GPS showed the footpath continuing through the gate and into the farm. The only problem, a field of nettles at shoulder height. After a few minutes climbing a wall for a better vantage point and checking alternative routes, John and I realised we had no choice but to head straight through the stingers. We noticed a couple of wooden pallets leaning up against the wall. Lifting one above his head, John threw it over the nettles, crushing them flat. Standing on this, he lifted the second one and threw it down to continue the pathway. He repeated this a dozen times, until we arrived at the far side and passed into the farmyard.

Trail runs are adventures. You never know what challenges will crop up. Our original plan was a simple one, to run from Whitstable on the north coast of Kent, to Folkestone on the south coast. Unfortunately, the available trains were taking over two hours to get us to the start, so we chose to run a similar distance beginning in Canterbury and finishing in Folkestone, but with a dogleg to Wye.

The train to Canterbury was rammed with Arsenal FC fans on their way to the Premier League trophy parade in London; some inebriated at 8am. We were relieved to step onto the platform in the quiet and historic environs of the UNESCO World Heritage site and set off from the Westgate. This 60m stone drum tower has stood since 1379 and is the only remining one of seven gates that served the city.

From there we headed south to Stuppington along dry earth trails beneath trees in bright green leaf. Thick ermine moth webs had enveloped the bushes, and overhead blackbirds were serenading us. We could have followed the Great Stour River to Wye, but we had selected the greenest and hilliest route. The sun was blazing above, and the temperature began to climb as did we. It was the seventh day of a heatwave, and we had come prepared with water, suncream, hats and sunglasses and we were soon walking the incline. Fields of blue-green wheat were ripening in the fields all the way to the horizon.

This is the point that we encountered the nettles, and having successfully passed the test, we spent some time with the newborn calves before heading back out into open country and crossing a field of wild grasses, scarlet poppies, ox-eye daisies and golden buttercups.

Skylarks burst from the long grass rising upwards while letting out a stream of techno inspired notes seeing to distract us from their nests. A Kestrel hovered above and the dived steeply, emerging with a mouse, or skylark chick.

We descended into the valley with fritillary, common blue, hairstreak, red admiral and orange tip butterflies scattering before us on the path. Turning a corner into a wood we entered a field of six-feet tall, bright pink foxgloves humming with bumble bees. Purple salsify and pale flax flowers caught our attention as we ran through fields of barley, up steep hills and along forest trails. Kites circled above on the thermals and lambs ran from our path to find safety with their mums.

The sight of St Gregory and St Martin church meant we were now entering Wye. Built in the 13th century, the church has survived lightning strikes and bomb damage. More interested in food, we took the opportunity to have lunch of pies and pasties, crisps, chocolate and lashing of Ginger Beer at the Wye Kitchen.

Energised again, it was a long, slow climb from the centre of the village to the famous Devil’s Kneading Trough. This is one of the largest and steepest sided dry valleys in the UK with a commanding view over the Kentish Weald as far as the English Channel and Romney March. It was formed at the end of the last ice age 12,000 years ago by receding glaciers, but local folklore suggests that the bowl was a trough where the devil himself made bread. After a moment to appreciate the scene, we decided to abandon our route finder and head south. Two miles later we retraced our steps and continued to obey ‘the worm’ as we called the marked line on my watch.

As we arrived in the village of Hastingleigh, we were both getting low on water again. The heat had intensified and we had been on our feet for over six hours. Dehydration was a threat, and when we saw a family in the driveway of their huge farmhouse, we asked them to fill our bottles. ‘We can do better than that’ said the woman, offering us a two-litre bottle of mineral water. ‘Thames Water delivered us loads of these when the water was cut off yesterday and now the problem is fixed, we won’t drink it.’ Thanking them, we topped up, gulped down mouthfuls of cold, refreshing water before pouring what was left over our heads.

The second section of the route contained some beautiful unspoiled woodland including West Wood and Lyminge Forest. We appreciated the shade of the giant conifers and the dappled sunlight beneath the beeches. It was time for a snack, and we tried some mushroom jerky (delicious) and dried dragon fruit (disgusting). With ten miles to go I was struggling. John had experienced a similar period of demoralisation a few miles earlier, but we managed to encourage one another and distracted ourselves by singing Pulp songs and reciting sketches from the 90’s comedy The Fast Show.

This route was part of the North Downs Way and crossed Stone Street, the 12 mile long Roman Road that runs from Canterbury to Lympne. Passing through fields of sheep and horses, we followed old drove roads until we arrived at the golf course in Lyminge where we put in a couple of fast miles and then detoured to a hill we used to climb regularly many years ago.

To get there, we had to climb another smaller hill covered in trees and descend a vertiginous slope the other side. This involved grasping branches, leaping from trunk to trunk and trying not to lose our footing and slide down into the ravine. We had been there before, eight years ago, and this is where the name of our running club - Bald Monkeys - was born.

Having survived, we walked to the top of our hill and took a moment to rest and appreciate the day we had enjoyed before trotting home.

People are often unsure what supplies they should take with them for a long-distance trail run. Many road runners load up with gels thinking this will give them enough energy to complete the miles; but let’s be honest, no one actually likes them (gels, not road runners), and on the trails, you can stop, sit on a rock and eat, so you don’t need liquid food. You’ll be wearing a backpack / hydration vest anyway, so you may as well fill it with real food. But what should you take?

Here are my top ten favourite foods for a trail run picnic.

1. Chewy sweets. I prefer Jelly Babies, but anything that’s easy to eat and doesn’t melt will do. Squashies or wine gums are good alternatives.

2. Salted nuts (unless you have a nut allergy). Peanuts and cashews are good. Helps replace salt lost through sweating. Just make sure you have your water handy as they can get stuck in your throat.

3. Apples. I used to take bananas, but they bruise easily and become mushy. An apple is better. Robust and refreshing.

4. Sausage rolls. Good for a carb hit and easy to eat on the run. Meat or veggie options work.

5. Biltong. Packets of this cured meat are light to carry and easy to eat and digest.

   

6. Dried fruit. Again, light and easy to carry. You can suck or chew them for slow or fast release. They also help if you have a dry mouth.

7. Chocolate bars. Not good for summer as they will end up a melted mess. I tend to go for a Mars bar as you have a choice of snack size, normal or double.

8. Cheese. Another one for winter only. Mini Babybel are ideal, although I have been known to take a block of brie to nibble on.

9. Boiled potatoes. These are good if salted. Wrap them in tin foil and they are a good snack on the go.

10. Last but not least, my favourite trail snack - pork pie. You can take a pack of mini ones or one big one. Alternatively scotch eggs. Really hit the spot.

You may have your own preferred foods, but I have found some or all of these will be perfect for anyone seeking ideas. Hope that helps.

This place of myth and magic. Where mysterious hounds are rumoured to roam. Treacherous peat bogs surrounded by ancient grit stone pillars. A wilderness awaiting discovery.

Dartmoor has always been on my list of places to run. What has kept me from going? My navigational ability, or lack of. The thought of becoming lost on the misty moor with no phone signal as the darkness closes in, enough to deter me. To address this, I joined an organised group run from Oakhampton in north Devon to Ivybridge in the south.

The run was organised by the ultra-runner and author Adharanand Finn, he of Running with the Kenyans book fame. There were fourteen of us taking on the challenge, which I had mistakenly understood to be an 18-mile run, but which turned out to be 34.

We set out from the train station and immediately headed up a steep incline. The road gave way to woodland where an abundance of bluebells cast a shade of mauve across the hillside. The tree trunks were covered in a thick blanket of lime green moss. I was soon out of breath and feeling the lactic acid in my thighs as we reached the summit. I would normally have chosen to walk the hill given the distance we have still to cover, but I bowed to peer pressure. We emerged onto a bleak moorland with swirling mist obscuring the hill tops. Newborn lambs gambolled and bleated as they ran to their mothers.

A soft, steady rain started to fall as we tracked across the tussock grassland, leaping over the peat bogs in a futile attempt to keep our feet dry. Colin, our navigator, regaled us with tales from his army days as well as his experiences on the moor. He pointed out places of interest and informed us that we would be climbing four of the five highest tors with heights over 600m. I felt safer with him in front.

The landscape was strewn with clitter, the small rocks and stones scattered over the ground like croutons on a bowl of broccoli and stilton soup. In the distance we could make out a shadowy figure towering over the surrounding area. The brooding lump of rock was Yes Tor, but it was a firm no to the epic views that are reportedly available. Cloud had descended and we could barely see the path ahead which lead to High Willhays, the highest peak at 621m.

Above us skylarks let out a stream of avian expletives as they sought to distract us from their nests in the surrounding long grass. They rose higher into the sky before vanishing into the white veil, their voices echoing out across the moor like a ringtone.

We followed the trod paths, trying to avoid the jet-black slugs that were feeding in the damp conditions. The cloud had lifted slightly, but there was no sign that the sun was going to make an appearance. Jackets went back in our bags as we ran on through the desolate wilderness, the only colour the bright gold flowers of the gorse bushes.

Grey Wethers is the name given to a pair of pre-historic stone circles, each 33m in diameter with their centre points aligned north to south. Just five metres apart, they consist of 20 and 29 standing stones respectively. As I entered the circles, I noticed my phone had turned off. It wouldn’t restart. In fact, despite numerous efforts, I couldn’t get it working again until we had travelled a few miles away. Coincidence?

Crossing the B3212 we arrived in Postbridge where we are met by Colin’s wife who has laid out a table of snacks and drinks for us. Their dog bounded joyfully from one person to another excited to see us arrive. Above, swallows skimmed and dived through the air catching flies on the wing. I was confused when my watch showed 12 miles and everyone else had managed 14. It turned out that I was looking at the time 12:10.

