Let's aim for the 8pm ferry then?



Magical nature

Another week, another European capital city. London. Zagreb. Belgrade. Sarajevo. I feel like a fashion carrier bag. As I write I'm heading towards Sarajevo but unlike last time, I'm approaching it from the north through Serbia. A return is making me feel nostalgic for those early summer halcyon days.

 

 It was May when I made one of my first inter-Balkan forays to the exotic East. Having reviewed what I wrote I was pensive about this city. That was clearly a difficult month. I was unused to being alone, suffering hours of bus travel, was still apprehensive about who and what I'd find waiting for me. This time I'm immured to miles, and confident of a warm welcome. Last weekend I spent a happy family weekend with my old Sarajevo host in Belgrade, and him and his youngest son will be joining me there on Saturday. I'm also excited to catch up with another old friend, and may even catch a rendition of Cabaret in the national theatre. It seems I even have a coffee date courtesy of this bus journey.

 

Still, although I've a lot to look forward to, it's what I've been doing which is more important. In my last post I got as far as Christmas in Split and was looking forward to the long journey north. My friend was determined to make my last full day there as memorable as possible with an island excursion. Who doesn't love a ferry trip in the fresh, bright sunshine? It was useful to go because at that time I was pondering a move to one of them for January-April. As I've now got into February without a move, it seems less likely. No information is ever wasted though and at least I could consider and discuss options.

 

I've been to Brač a couple of times but never to its other more beautiful side. It takes a meandering 90 minutes through the most varied landscapes to reach Bol. Given it was still technically Christmas and calories don't count at this time, I scoffed most of a gloriously greasy burek on the way, stuffing remnants into my handbag pocket. We laughed the entire journey as if there was no tomorrow. I got hugely excited as we went through Postira, the village after which my favourite ferry is named. We arrived in Bol and headed towards the famous zlatni rat beach just along the coast. The silent path with its sculpture and views of emerald sea was stunning. Only feral cats seemed to guard the road, though it was clear from the diving schools, clubs and restaurants that summer is a different story.

 

Irresistible

There were vague plans to meet up with a gentleman to whom my friend had been talking. I had no idea it was to be on the beach which is why I did the logical thing. Apart from us two there was no one around so I stripped. The sea had been serenading me with her blue loveliness and the biting wind had dropped, leaving her glassy and inviting. Left in only my black pants I danced into the sea. I think they heard me in Italy as I immediately ran out again shrieking with laughter. Realising the worst was now over, I went back in and the water took on a calm cool, and paddling around was bliss.

 

Me on the beach in December

Then I saw a gentleman in shades walking along the beach...great. It was him. I hoped he appreciated the real life birth of Venus as I emerged from the sea. Because Zephrus was blowing a bit, and Flora was being tardy with the cape. Hauling on clothes and stuffing wet knickers into the burek pocket of handbag doom*, I casually strolled up to my friends as if it was perfectly normal to be found in the sea in December.

 

Accepting things as they happen, we jumped into this stranger's car and headed for a tour of the island. This time to the highest point. I can't tell you how cold it was at the top. In the space of 30 minutes I went from being naked and wet, to cold and shivery with 3 thick layers. Even the sheep looked a bit miserable.

 

But we stayed to watch the sun set over Vis and Lastovo. One of those truly unexpected magical moments. The cold finally drove us off the mountain and he gave us a lift back to Supertar, given we'd missed the bus. We found a warm bar and I believe there was hot punč. Puno punča. There may also have been banter as only fireman can get away with. And then the free beers from the barman arrived because he knew someone in London. And inevitably we missed the 6pm ferry. 'Let's aim for the 8pm one then?'

 

Never mind I only had my packing and flat cleaning to do. Did I mention my London-via-Zagreb flight meant a 04.30 start?


*I've since consigned this handbag to the toxic waste bin in the sky

Advent and Events in December

Home Sweet Home

They say that Advent is a time of planning, preparation and waiting. In my case I don't think I've ever done so much of all three. Much of early December was spent working. Yes I know. This is something that I've been plotting for some time and finally reached fruition this month. More of that anon. However having some extra cash coming in meant that I could be a better friend and aunty, and get to the UK over the festive period. So my trip to Split expanded to include London and Wiltshire.

