Of lambs and clarts

Sunshine. Blue sky. Fluffy white clouds amid the grey. The grass getting more vividly green as its chloroplasts wake up and kick the magic of photosynthesis into a higher gear. You'd be forgiven for thinking it was spring. Particularly when you add in the swathes of snowdrops (is it me, or are they particularly good this year?) and the first few lambs bouncing about looking uncertainly at the world. All in all, a morning to make you feel good and a morning that found Mags and I out on a brilliant route under Whinfell Ridge. The rules for these Sunday outings are simple: Run when you can, walk when you want. This formula is guaranteed to give you a good time, you can put as much effort in as you want ('Challenge by Choice' as the outdoor adventure industry mantra has it) and you get to explore new areas. I tend to dash about like a mad thing, looking for the next stile, the next landmark,while Mags makes more steady progress. It's a bit like fartlek, only less disciplined. Cripes, I even felt like doing a few intervals when we got to some particularly smooth, grassy slopes.
Of course, not all was smooth and grassy. "It's a bit clarty" said a friendly walker referring to one of those walled lanes that leads to a farmyard. His uniformly glistening, well-clarty, boots certainly bore this out. It suddenly made our feet, shod in New Balance trail shoes or Montrail Highlanders, feel vulnerable, but not even decades of cow dung, inches deep, could spoil such a cracking run. The only thing that spoilt it was that I forgot the fruit pastilles, so when we were struck by the urge for breakfast, all we had was water. Hey ho.

Smile rating 8/10