Feeling foolish, but with my belly and bottles filled, I joined the others as we waved goodbye to Lisa and ran towards Bellever Forest following the East Dart River. A wooden sign at the entrance quoted TS Eliot:

“Only those who will risk going too far
can possibly find out how far one can go.”

Our surroundings suddenly transformed as we passed into a completely different biome. Gone were the barren swathes of grass and gorse. Instead, we ran beneath pine and spruce before finding ourselves in broadleaf forest beside cascading waterfalls. Bluebells began to appear in their thousands causing us to stop to admire an entire hillside pulsing lavender blue. There were bright yellow buttercups, pink purslane and acres of fresh fern beginning to uncurl.

Wild ponies, foals in tow, wandered beside the trail, glancing our way and returning to feed. Mossy lichen covered boulders rested among the trees providing homes for insects, small animals, adders and grass snakes. Three times we crossed the river via stepping stones. Some of the more intrepid group members chose to wade across, but I preferred to leap from rock to rock. Drizzle cooled us as we approached marathon distance.

Once again, Lisa met us with refreshments, this time at St Raphael’s church. A couple of the group were struggling, but I still felt fresh. Inside the church was a plaque dedicated to Guy and Sylvia Sayer ‘Who devoted their lives to keeping Dartmoor wild and free.’ She was a preservationist and environmental campaigner who lived from 1904-2000. It is thanks to people like her that we were enjoying such natural beauty.

The terrain changed again. We were back on monochromatic moorland with tough gorse, bracken, spring sedge and cottongrass for company. Having climbed Combestone Tor, Rider’s Hill and Pupper’s Hill we arrived at Avon dam and followed the River Avon downhill. Now on tarmac it was a painful mile or so during which we stopped for two people to take a dip in the cool waters.

Approaching the last few miles, we were once again treated to shady woodland with a plethora of bold green hues from the tree leaves, mosses and ferns accompanied by the soundtrack of bubbling brooks crossed by ancient clapper bridges formed of stone slabs. Then, a sound that stopped me in my tracks and caused me to shout out to the group ‘Listen!’ Cuck-oo, cuck-oo. The first time I had heard one, and in Dartmoor too. An endangered species, cuckoos have declined by 70% and there are now fewer than 2,000 breeding pairs remaining in the UK. A gift.

The last climb of the day was Butterdon Hill. I was tired, but the good company kept me going, as did the fact we were heading for a pub in Ivybridge. We ended by descending a steep grassy bank in full flight, arms spread wide in enjoyment and met Lisa in the Trehill Arms where she and the dog were waiting.

It was Dan’s birthday, so we sang to him before supping our pints of Doom Bar to celebrate conquering the Bad Moor with not a hound in sight.

A wide path bordered by plants

Group of four walking this way

Plus, a dog on a stretch lead

And a toddler on a scooter

Filling the space

But they see me

Give them a smile, friendly vibes

Running towards them

Keep left, leave plenty of room

This is a shared space

Watch that dog, led by its nose

Sniffing the tree roots, leg cocked

Lead stretched across the path

The child free-wheeling, steering unsteadily

They see me but stay in formation

Talking, walking, stretched out

Coming closer, no way past

Dog roaming one side to the other

Scooter gaining speed

Helmeted kid on a collision course

They see me again, see through me

Hurdle the dog lead

No reaction

Dodge the speeding tot

Keep left, move over, no space

Turn my shoulders to narrow my profile

‘Excuse me’ I plead

They see me, the sound of tutting

A narrow gap, I leap through safely

‘Watch out! Bloody runners, think you own the park.’

I’m passionate about running and love meeting new people. I also like to learn about the places that my feet take me. So, it was only natural that I would become a running guide. When I moved to London in 2020, I contacted a tour company and have been leading running tours ever since.

City Jogging Tours is a friendly, professional company run by the wonderful Hope. She has a team of guides, and we share out the bookings between us. Individuals, groups or corporate events book the date and time they want to run, the distance and speed, and then we put together a route for them, taking in as many of the sights as possible.

Last weekend, Chaz, Steve and I were booked to lead a large group that were in the UK for a conference. Part of their itinerary was an optional morning run from a hotel by Hyde Park. They had requested 5-7km at an easy pace with stops for photographs.

Having prepared my route, I arrived at the hotel on Sunday morning and waited for everyone to arrive. We walked to the park for a photo before splitting into three groups. My thirteen runners varied in experience and confidence, and were from a variety of nations Germany, Mexico, Kenya, America and Japan.

After a brief introduction we made our way to Marble Arch via Speaker’s Corner where free speech, open-air speaking and debate are encouraged. Sadly, on this occasion there was no one there. Crossing the busy Bayswater Road, we gathered around a plaque in the pavement while I explained the story of the Tyburn Tree. This was the name given to the gallows which stood here from 1196-1783. The ‘triple tree’ was the sight of 50,000 hangings during that time. It was designed to make room for as many nooses as possible with up to 24 people being hung at the same time.

After that cheerful start, we crossed the road to Marble Arch. The white triumphal monument designed by John Nash in 1827 used to be located outside Buckingham Palace before being moved to the north of Hyde Park. A road was then built between the arch and the park leaving it isolated on a roundabout.

We ran back through Hyde Park and stopped for a photo by the 18 feet high sculpture of Achilles holding his sword and shield that was erected as a memorial to the Duke of Wellington, the 19th century officer and statesman who twice served as Prime Minister and is best known for his victory over Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo.

Speaking of the Duke, our next stop was the Wellington Arch. So called despite not featuring the Duke or being created in his honour. Plans were made for a triumphal arch to make a majestic approach from Hyde Park to Buckingham Palace, but due to a moratorium on expenditure any sculpture was omitted.

Years later a statue of the Duke of Wellington on horseback was commissioned, but the designer of the arch objected to the scale which made his arch ‘a mere pedestal’. Forty years later the statue was removed and taken to Aldershot where it now stands. Since 1913 the arch has featured Nike, the winged goddess of victory on the chariot of war. It is the largest bronze statue in Europe. The face of the goddess was modelled on the son of the man that funded it.

We ran south towards Westminster with Green Park on our left, and the high wall hiding the back garden of Buckingham Palace from view on our right. As we approached, we could see crowds gathered in front of Canada Gate and around the Queen Victoria Memorial in front of the palace. It was time for the Sunday Parade. This involves the changing of the guard, where soldiers from the Household Division in their red tunics and bearskin hats change places with the ‘New Guard’ replacing the ‘Old Guard’. It is also the time for the trooping of the Colour, the colour being the regimental flag which is ceremonially paraded before being returned to St James’s Palace.

Crossing the Mall, where the marathon world record was broken last week by Sabastian Sawe, we could hear the National Anthem being played. St James’s Park was busy. It was Bank Holiday weekend and the sun was out. It was getting hot and we were all sweating heavily as we approached the Blue Bridge that crosses the lake. From there we could see the turrets of Whitehall and the London Eye to our left and the palace to our right. Parakeets squawked and swans swam past as tourists fed the squirrels.

Leaving the park, we approached Parliament Square where I pointed out the statues of historic figures including Winston Churchill, Abraham Lincoln, Mahatma Gandhi, Nelson Mandela and Millicent Fawcett. Westminster Abbey nearby is the royal church, where 40 coronations have taken place since 1066. Beside it, the seat of government, the Houses of Parliament, with the Queen Elizabeth Tower bathed in sunshine reflecting off the gold leaf restored in 2021. The bells rang out a quarter past the hour as queues formed around the red phone boxes that have become an Instagram photo zone.

We turned down Whitehall and ran past the various government departments of state. I pointed out the Cenotaph where the war dead are remembered in silence on 11th November at 11am when the King lays a wreath. A little further on was the monument to all the women that died in conflict. Downing Street, the Prime Minister’s office, was locked down behind barred gates and all we could spot were half a dozen armed guards looking menacing.

As we approached Horse Guards, we could see the soldiers in black capes sitting on their horses either side of the ornate gates. We carefully squeezed past without scaring the horses or provoking the guards that are known to hit anyone getting too close. We went through a narrow tunnel and emerged onto the gravel of Horse Guards Parade.

Our next photo opportunity was the Duke of York column. The 137 feet tall monument with a statue of the Duke on the top was paid for by taking a day’s pay from every soldier in the British Army. He is better remembered by the children’s rhyme:

‘Oh, the Grand old Duke of York
He had 10,000 men
He marched them up to the top of this hill
And he marched them back again
And when they were up, they were up
And when they were down, they were down
And when they were only half-way up
They were neither up nor down.’

A more contemporary sculpture nearby was a work by the ‘guerilla artist’ Banksy. It appeared just last week. Under cover of darkness, he installed a plinth containing a figure covered by a flag about to walk off the edge. It had been fenced off but a large crowd had gathered to see it.

From here we ran along Pall Mall, the area named after a game that used to be played here. It was a mixture of bowls and croquet known as Pall-Mall. We passed St James Palace, the 500-year-old primary residence of monarchs for many years that was built by Henry VIII.

There was just time to run past Berkeley Square to see some of London’s Great Trees, the Planes there were planted in 1789, the same year as the Storming of the Bastille and the inauguration of the first US President.

We arrived back at the hotel having seen centuries of history, contemporary art and the beauty of spring in London.

After leaving I continued my run up to Regent’s Park and climbed Primrose Hill. From there I could see the whole of London laid out and could pick out the various places we had run on the tour.

I ran into Camden and spent some time exploring the streets, taking in the brightly coloured buildings and wisteria in full bloom. Running through Kentish Town, I arrived at Hampstead Heath and did a lap of the park taking in the swimming ponds and the view from Parliament Hill.

As always, I made a detour to the secret Hill Garden and Pagoda to see the yellow poppies, pink roses, orange azaleas and lavender wisteria draped over the Edwardian walkway. Tadpoles and newts were swimming in the pond and goldfinches were serenading us from the ancient trees.

I took a moment to take it all in. Just time for a coffee in Hampstead before I ran back to Swiss Cottage to catch my train home.