Despite my earlier decision to spend longer on Šipan, the plan was never to stay on the island over Christmas and New Year. I think that would have been an isolation too far. If circumstances had been different...still, there is no use crying over broken hearts. And my lovely friend in Split would have been rightly cross with me. As it happened another friend there was going to be away so I could happily and warmly take my laptop and work in her cosy apartment.

I was excited to reach Split because as usual I had no idea what to expect. An early start on a cold, dark ferry meant that my hugely heavy rucksack and I arrived there in bright early afternoon sunshine. The winter market on the Riva was alive to the sound of music and excited conversation. Festive aromas of frying fritule and kuhano vino filled the fresh air...I felt drunk just on the atmosphere. Wanting to dump my bags, I headed up to Maria's first but soon realised I had the wrong keys. Or the right keys for the wrong lock. Resisting an eye roll at my uselessness, I went to see my redoubtable friend to get help. Once in I was happy to relax into the swing of Split life.

I went back to hers picking up ham, cheese and wine on the way. Situation normal. And took my homemade sloe vodka with me. As we sat in the kitchen chatting about everything and nothing, it was like I'd never been away. The children were doing homework, the dog was trying to get on my lap, and we made no plans at all. There was loads of Christmas things to be done; cakes, decorations, food shopping, some exciting exam (not mine!) paperwork... so no planning really needed. Ahem.

I arrived on 16 December and that first week was spent industriously writing several January blogs so I could relax into the new year. The weather continued to be sunny so I did lots of running around Marjan park. And discovered punč - fruit tea enhanced with golden rum. There had been an announcement that our favourite bar was closing on 25th December. This place had contributed so many memories earlier in the year, so it seemed fitting to celebrate their end with the last karaoke session. Catching up with familiar faces was fabulous. It did mean that as of 23rd of December I was officially on holiday! After a working interlude, Split was back to the whirl of singing, dancing, lung and liver bashing, and general hedonism. And an Elvis impersonator, not to mention a Bulgarian clown who is also a sushi chef.

I'm not a big one for Christmas but this year's was the most perfect I've had. We baked Christmas tree cakes, decorated the actual tree, lit advent candles...and drank plenty of kuhano vino. Our shopping was completed on Christmas Eve. We had plenty of coffee breaks to enjoy the sun whilst shopping. If I had been in the UK I would probably have had a nervous breakdown. But the shopping centres were quiet and relaxed, so she and I only had to contend with my general dislike of shops. Fortunately we have very little money so apart from presents for her children, there was nothing we could buy anyway. Food is a different matter... Our trip to the butchers was characteristically unorthodox.

On 23rd Dec it was karaoke night with a Christmas hat competition. I placed faith in my good friend that something would present itself regarding headwear. Given I'd totally failed to get my hair done as is usual when I'm here, I wasn't looking my best. Still, it was glorious sunshine and we shone with the usual contrary glow of happy friends. We were heading to the afternoon Hvar catamaran to deliver a chocolate cake*, when I saw the perfect hat.

Only the images can do this justice. These conical Christmas trees were tarted up with white fur and fairy lights and turned heads everywhere. Strolling up Marmontova later on where polite Split goes to show off, we styled it out. It's fair to say our arrival was NOT low key. We dived into the hot smoky melee and sang and laughed the night away. Under Chatham House rules, I can reveal nothing about my friend. However at 3 my feet decided they fancied a dance and so I found myself in Klub Central. Though my hat chose to stay at To Je To. Apparently this club is where all the cool kids go; there were dancers in cages, fire jugglers and hot half naked ladies on stage. Perhaps I just dreamt it.

Strolling home later, I bumped into my friend. Given there is a tradition of raiding the bakery in the early hours, we headed up the road to Varoš. The butcher was standing outside his shop taking in the morning air, and he watched with interest as we cackled noisily up the street. She decided then was the perfect time to order beef for Christmas Day pasticada. He is a sweet guy and I decided his morning could be improved by asking to kiss his cheek. He seemed keen. He blushed. With promises to pick up his meat later we continued to wobble up the hill. For hot jammy bread.

Hot jammy bread at 5am is the best.

