no pets.  My father's sister (his only sibling) lived with his parents together with (in my childhood days) five dogs and cats without number.  A small window was left permanently open in the kitchen for ingress and egress of cats.  These cats possibly had identities but I never knew them by name.  They had rights above us children - totally free range of the kitchen - and their hairs were an accepted part of the cuisine.  This and other quirks of my father's folk used to drive my mother to distraction, to tears.  For us children we kind of accepted it as the status quo, as unchallengeable - but I hated going to stay with my grandparents.  To this day I have this every increasing foreboding as I drive closer to their hometown in Essex.

But the subject of this post is Dogs.  The mother of all the dogs was Karis.  Karis is greek for "grace".  My paternal grandfather 'Ginty' was the most normal person in this house.  Amongst other things he played the organ in church, played the violin at home (rather poorly), had numerous reel-to-reel tape recorders including a very desirable (in those days) Ferrograph machine, and studied greek, hebrew and eschatology.  That will give you some idea of the other members of the household.  Of the three, Ginty was the only one that showed a smidgen of affection for me.  Otherwise us children (my sister and I) felt as if we were little more than a nuisance there.  Perhaps I am misjudging them, I can only say what I felt like.

Anyway, the Dogs.  Karis was the most good natured.  She had black, brown and white markings.  As for the TYPE of dog, I frankly have no idea - some distant mongrel relation of a terrier I would think.  Then there was Smokey.  And three others...  The others were not friendly, not clean, not nice and IMHO do not deserve to be remembered.

Every other Christmas the grandparents and aunt AND DOGS would visit us.  My poor mother.

My own parents, or should I say my father, continued the dog tradition, but generally only one at a time and definitely no cats.  There was once a goldfish or two - they might get mentioned in a later post.  The first dog they had was Tinker Bell, doubtless a relation of Karis who, I think I said, was "mother of all".  What relation I cannot say.

The picture is black and white (they were in those days) but actually the markings either side of her face were brown and her hair was short, smooth and clean.  Tinker Bell was a nice dog and wholly deserving of her namesake.  But I was very young then and I remember little more about her.

Tinker Bell gave birth to Chum who had a rougher coat and no brown colouring.

I use a picture of myself with Chum on this wall as an avatar, but to include it here would be giving my identity away just too easily.  Chum was also a decent sort.

Chum in turn gave birth to Patch, so named for the patch over her eye.  Yes I know it could be argued that Chum had two patches.  In fact she had only one and the other dog here is Patch's progeny.

Patch was also a sensible dog.  Her progeny Pixie was anything but sensible, but she was adorable, the most adorable of dogs.  Pixie started life inside the womb in Cornwall, hence the name.  We never found out who the father was, but then you will notice that I have said very little about the fathers of any of the dogs mentioned.

Pixie was a little strange from birth - let's just say that she did different things.  Like running off and getting knocked down by a car, which bent her tail permanently.  But she was adorable.  If ever I loved a dog I love Pixie.  So here is another picture in her honour.

I only wish our photography skills were better in those days.

I then left home, got myself a h'education, and found myself a wife.  We settled down in London suburbia and decided we had no need for a dog.  We had each other after all, and that was expensive enough without having to find money to feed a third mouth.

So it wasn't until I moved to my present location that I met Meg.  Meg, otherwise referred to as "the dog" in previous posts (another attempt to protect my anonymity), actually belongs to a friend who is currently at college in the USA of all places, so I help to exercise her.

Meg is sagacious (look at her eyes).  Like her master she does not like fruitcake.  Unlike her master she loves joining me for (bare foot) running.  She is a good friend - listens to my complaints without comment.  She loves to have her tummy rubbed.  She likes custard-creams.  In fact she is as good a dog was one could hope for.  More sensible but not quite as adorable as Pixie.