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Part running memoir, part naturalist diary, part confessional, this book will inspire you to see the world with a fresh perspective. Evocative and candid, A Run for All Seasons charts the highs and lows of a self-acknowledged amateur runner, naturalist and father, as he seeks to balance his work and family commitments while following his passion for the outdoors.

London is a city of 9 million people, a swollen belly held in by a belt formed by the M25 motorway. Houses, factories, skyscrapers, churches, train stations and shops built of brick, stone and metal are linked by roads and rail lines. Places that were once villages, then towns are now joined in one great cityscape. However, within this asphalt world there are oases of green to be found. Parks, trails, commons, rivers and edgelands create spaces. These are my favourite places and I’m going to seek them out on a run. Not a marathon, but a long plod through south London.

My home is located in a busy suburb in the borough of Lewisham, just twenty minutes from London Bridge. Having lived here for six years, I have explored widely and know the tranquil areas I seek. Leaving the house, I head west. After a mile I arrive at Lewisham Park where the cherry blossom is beginning to fade, the grass hidden beneath a shower of pink and white confetti. I run a lap of the perimeter around the deep grass bowl, the former site of a 19th century lake. Three high rise blocks known as Lewisham Towers ‘tower’ above. They are each named after a different north-Kent village; Kemsley, Malling and Bredgar.

Running out from beneath their shadows, I pass through the grounds of Lewisham Hospital, cross a bridge over the River Ravensbourne and pass through Ladywell Park. I climb the very literal slopes of Hilly Fields, the park saved by Octavia Hill who also founded the National Trust. Passing Crofton Park station, I arrive at Brockley Cemetery. The sun is cascading from an azure sky and the temperature is rising. There is a sense of peace amid the gravestones, and I’m reminded to be present and thankful for this life I’ve been given.

A steep hill leads to One Tree Hill. I run hard up the slope, sweat pouring from my brow and then concede defeat when I reach the steps to the summit, walking towards the Oak of Honour where Elizabeth I is alleged to have stopped for a picnic. No stopping for me though, I take a photo of the panoramic view from the WWI anti-Zeppelin gun emplacement. From there I can see the River Thames winding towards the London Eye, St Paul’s Cathedral, The Shard and the financial heart of the the City six miles away.

Descending through thick woodland I head along Honor Oak Road before tackling the 11% climb to Horniman Gardens and Museum. The trees are in full leaf, the fresh lime green colouring causing them to appear shiny and wet in the sunlight. Cabbage white butterflies are fluttering dozily between the alliums. I cross the busy South Circular without stopping, the green man signalling safe passage before I dive into Sydenham Woods. This is the largest remaining tract of the ancient Great North Wood that used to cover 830 acres. There are over 200 species of trees and plants still found there along with a disused track bed from a now abandoned rail line and a Victorian folly that lies in ruins.

The canopy provides much needed shade as I dodge the roots and stones, greeting dog walkers and ramblers as I pass. The air is full of birdsong. I use an app on my phone to identify great spotted woodpecker, carrion crow, great tit, rose-ringer parakeet, common chiffchaff, song thrush and Eurasian wrens.

Breaking back out into the daylight it is only a few hundred metres to Dulwich Park. The rhododendrons so beloved by Queen Mary in her day are not yet in full bloom. Next month they will create a spectacular colourful display worthy of Kew Gardens. I circle the boating pond via a narrow trail around the outer edge of the park, passing the boundary oaks that still survive from the formation of the park in 1890.

Outside the ornamental gates is Dulwich Picture Gallery, the world’s first public art gallery. In the grounds there is a statue of actor and philanthropist Edward Alleyn, the legs of which are said to have been modelled on tennis legend Roger Federer. I run past Herne Hill Velodrome that once hosted cycling greats Jaques Anquetil, Fausto Coppi and Tom Simpson before arriving at the grade 2 listed Brockwell Park.

Famed for its art deco Lido, the park also contains a clocktower, lakes and beautiful walled garden. Two spotless white swans are corralling their brood of six cygnets while a grey heron looks on. Leaving the lake behind I see the model village at the entrance to the walled garden and then my draw drops. A huge lavender coloured wisteria is draped over a trellis, the vine coiling through the scaffold and hundreds of racemes like so many pendulous chandeliers swaying in the breeze. I stop to express my sense of awe with the gardener who is gently watering the base. ‘It is spectacular isn’t it’ he concurs ‘much bigger than last year.’

Ascending the hill to the clocktower I then run down a steep path, arms out, enjoying the feel of gravity pulling me along. In contrast, the next part of the run is a gradual slog uphill as I head south through Norwood, its name derived from North-wood. I pass West Norwood Cemetery, one of the Magnificent Seven Victorian cemeteries and then cut through Norwood Park and eventually crest the hill at Crystal Palace. It is just a few hundred metres to Crystal Palace Park, and I stop to admire another incredible view, this time in the opposite direction towards Kent. It appears to be nothing but trees as far as the North Downs in the distance. I know this to be false, but it is good to imagine how it must have looked centuries ago.

After a selfie with a sphinx, I follow the path to the lakes and take in the newly sculpted and painted dinosaurs that have been updated in line with modern understanding of how they would have looked. There is a long stretch of road through Penge, although this does count as part of the Green Chain Walk. My next green space is Cator Park and then Beckenham Place Park after that. I’m back on familiar ground, this being one of my favourite local haunts. I head for the woods to see the bluebells massed beneath the trees, and then it is perversely up the Downham Woodland Walk, a narrow stretch of green that winds between residential housing and two large secondary schools.

Crossing another busy road without incident, I enter Forster Memorial Park named after HW Forster who was a Member of Parliament, played first-class cricket for Hampshire, and was later Governor General of Australia. I use the outer path, a soft mud trail that circumnavigates the open grassland. Not much further on was my last green space, Mountsfield Park. I pass the statue of 9-year-old Ella Roberta, the first person in the world to have air pollution recorded as her cause of death, a timely reminder of why we need to fight for the green spaces I have sought out today.

These aren’t just nice places to enjoy, they are the lungs of our city, the homes of our birds, animals, insects and plants, a source of positive mental health and a place of social and spiritual connection.

Sitting in a silver tin bath full of freezing cold water, I look out over the Hope Valley. The still air is punctuated by the trilling of willow warblers, the bleating of newborn lambs, and relaxed laughter emanating from the barrel sauna behind me. The mid-afternoon sunshine pours from a cornflower blue sky over the patchwork emerald-green fields of the Derbyshire Dales. The tender buds are swelling on the tree branches that frame the scene. I close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun on my face. A smile slowly stretches across my lips, and I release a contented sigh.

I’m on a Trail Running Weekend in the Peak District with a group of people from around the country, none of whom I knew two days ago, but that now feel like friends and kindred spirits. We are a tribe. This is our prize after a morning of hills, stony paths and peat bogs. Not that the stunning views, clement weather conditions, company and sensory delights weren’t sufficient reward.

Trail running is the bastard child of road running. The rebellious, untamed wayward sibling that seeks thrills and adventure. It also attracts lovers of the outdoors, the aesthetes, the pilgrims, the naturalists. Seekers of community and exponents of positive lifestyle choices are drawn to the social, mental, and spiritual benefits. Enthusiasts of adventure sports and those drawn to challenge their abilities outside their comfort zones and the safety and predictability of modern life find a welcome. It is a community, a passion and a lifestyle with a shared way of looking at the world.

We have travelled here from Bristol, Ipswich and London. On arrival, we drop our bags at the bunkhouse and immediately take off for the Hope Valley. There is plenty of chatter as we run through fields, climb rocky paths and let go of the hectic lives we have left behind. Nothing craves our attention or distracts us from the one thing we need to do, to put one foot in front of the other and be present.

We reach the rocky escarpment that is Stanage Edge. Standing 25m high and stretching for three miles, this gritstone monster is a climbing mecca. In the distance a helicopter hovers just above the ground. A rescue? A drill? We hope it is the latter as we descend, rain beginning to fall.

Charlotte Bronte was a well-known visitor to the area took inspiration for her book Jane Eyre. We run past North Lees Hall on which Thornfield Hall, the home of Mr Rochester, is based before reaching the end of the run.

It seems appropriate that we are here this weekend as it is the 75th anniversary of the founding of the Peak District National Park which took place on 17th April 1951. The campaign for access to the countryside which caught public attention took place in the Peak District at the Kinder Trespass of 1932. This ultimately led to the creation of the National Parks and our ability to run here or in many other locations throughout the British Isles.

After an evening of good food and a session on the importance of nutrition, we retire early to our bunks in preparation for another day on the trails.

Day two starts with a big breakfast followed by a yoga session led by Emma. Relaxed and with our minds and bodies gently stretched out, we head to Longshaw Estate, a National Trust property where the run begins. We ascend the path to Carl Wark with a stop at a picturesque stone bridge to practice hill techniques with Gav. The sun is out and there is a cool wind. There are few people out, and all we can hear is the sound of skylarks whistling and trilling above as we chat and stop for photos. I notice a green tiger beetle in the grass and pick it up observing its olive-green spotted shell and spindly legs.

Further along we arrive at Higger Tor where Ash leads us in a session to practice using walking poles. With the accompanying click, click of metal tips on flagstone steps, we push up the hill and run down the other side at speed with our arms windmilling.

After crossing the river at Burbage Bridge, an animal track takes us through fields of wild bilberry bushes. The small rosy fruits are just beginning to appear. Above us is the escarpment of Burbage Edge, giant gritstone rocks with fissures and caves created by the ravages of wind and rain over hundreds of years. Rob and Emma impress us with their climbing skills as we take a break before descending back to Longshaw where coffee and cake await.