Christmas Eve is traditionally a fishy sort of day. There is a communal lunch in Split where they make a cauldron of bakalar and serve everyone. Those that haven't been out the night before had finished every last morsel so we arrived too late. Never mind. We went on a wander around the bright sunny city taking in the sights, scents, sounds...ah the sounds. The gentlemen struck up hymns to Dalmacija just off the main square. Tearful and transported, we gathered for a moment in time. Just being. We carried on with festive meeting and greeting as people just enjoyed their holiday. We picked up our last ingredients for the following day.

So I'd be less tired for Christmas Day I decided a nap was in order. My hat was still in the bar so I called time on its shenanigans and went home via the sunset. By 8am I was back at her's where we prepared potatoes for njoki, a platter for breakfast and made sure everything was perfect. For once that week I had an early night and was back in bed for midnight. Enjoying yourself is exhausting!

Christmas Day. It had its family dramas. Don't they always? I even spoke with my mum where I arranged my trip to Warminster. I finally had a rough plan for the UK. By midday we'd eaten and were out taking in the sunshine on the Riva. The day passed by in a haze of food, good wine, and friends. The greatest gifts you can possibly get.

As this day was the final night of To Je To, the plan was to help them clear stock. 50 kunas all you could drink. They wanted nothing left by the end of the night. So letting her have a nap, I popped down there for 9 to see what was happening. It was full of the regulars and we passed a lovely evening. There was gin and lemonade, vodka and vodka, and finally vodka and red stuff. I have no idea. By 3am a cheer went up at the bar. We were dry. What to do now? The owner had a craving for Mexican food so opened the restaurant opposite to refry beans. Guys brought their guitars, and I sat and pondered the meaning of life. The sheer weird fun of it all - what a start to Boxing Day. After an impromptu party we parted, wishing everyone a happy Christmas.



*everything from oranges, suitcases, 'things' in Croatia get delivered by bus or boat. You give it to a man, they pop it on, then your friend or contact goes to pick it up when the transport arrives. Simple. Imagine National Express doing this!

Protecting people counts for everything

This follows on from my previous post. Dubrovnik's St Nicholas' Walk was the pinnacle of this perfection of collective heart. I've covered my reactions to the historic suffering of the people in this place in previous posts. But this time I got an opportunity to join in the remembrance of 6th December 1991.

As a special cultural site, Dubrovnik believed itself relatively safe from the destructive war which was raging in the region. It was not to be. On this day the people saw their beautiful city shelled continuously, with the most vulnerable in society in grave danger as they struggled to unexpectedly evacuate.

As my dear friends here have talked about their determination to fight for their land, way of life, it has encouraged me to question my passions. What would it take for me to don a uniform and fight? I have frequently asked those who fought 'why would a foreign invading force want to do this' but they can only shrug in collective anger, despair, determination and incomprehension. Pride and fierce protectiveness of their nearest and dearest drove normal people to abnormal acts. It's their city therefore they protect it and its inhabitants, just as they would their home and family.

We wound our way slowly up to the Srđ, the fortress and museum. Pausing at each of the stations of the Cross, you couldn't fail to be moved at the chanting and prayer. We followed a little behind as we were being respectful, and remembering in our own way. With entertaining conversation and exchange of thoughts. I adore this matter-of-fact spirited island woman, and miss her when I'm away.

We had coffee and hot chocolate in the cafe below the cable car. The views from have to be seen to be believed. Totally beyond the scope of words or photos. The city below eased into twilight as the sun slid into the sea. As usual the light was incredible and fireworks unnecessary; the mountains went pink and everything else gold and turquoise. Rather misty-eyed, I followed her towards the easy route down. As locals we didn't pay for the cable car and whooshed over where we'd laboured up earlier.

It was cold without being unpleasant, and we were both peckish. First we headed to the Mexican but it was shut for the season. We turned back. She explained that the fashionable little cocktail bar near there used to be a dark smoky hangout for local old guys. I guess young people drink more sweet alcoholic beverages than regulars drink cheap beer. The best pizza in town was en route to Stradun and it's merits were discussed. We agreed. Pizza!

The contrary being strong in this one, we walked straight past the pizza restaurant, and down into the main part of town. We eventually sat outside at a place called Ludo More. Its speciality is local produce served in a really simple way. Think tapas. But with Dalmatian pršut, cheeses, raw marinaded tuna, anchovies, large capers, olives washed down with fruit liqueurs. We admired the city decorations and watched the festive world go by.