The afternoon is about as relaxing as it gets. Two hours in the wooden sauna parked on the field behind the bunkhouse. Beside it are two gleaming silver tubs filled with iced water. We take it in turns working up a sweat before shocking our hot bodies with the chilled water, all while sharing stories and looking out over the rolling fields basking in the sun.

The Millstone Inn is an apt location for our evening meal, seeing as we had seen many of the discarded stone wheels scattered over the moor earlier in the day. We eat hearty meals and wash them down with locally brewed ale as the sun sets rose and gold through the window.

Day three and we have a long run before its time to leave this idyll and head back to the real world. Our destination is Edale and the Kinder Plateau. Another group has chosen to run around Ladybower Reservoir, but I’m here for the hills. This is the start of the Penine Way, the 268-mile trail along the spine of England to the border with Scotland.

We cross Packhorse Bridge and start the long steep climb up Jacob’s Ladder. It is tough going, but the views at the top are glorious. It’s hotter today and there is only a gentle breeze. The sun shines out of a cloudless sky and a dozen paragliders are circling Mam Tor in the distance as we look out over the Edale Valley and have a snack.

Now on the plateau, we reach Kinder Low and take pictures posing on top of the trig point. Gone are the paved paths and grass fields speckled with golden celandine and bluebells. Now we face cloughs formed of peat bogs with rivers of tea coloured water making the ground soft and possibly hazardous. A curlew calls out, its haunting whistle hanging in the air. Sphagnum moss gives the impression of spongy solidity, but many are caught out by the treacherous conditions and at least one shoe has to be retrieved from the mire. The route is difficult to determine when everything looks the same in all directions. There are no landmarks, no trees or rocks, just endless bog and perilous gruffs. Our guides Emma and Gav do a great job of navigating and eventually we spot flagstones that lead us back to the edge of the plateau.

Huge gritstone boulders the size of family cars are balanced precariously on top of one another, their forms weathered and striated into alien shapes. We stop at ‘Rabbit Rock’ which looks like two bunny ears pointing to the sky for more photos and then begin to descend. The path is steep, but the stone is rough and dry, so we get good purchase and are soon sprinting through the final field allowing gravity to pull us back to Edale.

Sadly, there is only time for a quick lunch before people begin to head home. All good things come to an end, but this one will stay with me for some time.

An ache, a pain
A throbbing toe
A heavy head
Mood very low

Butterflies in the stomach
Flutter and flap
Prevent me from sleeping
Or having a nap

Worried and anxious
Sensing something’s not right
My ITB band and hamstrings
Are solid and tight

Legs feel like jelly
I’m tired and weak
Is it always that colour
When I take a leek?

Something is missing
I’m usually more alert
When I put my shoes on
Does my back usually hurt?

Is that a verruca?
I can feel a new blister.
She has a bad cold
Why did I kiss her?

Tension headache
My vision is blurring
Bloodshot eyes
What’s occurring?

I need some professional help
Get the physio booked
A tummy twinge
Was that chicken cooked?

When I take a breath
My chest feels tight
I was fine yesterday
Now I feel like sh*te

This is so typical,
After all the training
Out in all weathers
Sun, snow or raining

Months of long runs
Visits to the gym
Felt great last week
Now I feel grim

How on Earth
Am I supposed to compete
If my knees feel swollen
My heart skipping a beat

Call me a doctor
A trip to A&E
Cancel my entry
Reimburse my fee

It wasn’t my fault
I was hitting my peak
On top of my training
An incredible streak

But it’s over
I fell at the final fence
Self-pity my home
Let the inquest commence

It was all too much
Too good to be true
Betrayed and undone
By a mild case of flu

Perhaps I’ll turn up anyway
See how I feel
I can always pull out
If it’s too much of an ordeal

On the start line
I don’t feel too bad
Quite a surprise
After the week that I’ve had

Now the race has started
The symptoms have vanished
I’m flying along
Negativity banished

Crossing the line
I did it despite
Being at deaths door
Only last night

What a recovery
Back from the dead
Even though really
It was all in my head

A definite case
Of maranoia for sure
To persevere and keep running
Seems to be the cure.

Not everybody likes listening to music or podcasts while they run. Time outside can be an opportunity to clear your mind or listen to the sounds of nature. When I’m on the trails, that is my preference too. However, on a long run through the busy streets I prefer to drown out the car engines and catch up with the latest tunes.

Every year I create two Spotify playlists. The first covers my choice of songs from January to June, and the other, the second half of the year. This enables me to embrace new music while being able to go back and rediscover the music that accompanied me in the past - often triggering memories.

While I may add the occasional piece from the past, I try to build the playlist with fresh music. My source of these fresh tracks is 6 Music but also includes recommendations from friends. I’ll usually build up a list of around 80-100 songs every six months. The styles range from classical and rock to hip hop and dance - an eclectic mix.

Here are a few of my current 2026 favourites reviewed. You can see past lists here.

1 - Rosalía - Berghain (Remixed by Conrad Taylor)

Classical strings and operatic vocals open this track before Rosalía’s falsetto leads to a driving, high energy techno beat of 125bpm. Sung in German and featuring Bjork, this has been labelled ‘Requiem Rave’.

She performed the song at this year’s Brits when she won Best International Artist. It comes from her latest album Lux which features Rosalía singing in 14 languages including Arabic, Hebrew, Japanese and Latin. Extraordinary.

2 - Geese - 100 horses

This American rock band from Brooklyn is fronted by Cameron Winter whose vocals are a mixture of Thom Yorke, Julian Casablancas and Mark E. Smith. The songs carry you along on a wave of guitars and keyboards while Winter riffs nonsense lyrics catching you off guard with the key changes and shifts of tempo.

The free form nature of the songs accompanied by the hypnotic rhythms are great for singing along to even if you don’t know what it is you’re saying.

3 - Tom Basden & Carey Mulligan - Raspberry Fair

This song is from the soundtrack to the BAFTA nominated British film The Ballad of Wallis Island featuring Basden and Mulligan alongside comedian and poet Tim Key.

This folk ballad is silly, funny and romantic. The gentle guitar and harmonies always bring a smile to my face.

4 - Psycho by Alison Wonderland

‘Yea, I’m a psycho!’ begins this track before the beat drops and the raw rave era electronica kicks in. The queen of EDM, Alison Wonderland has been a favourite DJ of mine since I discovered her during Covid. Now making her own tunes she sells out festivals across the world. This is reminiscent of Prodigy’s Firestarter.

5 - Sault - Wildfires

A mixture of soul, funk and house, Sault produce exquisite melodies accompanied by the soft vocals of Cleo Sol. Reminiscent of Maribou State, they can bring a tranquillity and calm to even the busiest urban streets as you sail past in a bubble of harmonies and gentle drum loops.

6 - James Blake - Doesn’t just happen

As soon as I heard the violin loop on this post-dubstep track I knew it was going on my playlist. The lilting strings and slow beat contrasts with rapper Dave’s biting lyrics and Blake’s falsetto. It builds and rolls as layers of synth are added and Blake sings ‘Falling in live doesn’t just happen, staying in love doesn’t just happen.’

7 - Sienna Melella - Buddy

Three, maybe four years ago, I ran an open mic night at a local bar. We had some good artists come along, but one night a young girl turned up with a guitar and blew us away.

She has now released an EP of mournful ballads reminiscent of Mazzy Star. Her soft delivery and simple guitar chords bely a depth and emotion that lifts my soul.

8 - Angine de Poitrine - Fabienk

Where to start? I really don’t know how to describe this Canadian duo. Wikipedia puts them in the genre of Experimental math rock / performance art. You have probably seen them dressed in black and white polka dot costumes with masks and large proboscis. No? Look them up.

Thankfully they are more than a novelty act. Their tight complex rhythms and use of atonal tuning systems and loops along with distorted vocals make them unique and weirdly addictive.

9 Madra Salach - The Man Who Seeks Pleasure

If you had told me at the start of the year that I would have an Irish folk song on my playlist I would have been pleased, but surprised. This Irish six piece are a contemporary band, but this track sounds like it is a traditional ode sung 100 years ago.

Paul Banks’ outstanding vocals are accompanied by a droning harmonium that simmers and intensifies while he passionately decries the flipsides of love and hedonism and rain falls in the background. It brings tears to my eyes every time.

10 Morunas - Spring is coming

An Einaudi-esque piano plays while birds sing and water gently flows in this gorgeous piece. Another one to transport you to a place of peace in the midst of the busyness and clamour of life. At two minutes, it is much too short. Best played on repeat for the length of your run, enabling you to float home.

This is an extract from my latest book A Run for All Seasons It follows a year of running in the natural world and includes this entry from last summer when I visited the Swiss Alps. The book is available now on Amazon in paperback and on Kindle.

13^th July

An early start. This was the big day. Sierre-Zinal baby! That probably doesn’t mean much to anyone outside of the small but growing world of trail running, but Sierre-Zinal is a legendary race between the two small towns after which it is named. It stretches just under twenty miles in length while gaining 7000 feet in height with climbs of over 33% and forms part of the Golden Trail World Series in which the most elite trail runners compete. The record holder and ten times winner is Killian Journet, the GOAT (Greatest Of All Time).

It has long been my dream to run the route and as Virginie drove me to the start line in the Rhone Valley I had to pinch myself that it was happening. A yellow and black sign above the trail entrance read Sierre-Zinal. It was real. I began to climb. The advice online was to take it slowly at the beginning to ensure you don’t burn out. I had little choice. My hands were on my knees as I struggled up the steep incline, passing shrines that marked the Stations of the Cross showing the events of Jesus’ life and death. The small Chapel of Saint-Antoine was a good place to pause. I pulled the rope to ring a bell which echoed across the valley and took in the stunning view below. A man was running up the hill towards me. “Dees f*cking trail eh?” he commented in a French accent. “Who came up with dees?”
“Yes, it’s tough” I agreed.
“It was my papa.” He laughed as he passed.
“Your dad?” I asked
“Yes, Jean Claude, he came up with dees race. Enjoy Englishman.” With that he ran off.

Looking online tonight, I discovered that indeed Jean Claude Pont was the name of the man who founded the race in 1974. He was a Professor of History and Philosophy of Science at the University of Geneva. He wanted to bring people to the Anniviers mountainscape while enabling them to “rediscover the virtues of physical effort and regain bodily fitness by taking on a unique running challenge” He named it ‘The Race of the Five 4000m Peaks’ as it is located at the foot of the ‘Imperial Crown’ of the Weisshorn (4,404m), Zinalrothorn (4,221m), Obergabelhorn (4,063m), Matterhorn (4,478m) and Dent Blanche (4,357m).

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The terrain was technical with roots and stones to contend with. A large yellow letter Z was painted onto trees or walls every few hundred metres to show that I was still on track. Cygales (cicadas) buzzed loudly from the pine trees that covered the hillside. Common wall lizards and blue winged grasshoppers dashed across the path just before my feet landed. I turned a corner and there they were: the five peaks laid out before me in the most spectacular panorama.

After three miles and almost two hours I was still climbing. I had reached an altitude of 3000 feet – 1000 feet per mile. The altitude was making it difficult to breathe, and my heart rate was almost 200. My head was fit to burst, and my lungs were sore. Lactic acid built up in my thighs and calf muscles every 100m or so, causing me to stop to rest. Even as an averagely experienced trail runner I was in awe of the athletes that would be running up this route at the start of August.

I felt the same as one of the characters in Virginia Woolf’s The Waves who says:

‘I must throw myself on the ground and pant. I am out of breath with running, with triumph. Everything in my body seems thinned out with running and triumph. My blood must be bright red, whipped up, slapping against my ribs. My soles tingle, as if wire rings opened and shut in my feet. I see every blade of grass very clear. But the pulse drums so in my forehead, behind my eyes, that everything dances.’

The mountain was made of solid grey rock flecked with white quartz. Mosses and lichen sin olivine and verdigris clung to the rough surfaces. Rocks began to tumble down the wall beside me and as I turned, I heard a large creature scramble. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the head of a red deer, however by the time I had approached for a closer look it had fled down the steep scree slope and vanished.

Eventually, after five miles of hard slog, the trail began to flatten out, and colourful flowers began to appear. A constellation of white, purple, pink, and yellow in a bewildering range of hues.

· White - Swollen buds called bladder campion – that popped when squeezed, white clover, daisies, Queen Anne’s lace, and pulsatilla alpine fruit that looked like a star exploding.
· Purple - Allium, thistle flower, spiky tufted vetch, round-headed and spiked rampion, and bearded bellflower.
· Pink - Rosebay willow herb, Alpine adenostyle, hairy smoke or old man’s whiskers, houseleek also known as hens-and-chicks, rhododendron, and Carthusian pink.
· Yellow - Creeping buttercup and bird’s-foot trefoil.
· Mauve - Common harebell known as fairy’s thimbles due to their shape.
· Pale blue - Lesser butterfly orchid.

Reeling from the beauty, I let out an audible gasp when I turned the corner and was stunned by the sight of hundreds of gigantic lupins; pink, purple, powder blue and mauve, all waving in the breeze and none less than three feet tall. I couldn’t stop smiling. The sound of water behind me revealed a waterfall streaming down the cliff and throwing itself down towards the valley. It was paradise – except that I was only a quarter of a way into the day’s run and already shattered.

A little further on I spotted a sign for Chandolin, one of Europe’s highest villages inhabited all year round at 2000m above sea level. I stopped to buy some water and picked up a couple of souvenirs for Gangsta Daughter. I had brought 1.5 litres of water with me, but it was humid, and the sweat was pouring down my head and back. The sun beat down from an austere sky as red kites spiralled above.

Now seven miles into the run, I thought this must be the high point. It would now be a straightforward runnable section until the last couple of miles when there was a steep descent. Wrong. The trail continued to climb. I managed to run some sections but was still having to walk a lot of the more elevated sections. Sweat was dripping from my head, running into my eyes and mouth, the taste of salt on my lips. I passed the Hotel Weisshorn at 2,337m. I was having to utilise some self-talk to motivate myself. This included some mantras ‘walk when you have to, and run when you can’, ‘it never always gets worse’ and ‘there’s beer at the finish’. My spirits were lifted by the views and the sound of cow bells bringing home that truly Swiss experience.

My friends were meeting me in Zinal. I had estimated a five-hour finish time. At this point I was two thirds of the way into the course and looking at over 6-hours. I pushed on, my legs and lungs at their limit, but I was still enjoying myself. To distract myself I willed Killian Journet to run past so I could get a selfie. I sang to myself in French – songs from my school days ‘Sur Le Pont, D’Avignon’ and ‘Quelle est la date de ton anniversaire’. I prayed in French and counted down the miles; sept, six, cinq, quatre, trois, deux, un.

Finally, I reached Nava at fifteen miles and began to run downhill. While this felt great, it did involve more concentration as the trail was strewn with rocks. I picked my way through, trying to lift my tired legs so that I wouldn’t kick them into my ankles, or worse, trip over. I still wasn’t managing more than 10-minute miles but I was closing in on my target time. I decided that under five hours would be a gold, between five and five and a half hours a silver, while just finishing would be a bronze.

The path began to rise again. It was a relief when it turned into the expected long descent and I sped up, my knees taking the pressure. I entered forest and was now descending fast on a gradient of 20%, pain surging through my knees and hips, trying to control my descent with my arms out wide, using the banks to slow my fall. Then Zinal appeared, chalet roofs, asphalt roads, some people, three figures, a man, a woman, and a little girl waving a flag, a Swiss flag, red with a white cross in the centre. It was Virginie and her family! As I approached, they began shouting ‘Allez, allez, allez!’ – ‘Go, go, go!’ When I reached them, they joined me, and we all ran together to the finish where there was a wooden trough full of chilled, glacial water. I dunked my head in first and then sat on the edge and plunged my feet in to cool them down. Virgine’s daughter joined me.

I had the faint ache of time well spent and was over the moon with having completed the course. Being met by my friends just made it even more special. We went for a beer followed by a meal and a bottle of wine to celebrate before attending Mass at their church in the evening and then I collapsed into my bed.

If you would like to buy a copy of the book, please click on the link below:

A Run for All Seasons

Great tit

Stepping out of the car I hear the distinctive see-saw song of the great tit. A single high-pitched note followed by a lower one, repeated in a flourish. I look towards the willow that hangs over the chalk stream and spy the yellow-green feathers and glossy black hood. Another male responds from the depths of a blackthorn which is coated in white blossom. Staking their territory in preparation for attracting a mate.

A thick mist shrouds the surrounding hills. I’m back in Eynsford. It is 6am and the temperature has dropped from seven degrees in London to just above zero here in the Kent countryside. A thin hoarfrost coats the jack-by-the-hedge and green alkanet leaves. I begin to run towards Eagle Heights past old cottages and a cow with calf, their breath, exhaled through wide nostrils, clouding in the air.

Skylark

Passing through a narrow gate, I begin to run uphill through a field of fava beans. A brown muddy path dissects the plants in a straight line running diagonally from corner to corner, bottom to top, village to trainline. Three small birds erupt from the greenery and explode upwards. A waterfall of fluid notes cascades downward, spilling from their throats. Skylarks. They are nest building on the furrowed soil and my footsteps have startled them. They hover high above the mist, hidden from sight, their sparkling song echoing through the hazy sunshine.

Crow

The rising sun is seeping through the murk. The glowing disc like a car headlight in the fog. I reach the crossing point across the tracks. A green light signals it is safe to cross, visibility is minimal, so I rely on my aural sense to warn me of danger. The only sound is the coarse ‘craark’ of a crow passing overhead, like an omen. As I am lifting my leg over the stile on the far side, a siren wails and the green light is replaced by a red one. Now I can hear a distant rumbling and the ground begins to vibrate. Seconds later an eight-carriage commuter train flashes past, crosses the viaduct and vanishes into the white brume, the sound fading away to silence.

Magpie

I’m now at the high point of the route looking down over the valley. The river, houses and animals are hidden from view. All I can distinguish are trees on the far side of the valley floating above the whiteness, like islands in the sea. I run on, the ground flat. Damp grass wets my feet and my fingers tingle with cold. Ahead, two magpies hop along the trail. One for sorrow, two for joy. I’m almost beside them before they take off with a ‘chakachakachak’, their long tails glimmering bronze, viridian and violet.

Chaffinch

A tarmac path ahead creates a juxtaposition with the natural ground I am enjoying underfoot. I follow it alongside the golf course and then turn into neighbouring woodland. I’m back on soft soil but with a web of thick root systems above ground straddling the path. I take small leaps over thicker buttresses and shout ‘parkour’ to the chaffinches who are repeating their common refrain which starts with a high trill before accelerating and ending in a flourish - the opposite to my runs.

Wren

There are numerous ancient trees here. Some so old that they have their own post in the ground with their name on. OAK. A splendid monster of a tree with wide twisted branches above a hollowed-out trunk. An opening in the shape of a door the height of a tall man, reveals the dark, empty interior, but still it stands.

HORNBEAM. A more gnarled and grizzlier tree you haven’t set eyes on. The arboreal equivalent of The Elephant Man, it has numerous lumps, crevices, splits, knots and burrs on its stripped trunk. Wrapped around its girth like a skirt are thick strands of bramble, new shoots beginning to emerge. From within, a small wren flicks and skips before shooting through the scrub and alighting on a fence post. It glitches, twitching and ticking, its stubby tail erect like a spoon in an ice cream tub. The pen nib beak lets out a sharp peep and a trail of white excrement drops to the ground. Relieved, it returns to the understorey.