We still had a date with one of the kuhano vino stalls. We'd impressed one of the vendors with our capacity for hot wine on a previous visit. So we headed off there as we had a couple of hours until our 8pm ferry departed. We didn't disappoint. It's fair to say we were a bit merry as we stumbled back to the bus stop to Gruž.

I mean, we were absolutely sober lady citizens. We carried out some essential shopping errands at the pharmacy, kiosk and supermarket. We collapsed onto Postira and decided that it was one of the most wonderful days we'd had in Dubrovnik for a long time.

Just as I think she appreciates my fresh perspective on Croatian history, I am so grateful for her view. Although the day had been about remembering what happened to friends and family, it's about making new memories. As we cautiously enter into 2017, wondering what the heck is going to happen next, we need the certainty of family and friendships. Old and new. Because I'd want to protect them with all my heart.

Seasonal rhythms

From 5th November to 28th December is an outrageous gap of time to not make any blogpost entries. I've mentioned before that time in this place plays tricks on the unwary. For the outside observer it seems everything can happen, or nothing. 

In the grand scheme of seasonal rotation, my few weeks have seen a march towards an island going into private mode. The olive oil factory was the hub of activity for many familiar  faces. With the best impromptu home produced cheese and wine parties I've ever known. But now as many olives as possible have been picked and pressed. These wonderful trees have been pruned and the resultant wood chopped and stored away for what will turn out to be one of the coldest and snowiest Januarys in many years.

The harbour sees only brief activity as the rare ferries come and go. Fishing boats continue to work and nets inevitably need mending, whilst engines get fixed. There is also swearing as the harassed boss has to dive into the water to untangle propellers and detritus. But conversations and transactions seem to happen quicker. People dash back to their closed warm homes out of the biting wind. There is always the tiny bar on the harbour, which remains resolutely open. But although the usual gathered gentlemen continue their talking, it seems quieter and more perfunctory than before.

I've spent a few evenings in that bar happily celebrating some olive picking, and taking the odd dance lesson. I remain astonished at Croatians' ability to melt into a musical rhythm and dance the night away. As long as the gentleman is stern enough to lead, and his toes nimble enough to avoid my clodhopping, it's a lovely way to pass the time. I still can't believe that the sea dances to its own tune just outside, glowing orange in the sodium light. 



This was v late at night!

If the bar palls, they obviously have the choice to head into Dubrovnik's old town. Even if it does mean spending a night in a hostel. Everyone seems keen and happy to escape the island cold and quiet. From the 1st December the winter festival in Dubrovnik is a must-visit for everyone. Festive wooden stalls offer cooked wine, local rakija, large grilled sausages and mustard. There are other advent and Christmas bits and pieces too.

Finally the people reclaim their city. They make this tiny show city feel like a living breathing place. The red lights and silvery stars jump-start the warm local heart. People who have known one another for years meet and greet, with warmth to heat the entire Stradun. Though not as flashy as Split's Christmas Riva, you get a sense of what it was like before it came a mere theatrical backdrop for thousands enjoying a cruise. 

Swimming in October, All Saints Day, olives, visits to police...

 

Quiet Gatwick

What a week! I arrived in Dubrovnik early last Saturday in a state of nervous exhaustion. London, with a three day trip to the north, had been a whirlwind of friends, family, and general catching up. Thankfully it had been a relatively stress-free return journey, and with 16 of us on the flight, then the only person on the bus to the ferry port, it was like Croatia was trying to tell me something. London transport had been manic as usual, so it was a ridiculous contrast. My bags and I were eventually safely on the ferry - after the usual wait - but for superstitious reasons that I shall explain shortly, I decided against the usual huge trip to the supermarket. Given I was also lugging an awkward suitcase and massive backpack, perhaps it was just sensible.

 

As I sipped my welcome home cup of tea on my bright terrace, it took a moment to hear the silence. My ex-flatmate's place was actually quieter than I anticipated, and certainly more peaceful than she had billed, but that's only because the permanent white noise is turned up louder to counter the intermittent peaks. Either you stop noticing it all, or you take to your own headphones to drown out everything. This deafens everything including your own thoughts, which is scary. The overwhelming sensory experience of a big city is partly what makes it stressful. Although the senses are strained and pummelled here, it is extremity of a different kind. Artificiality v nature; people v isolation; choice v seasonal availability; grey v green.