Blackbird

I’m descending now, my cadence increases and my arms are outstretched for balance. My pace is accelerating as I gain momentum due to gravity. Just before I lose control the ground flattens out and then rises up the opposite side of the small valley. I begin to walk, hands on knees, head down, breathing heavily. That was fun. A blackbird laughs with me or at me, I’m not sure. We are just a few days beyond the Equinox and the days are now longer than the nights. The air is clearing and a shaft of sunlight picks out the canopy ahead causing the leaf buds to glow like emeralds.

Thrush

In the distance I identify a thrush from its familiar refrain. Repetitive whistles, flutey notes and loud song. The music comes from high above and far away, but it is carried far over the hillside. The thrush projects like an opera singer and loves the sound of its own voice. Fortunately, I love it too, and it brings a smile to my face. At one point it copies the sound of a car alarm, repeating the phrase three times before moving on to the next motif.

Robin

Leaving the woods behind now, I emerge onto the bare grassy sward of Lullingstone Country Park. In a few months it will be a feast for the eyes with wildflowers bringing colour, fragrance and texture. Another long, but this time gradual descent takes me to the gates of Lullingstone Castle. On the wall a robin sits tamely, giving me the side-eye. The rose glow of its breast mirrors the colour of the stonework. As I approach it refuses to be disturbed, letting out a flurry of garbled twitters and trills that ascend and descend melodiously as if to say ‘jog on pal’.

Woodpecker

Jog on I do. It is flat now all the way back to the car and I’m following the road, the camber of which seems to get steeper every time I visit. The river is beside me, flowing slowly towards the village. The air has cleared but there is still a faint mist above the water. I can hear the sound of the stream tumbling over stones, bubbling and murmuring as it meanders under the narrow metal bridge. A tall willow is growing on the bank. Mistletoe balls are suspended in its boughs. I see a quick movement and recognise the shape of a woodpecker. Sure enough, there is a dull tapping sound before it flies horizontally out of the canopy and skims across the field, rising and falling like a wave while yaffling with all its might.

Mallard

The viaduct ahead of me straddles both the road and the river. The tall arches rise high reminding me of the wooden train set I played with as a child. A flurry of feathers, and three ducks descend in arrow formation quacking and squawking through the chill air to land on the river with a controlled splash. The ripples radiate out and catch the sunlight, sparkling like jewels.

Moorhen

A pair of moorhens are strutting along the bank looking disgusted with such showboating. Their red faces akin to embarrassment for their cousins. Long yellow legs take long strides through the grass. For a bird that is so elegant in the water they do look ridiculous on land. They let out a short, sharp ‘kek’ sound. I’m unsure if they are goading the mallards, warning me off, or gossiping with one another.

Pheasant

I’m shaken out of my bout of anthropomorphising by a sudden screech and a shattering of the gentle pastoral scene. An unpleasant pheasant moment. These wild birds love scaring humans by exploding out of roadside verges with little or no provocation. As my heart rate steadies, I arrive back at the car and the end of my run.

Gillingham has become a new destination on the Sat nav. My daughter and her mum have just moved there. It’s roughly a marathon distance from my place, but thankfully I had a car to take her back after she stayed at mine for a few days. That didn’t stop me making time for a run in one of my favourite places.

Twenty minutes from the town is a small village called Cuxton. On the outskirts of this Kent hamlet is Ranscombe Farm Nature Reserve. I ran marathons there many times a decade ago when it was the location for running events. I returned for more miles last year, when I enjoyed exploring the woods and fields. This time it would be a shorter one as the sun was already going down.

A small path leads from the car park to the entrance to the reserve. The trail is lined with powder-yellow primroses. Entering through a kissing gate I begin my run. A large field descends to the railway line and the River Medway beyond. I can see Bluebell Hill in the distance. The sun is blinding as it sits just above the horizon shining directly into my eyes. The hazel catkins are lit from behind and luminesce like giant glowworms dangling from the branches. In the summer this wildflower meadow fills with scarlet poppies and can be seen from miles around. Today is it a fresh green.

Taking a right turn I climb through a wood of coppiced beech and ancient hornbeams, emerging into another field. The path cuts directly through the centre like someone has drawn a straight line from one side to the other. In the distance a farmhouse and two hop houses, their pointed roofs illuminated by the golden sunlight. As I approach the building I turn left and notice two neat lines of skeletal birch trees joined at the base of their trunks. One set are standing upright with sunlight glancing through the darkened branches, the other lengthened and stretched out across the grass.

The path is wet and muddy from earlier rainfall, the tall cumulus clouds now heading to the coast revealing a blue sky fading to yellow, gold and orange. Descending the hill, I watch as a train races through the valley followed a second later by the rumble and whoosh of the engine. Butter-yellow celandines cluster along the verges, their pointed petals beginning to close for the night. Great tits are piping their ‘tea-cher, tea-cher’ calls and a lone crow lets out a long ‘caaaaw’ as it settles on the high branches of a sweet chestnut.

Ascending a set of earth stairs, I take a right at the stone bridge. A bench is inscribed in memory of a local fireman who died in March 2020. I wonder if he was one of the many that didn’t survive Covid. It’s a long slog through woodland to the top field, but a family and their dog are walking up the hill, so I keep running. I’m not sure why I care what they think of me, but it is an excuse to push myself. I stop as soon as I’m out of sight and walk the rest of the way to the next kissing gate.

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Pushing through, I emerge onto a plateau of sorts. A wide field overlooking the surrounding countryside and the village of Luddesdown. The setting sun basks me in sunlight. Last time I ran here was the end of last year. Ice was on the ground and my face and hands were numb. A few months on, spring is making its presence felt, and I’m in a t-shirt. I turn my back on the sinking star and head towards Cobham Wood. My shadow stretches ahead of me, my legs the size of pylons.

The ancient woodland is dim in the crepuscular gloaming. I hear sounds of life; squirrels scurrying and leaping in the branches overhead, mice scrabbling in the leaf-litter. Two thrushes have a duel in song, their triple refrains echoing among the strands of slender silver birch. Gradually the uniform columns of white and black bark are replaced by gnarly grey-brown sessile oaks. Many toppled trees and fractured branches lie scattered around like fallen soldiers on a battlefield.

Ahead, a patch of sunlight. I run towards it, climbing higher until the trees open out into a clearing and a large stone structure is bathed in amber as though honey has been poured onto the triangular roof and flowed down the walls. The 18th Century Darnley Mausoleum is surrounded by sherbet-lemon daffodils. Hundreds of them like frilly-skirted bridesmaids. As I run on, the last of the sun’s rays lift off the treetops and dusk descends. There is movement in the bracken to my left and I see a large beast. It has two long horns and a shaggy brown coat. Highland cattle. Nine of them are grazing beside the path and ignore me as I approach to take photographs.

Time to head back. My headtorch is in my pocket, but I’d rather not deploy it. A long descent follows, and I’m diverted from my usual path by logging operations. A gate bars my way, but I climb over it and head for the farmhouse I can see beyond the next field. Suddenly, I have a flashback. I remember running through this field with my friend John. It must be eight or nine years ago now, but it feels like yesterday. We had also been diverted due to bad weather. The route was changed, and instead of following the trail by the A2, we were led through a field and along a wide track back to the start of the loop. I smile. We had some great runs here, and I feel a happy nostalgia.

I can just about make out the trail as I reach the car park. The celandines are all now closed for the night. Their petals tightly shut like sleeping eyes. A blackbird calls out, so clear and melodic my heart skips a beat. The sound of a spring day at an end.

My train from London to Folkestone is ten minutes late. Signalling problems at Charing Cross. I leave the station and walk to the office. The route takes me along Castle Hill Avenue in the direction of the sea. The road is divided into two lanes with a path down the middle. Trees line either side, new tender buds plumping on the branches. Purple, mauve and pink crocuses congregate in clumps amidst the green blades of grass. Celandines burst like golden fireworks. Seagulls shriek as they glide overhead beneath a cloudless, cerulean sky.

After three hours of meetings, I emerge blinking into the light. Dressed to run, blessed to run. My watch picks up the GPS signal, and I press the button to start tracking my time and distance. A beep, and I’m off. I have an hour to run, shower and change before my next appointment. I’m hoping to manage six miles.

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Turning left out of the car park I run south towards the coast. Within minutes I see the English Channel sparkling in the sunlight, a fishing boat breaks the image as it chugs slowly back to the harbour with its catch. Waves approach in lines, one after the other, and lap the pebbly shoreline. Giant grey rocks are piled up in the shape of a mermaid’s tail to divide the waters and divert them towards demilune bays on either side. A dog teases the tide line, barking and jumping back just as the wash approaches. It’s owner walking ahead throwing stones into the breakers.

Heading west uphill along the Lees, a promenade high above the beaches below, I pass the bandstand, looking weathered and abandoned on this March morning. In a few months it will be the centre of attention with a programme of summer events including singers and musicians who will perform for crowds of locals and tourists. The blue benches are popular today. They are occupied by a mixture of the elderly and workers eating their lunches while taking advantage of the warm sunshine. In the distance my eyes follow a smooth curve of sandy beaches that end with a chunky cuboid structure. This is Dungeness Nuclear Power Station squatting against the horizon at the end of the headland.

The path narrows and descends by way of a set of steep steps. Each one is a different width causing me to adjust my pace so that I don’t stumble. Two women are coming the other way with a dog, and we smile politely as it becomes apparent that we must pause and negotiate a pass. ‘Morning’ says the first woman, now cradling the dog to her chest, as I stop and turn sideways to let them pass.
‘Morning’ I reply. ‘Enjoy your walk’.
’You too.’ she says automatically. I wonder if she feels awkward for making the insinuation.

At the foot of the steps, I turn left and run past Wells House, a 21-bedroom mansion overlooking the sea, where HG Wells lived while writing The Invisible Man, The War of the Worlds, and The Island of Doctor Moreau. A narrow track continues my descent of Radnor Cliff and brings me to Sandgate. Twinned with Sangatte in France it isn’t a surprise to know that the name means ‘a gap in the sand’. It is the site of a castle built in 1540 by Henry VIII to defend England from the French and Holy Roman Empire. The low-lying area being vulnerable as a landing point from which to launch an invasion.

Leaving the castle behind, a strong headwind beats against me as I run beneath the cliffs. Beside me, pebble beaches, the stones of which have been spread across my path by recent storms. I notice the damage caused by Storm Goretti back in January where the sea wall was broken by the force of the waves and the nearby beach huts carried away. The area remains cordoned off. Hard to imagine such rough seas and bad weather on such a stunning spring day as this. I can feel the sun’s warmth on my skin, and it is only the cooling wind that is preventing me from overheating. Sweat is dripping from my head as I push the pace onto the boardwalk made of railway sleepers crossing the deep shingle. Containers are being placed beside the wooden path. This is the new beach sauna that will be opening soon.

Other shipping containers are arranged around a mini-golf course. They contain cafes and restaurants. Bumper cars are wedged in the stones as seating for customers and in remembrance of the Rotunda Amusement Park that closed in 2003. I take the upper path along the Harbour Arm, passing men fishing off the sea wall. Arriving at the lighthouse I descend the steps and make my way along the lower path where cormorants sit, black wings stretched wide, basking in the sunlight. Back onto the boardwalk, I now have the wind behind me and feel like I may take off at any moment as my feet skip across the sleepers.

Back at Mermaid Bay I notice a group of people emerging from the sea. They wrap themselves in towels and Dryrobes and pass around a thermos of steaming tea. I have time. Stripping to my undershorts I walk into the freezing water. The pebbles stick into the soft underside of my feet causing me to wince. That pain is soon forgotten as the icy waves reach my groin. I dive in and all the breath rushes from my lungs. ‘Breathe’ I think and began to take short sharp breaths (pants). ‘Cold?’ shouts one of the onlookers with a smile. I nod and do a couple of strokes in an attempt to appear braver than I am. Within a minute I’m crawling back up the beach and pulling my clothes back on.

There are six people in the group, around retirement age, two men and four women. The men don’t say a word, but the women are keen to chat. They tell me they are regular swimmers and have a WhatsApp group to arrange when to meet. Today one of them sent out a message when she saw the blue sky, and now here they all are. They don’t offer me a hot drink. By now, I’m in danger of missing my first meeting of the afternoon, so I say goodbye and continue my run up the zig zag path to the top of the cliffs.

In the changing room I get chatting to another runner from the company upstairs. He is training for the Rome marathon in a couple of weeks - his first. I realise I had seen him on the promenade earlier doing sprints. ‘Running isn’t my thing,’ he says, ‘but a mate asked if I would join him and so I thought some training would probably help.’ I agree this is a good idea, remembering the world of pain that was my first attempt at a marathon with no experience. I wish him well and head back to my desk feeling refreshed and energised.

It takes a huge effort to get out of bed this morning. My legs feel like lead and my energy levels are low. After half an hour of trying to persuade myself, I finally find the motivation to throw off the covers. A splash of cold water on my face and it’s on with the running gear and out the front door.

For the first time in weeks there is cerulean, blue sky with the occasional tuft of white candyfloss cloud drifting through it. The wrens are trilling to one another as three ducks appear over the rooftops and descend into the narrow stream that runs by the house. I start my watch, turn on a podcast and start running.

My aim is to run a half marathon at tempo pace. The route I have chosen takes me through Lewisham and into Brookmill Park where the heronry is full, I count four adults and two young. A couple of others are fishing further downstream. I enter Deptford where a large metal anchor serves as a reminder that this dockland was once a key area for shipbuilding and trade between the 16^th and 19^th centuries.

I pick up the Thames Path and run with the water to my right. The sun glints on the glass towers of Canary Wharf, the glittering edifices mirrored on the smooth surface. The tide is low and sandy beaches reveal themselves. The last time I was here, the path had been cordoned off by police due to the discovery of an unexploded bomb. Today the route is empty apart from half a dozen pigeons that waddle across my path before panicking and taking off in a flurry of feathers. A water taxi floats past creating a series of waves that lap against the shoreline.

Arriving at Surrey Docks, I cross the narrow bridge and head towards the farm which sits on the riverbank and contains goats, pigs, sheep, cows and donkeys as well as poultry and smaller animals like guinea pigs and ferrets. The gate is locked and I have to retrace my steps. This takes me through Rotherhithe. I miss the turning back to the river and when I spot a car passing through a gate, take the opportunity to head in that direction only to discover it is a dead end. I turn around only to see the automatic entrance gate closing. Sprinting at full speed, I just manage to leap sideways through the narrow gap before it clangs shut. Not my finest hour.

Eventually I find a route back to the Thames Path and continue as far as the brick ventilation shaft for the Rotherhithe Tunnel. Next to it, the vivid red steel structure of the Bascule Bridge. Freshly painted, it is no longer in use but remains of historic importance. Its purpose was to allow road traffic to pass over the water while boats could access the docks. Unlike a drawbridge that pivots on a fixed hinge, Bascule bridges roll on a curved track and are counterbalanced by a large weight.

Now five miles into the run, I can see the Shard in the distance, meaning that central London is not far away. By the side of the path is a lamppost and a statue of a pilgrim father (ghost) looking over the shoulder of a small boy reading a comic; a small dog is looking up at them. The comic contains scenes of how America had developed since the settlers landed, and the pilgrim looks horrified. There is a lobster claw, a fish, a crucifix, a totem pole and an A-Z dated 1620 in the pilgrim’s pocket. Local legend has it that if you place a small object in his other pocket, you will have good fortune.

Another series of statues further on is entitled ‘Dr Salter’s Daydream’. There is a man sitting on a bench with a woman standing nearby. Both are facing the river wall where a small girl is looking back at them, and a cat sits on the wall beside her. The Salter family depicted had an enormous influence on the local area of Bermondsey and Rotherhithe, campaigning for better working conditions, free health care, education and slum clearance. The result was a dramatic improvement in the lives of residents. The daughter sadly died of Scarlet Fever aged only eight and this piece shows Dr Salter reflecting on happy memories of the past.

My thoughts turn to my daughter as I push on towards Tower Bridge. I cross the river, admiring the tall stone towers that mark the half-way point of the London Marathon. Whenever I cross the span of the bridge, I hear an echo of the crowd’s roar from when I took part in 2012 and 2014. The Tower of London glows in the soft spring sunshine, the Union flag (often incorrectly called the Union Jack) is raised on the roof of the White Tower. The red, white and blue representing the nations of England (and Wales), Scotland and Ireland.

Just before reaching All Hallows Church, I turn left and follow the river path on the north bank. I hear it is now open all the way to Westminster, having been shut for years due to work on the Tideway ‘super sewer’, a 25km tunnel beneath the river to replace the clapped-out Victorian system taking away London’s waste. Still managing to keep a consistent pace, I only stop when I reach the Bazalgette Embankment (see top photo). This new park has just opened over one of the main sewer access shafts. It is named after the Victorian Civil Engineer Sir Joseph Bazalgette who designed London’s original sewer system in the 19^th century. The open plaza contains several dark obsidian monoliths designed by Artist Nathan Coley who describes them as ‘...chunky, abstract, brooding objects that don’t reference anyone or anything. They can be joyful, beautiful and brutal at the same time’.

After stretching out my tight hip, I carry on until I reach Cleopatra’s Needle, a 3,000-year-old obelisk given to Britain by the Egyptian government – yes, given not stolen. However, it was stolen on its way here – kind of. The boat bringing it through the Mediterranean was lost at sea during a storm and recovered by a Spanish vessel which demanded a salvage fee for its return. Once paid, the obelisk was raised beside the Thames and represents the oldest object in the city - outside of the museums. A French couple are admiring it as I pass, so I tell them the story which hopefully helps bring it to life.

As I approach the Palace of Westminster, the clock on the Queen Elizabeth Tower hits nine o’clock and Big Ben chimes out the hour. An Egyptian goose is walking along the wall with the London eye creating a circular frame causing it to look like it is walking around a wheel like a hamster. I cross Westminster Bridge passing a Japanese couple in their wedding finery having photos taken. Down the steps onto the south bank and I run back towards Tower Bridge with the river now on my left and the clouds beginning to form a skin over the previously clear sky.

My hip is painful, but I want to keep the pace as long as possible. I pass the London Eye and National Theatre and notice a crowd gathering at Gabriel’s Wharf. There is a new statue beside the river. It is at least ten feet high and made up of a fountain with a man on top holding a briefcase. Standing in the fountain below him are various people all vomiting, water pouring out of their mouths like a fountain. A child, a swimmer, a commuter. A sign explains that it is part of a promotion for a documentary about Britain’s dirty waterways and the role the water industry has played in adding to the pollution. It is highly effective.

Passing the Tate Modern gallery and Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre, I spot the Ferryman’s Seat, a small flinty rock in the wall outside Pizza Express. It is easy to miss but represents the last remaining example of these seats that used to allow the Ferrymen to rest while waiting to take passengers across the Thames. This was before bridges were constructed that led to the end of their profession.

Another half a mile on, I decide to end the run at London Bridge Station. I’ve managed fourteen miles and there is a direct train back to my home.

I step of the overheated (and dry) train and take a blast of cold, wet air in the face. It’s…refreshing. I’m dressed appropriately and looking forward to hitting the muddy trails with Ben from South-East London Trail Runners (SELTR). He has planned an eleven-mile route from the town out into the North Downs.

Arriving, we make our way south and cross the bypass. The houses get larger and more spread out, daffodils line the verges outside the ornamental gates. Now on the trails, we head uphill through the winter woodland. The silver skins of birch trees are sodden and their upper branches drip continuously like a shower that hasn’t been turned off fully. Around their roots, hundreds of bluebell plants have burst through the soil creating a lush green mantle. Chaffinches skim the bushes to our right and I spot a bird of prey alighting on an ancient oak tree in the field beyond.

Ben and I have only met a couple of times, and so it is a good opportunity to get to know one another. We talk about our plans for the year and favourite runs while pointing out patches of deep mud, trip hazards and low hanging branches. We reach the top of Bayley’s Hill and can just make out a lighter shade of smudge through the mist that is Bough Beech reservoir. On a good day you can see as far as Royal Tunbridge Wells and the High Weald. Not today though.

We descend tentatively, our soles sliding on the thick mud and causing us to throw our arms in the air to retain balance. We cross York’s Hill and arrive at Ide Hill. The tall spire atop St Mary’s church marks one of the high points on the Greensand Ridge, an escarpment that runs through Sussex, Surrey and Kent. The rain had stopped and the wind abated.

We pass the 18^th Century Cock Inn and the village school and descend through fields marked with the hoof prints of sheep, before crossing a bog and climbing up into more woodland. This is one of the prime bluebell locations in South-East England and it looks set to be a good year with thousands of plants already emerging. After a smaller climb we enter a narrow gate into Emmett’s Garden, an Edwardian Estate now managed by the National Trust. A field of snowdrops droop their heads as droplets weigh down their white cowls. We are now half-way and heading back towards Sevenoaks.

Ben asks if I think it is starting to brighten up. As I am about to answer the rain starts again, in earnest. We pass a dog walker in a long raincoat with her hood pulled over her eyes. She wishes us good luck. She is the first person we have seen in over an hour. We continue through the narrow, tree-lined tunnels in Toy’s Hill Wood, running up the hills and carefully tiptoeing down the other side until we reach a large circular wall of red brick. This is an old icehouse, now roofless and filled with rainwater, like a pond.

At this point Ben realises we have veered off route and so we climb up a steep bank through newly planted trees before re-crossing the bypass and arriving back in Sevenoaks, soaked to the skin, but happy.

One of my favourite locations for a run is Cuxton, a village nestled in the North Kent Downs alongside the River Medway. Just outside this sleepy hamlet is Ranscombe Farm Nature Reserve. I first came across this Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty (AONB) eight years ago when I joined dozens of other members of Saxon, Vikings and Normans running group to run ultra marathons along the trails. SVN has since disbanded, but you can still spot their small green plastic markers on the fence posts. Today I am more interested in the flora and fauna than the distance.

Last time I visited was high summer and the fields were full of poppies, field camomile and viper’s bugloss. A riot of colour bordered by hedgerows of hawthorn thick with white blossom. It had been a sweltering day with only the bees and butterflies for company. Seven months on and we are in the midst of a savage spell of winter weather. The poppy field is bare, but for a few tufts of grass protruding from beneath as thin blanket of powder snow. White, wispy balls of old man’s beard drape the spiky bushes. The moon is on the wane but still dominates the dark sky, reflecting on the meandering Medway. I am on a hillside overlooking the river and valley below, the faint lights of Cuxton glowing like embers. The sun is yet to rise but the moonlight is enough to reveal the trail, aided by the milky glow from the ice crystals covering the frozen mud. There is a pre-dawn silence aided by the snow which Roland Blythe describes as ‘weather with a finger to its lips’.

There is no need for a map as I have the route memorised having looped it dozens of times. I duck under low hanging branches into ancient woodland. Two thrushes are calling to one another; each tonal sound repeated three times like a striker who always wants to claim the match ball for a hat-trick. Great tits try to interrupt with their staccato clicks, and the robins ignore them both knowing that they rule the roost when it comes to arboreal arias. Sessile oak, hornbeam and sweet chestnut seek to outdo one another in their attempts to look the most decrepit, with gnarly trunks, twisted branches and fissured bark giving them the appearance of wrinkled and bent centenarians leaning on one another for support.

Out into the open and the cloud cover is beginning to clear; it is lighter already and although there is half an hour until sunrise, already a feint glow appears above the treeline. After a short climb I begin to descend beside a battered wooden fence behind which chalk grassland leads down to the valley floor before rising again to another woodland on the horizon. These ancient woods were once joined and have existed year for almost 500 years. I jump over patches of ice; leaves trapped beneath the surface like works of art beneath glass. Passing through a kissing gate I greet a dog walker who grabs the smallest of the two canines. ‘If I don’t hold onto her, she will follow you.’ She says.

I’m at the bottom of the valley now in a field known as Little Bottoms, I remember that this was a field of fava beans last June. Ascending the other side, I take a right turn into Bishop’s Wood and remember to take the left fork in the path. Another climb, but I don’t walk. Today I feel strong and want to push myself. Shortening my stride, I pump my arms and breathe hard, pushing plumes of condensed breath into the frigid air. More bent and split trees alternating with strands of younger beech rising high above me, their spindly fingers pointing to the now blue sky.

After half a mile I reach another gate which opens into The Brockles. This rich chalk grassland field is protected due to the rare and wonderful plantlife that grows here in the summer. Again, there is little to see today except some huge chunks of ice that have been smashed out of a cattle trough and set up as a cairn beside the path. Another descent through Kitchen Field and it is a tough climb into Birch Wood where the squirrels are full of energy, darting across my path, helter-skeltering around the thick tree trunks and leaping from branch to branch above my head. Dunnocks and great tits warble and titter as I pass. I take a left and arrive at the Darnley Mausoleum, the white stone gold-bathed in the glow from the slowly rising sun, the shadows cast by tree branches like black veins creating a marbled effect. The roof tapers to a point and looks as though it could prick the bloated pale moon.

Now in Cobham Wood I run towards the village of the same name. A green woodpecker yaffles in the distance and crows spin from treetop to treetop. My ears, nose and lips are stinging, my knees numb, but the rest of my body is toasty under the many layers and my thick winter gloves. Passing through Cobham I stop to admire a Tudor style pub called The Leather Bottle. Built in 1629 it was a lodging house for Charles Dickens and features in his novel The Pickwick Papers when the lovelorn Mr Tracy Tupman fled after being jilted by his sweetheart Rachel Wardle, and where he drowned his sorrows in Mr Pickwick’s company. There are two prominent roundel oast houses in the village, the white cowls perched on their peaks like upraised beaks. One is named Mulberry, the other Bullion.

Jeskyns Country Park is a mile further on and I loop around the winding paths bordered by bushes of shadow-dark sloes shrivelling like raisins and then retrace my route back through Cobham. This time I take a different trail through the woods and enter a copse of silver birch. Their tall, slender trunks rise up parallel to one another and with the sun shining through them they look like a giant barcode. A strand of pine appears, and I hear the ‘peep’ of goldcrests. Yes, there they are, dozens of them high up in the top of the tree, dancing together. People used to believe that Goldcrests hitched a ride from Scandanavia on the back of short-eared owls as they were deemed too light to make the flight alone. A treecreeper scurries down the trunk like a zip being pulled. From somewhere even higher up I hear the unmistakable shriek of a buzzard. A yellow primrose, petals frozen in time has bloomed too soon and won’t last the night.

I’m now in the depths of the wood and lost. Knowing roughly which direction I need to go, but unsure what route to take I guess and choose the most attractive looking trail. Sunlight is now piercing the overstorey casting beams onto the leaves coated in a thick rime of hoar frost. I notice two trees that have grafted together forming a thick archway. It is so bizarre I stop to investigate. The two trunks have bent towards one another and melded into one. In my mind I picture it as a wooden serpent coming up through the earth and then plunging back down leaving just this part of its lithe torso visible. A flurry of jaunty long-tailed tits break my reverie as they shoot across the path in liquid flight like darts approaching the bullseye. A ghost of winter gnats is yo-yoing beside the trail.

After scrambling up a snowy bank I emerge only metres from the Mausoleum. I have my bearings once more and know that a simple two-mile loop along the trainline and through the coppiced beeches will bring me back to my starting point. The car shows the temperature still below zero as I drive home for a hot shower and start my day’s work.

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During 2025 I kept a running diary. Each day I would record where, when and who I ran with. The entry would describe my surroundings and any significant events that happened. I set down the thoughts that passed through my mind and any relevant items of interest I had read about or heard.

My routes were largely based near my home in London. I soon discovered that this urban landscape contained an abundance of nature. As the seasons changed, I found myself increasingly curious about the natural world around me. My knowledge began to grow as I took time to notice and learn about birdsong, trees, flora and fauna. I began to seek it out, locally and further afield.

The result is my new book called A Run for All Seasons. The book is available for pre-order on Kindle and will be released on 1st March in paperback.

As a runner and keen reader, I have devoured most of the books on the subject. These range from ‘how to’ guides to biographies, from tales of endurance to fiction. However, no one has produced a running diary or a running book that combines running with an appreciation of the outdoors and nature which appeals equally to amateur runners and naturalists alike. This is especially prescient with the current boom in Trail Running and success of TV programmes such as Springwatch.

I’ve read diaries on a range of topics including hedge laying, cold water swimming and book selling. This kind of story telling provides an intimate and revealing insight into a person’s life and interests. My aim is to inspire people in the same way.

The process of writing the book caused me to see afresh, to be open to new experiences and to run in the moment. Any interest in time and distance began to fade as my focus turned to the run itself.

The Kindle version of the book is available on pre-order with Amazon now. The paperback will be release on 1st March, also on Amazon.

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After a slow New Year due to illness, I am finally able to launch my Substack. I’ve enjoyed receiving updates from others and feel it is time to upgrade from the blog.

This is a place to share about my running experiences, reflections and to link to the new Podcast which launches soon.

My aim is to create a community of people who love the outdoors and may enjoy running as a way of experiencing it. A safe place where people can share their thoughts without prejudice and to inspire others.

I’ll be posting weekly. Paid subscribers will receive bonus material every month including interviews and invitations to running events.