 

This time of year is so 'familiar' at home. I only have to smell sweet ginger, clean woollen jumpers, burning leaves and green wood, damp misty mornings, and I'm transported back to the parties we had as kids; warm spices scenting the air, lit candles in dark places, happy friends and family gatherings. Our focus in the north is necessarily on damp, dark and spooky nature, and perhaps we tend to conflate US style Halloween, 5th November and later, Armistice Day. Having only briefly experienced southern European All Saints Day with the masses of flowers, and focus on remembering the dead, it nonetheless reminds me - again - how similar we all are underneath. Our different cultures, religions, ways of celebrating only serves to highlight what is universally important to humanity.

 

Not spooky

The masses of flowers in the park and market in Dubrovnik that welcomed me, were stunning. Everyone was buying a formal flower arrangement for family graves. I was asked how we remember our dead loved ones and whether a particular time is set aside to visit cemeteries. There was a stunned face as I explained that my most missed loved one isn't buried, but was scattered in a wood by the side of a reservoir. My father is everywhere and nowhere; in my heart; in the open, in the nature he loved. I confirmed that, for me, that was as close to a 'heaven' that anyone could ever wish for! I don't need a special time to remember, it's impossible to forget. The unhealthy concern for bodily remains I find the most disturbing and curious aspect of many religions, but perhaps that's why I can't be doing with Halloween - unless it's a nice piece of gingerbread, with a bonfire and sparklers.

 

Still, it reminded me that I am very far from the UK and very much out of my comfort zone. Swimming in October, fish BBQs, tractors and olives, visits to police...this life is beyond anything. The landlord worried about my wish to be cremated, and that I hadn't brought slippers back. Some people have very strange priorities.

 

I had been invited to go up to the olive oil factory on my arrival but for one reason and another, it didn't happen. In retrospect, I'm glad that I had a few days in the groves before going up for the final part of the process. Instead I was welcomed home in a blaze of sunshine, and it wasn't just the unaccustomed hills that left me breathless on my late evening run. The sunset was incredible and augured well for a sunny few days. I've even managed a final dip in the glorious sea; the chilly fresh water springs that pour into the harbour had definitely made their presence felt. The light which I'd missed for two weeks was pouring into my bedroom on Sunday, which meant I was woken up bright and early, and I dashed outside on to the terrace to see the golden sparkles on the bay. Without slippers, obviously.

 

The coffee places in the village are now very limited and I wondered if the buzzing metropolis of Sipanska Luka could offer more choice. Taking a gentle stroll in the sun to the other side of the island, I knew that I should be starting work but it was pleasant to delay for another day. I also knew that I had to face the possibility that I could be asked to leave the country any time after Monday 1 November, which is why I had held back on doing a huge shop for provisions.

 

Whilst in the olive fields that afternoon, I asked about the next day's trip to Dubrovnik for a new tenancy agreement and some police lady sweet talking. It had to be done on Monday because of the All Saints holiday on Tuesday. There were grumbles. And more grumbles. The forecast was consulted and the 6am ferry was agreed upon. Just as olive season was really picking up, I was dragging the two gentlemen to town. Little Miss Popular, I was not. Still, I made myself useful in the fields.

 

The next day I was feeling sick by the time we were due to leave. As it happens, regardless of weather forecast, we had to take the fishing boat and car into town because the amount of running around we needed to do. The police station is right at the top of the hill, a good 30 minutes walk from the port. We started with the lady at the police station, did the paperwork, got it notarised, went back to the lady...didn't have copies of stuff, got copies and went back to her. I was to come back Friday for my registration certificate. By this point, after three times up the hill, the human blood pressure matched that of the car's, which demonstrated its displeasure by expiring in a puff of evil smelling engine smoke. It refused to start.

 

If you remember, I have one other experience with this car. It had failed to start back in June and we'd needed to jump it, then we were too nervous to switch it off whilst dashing around for the same paperwork. I pointed this out, and now it seems women are banned from his car. Luckily his mate was in town and we got a lift back to the village where their boat was moored. It was an extremely wet and bumpy ride back to the island as there was a strong wind blowing. I can report that my new yellow coat is wind and waterproof. All of this on a Monday before 2pm and we hadn't even started the day's olive picking yet...

 

To be continued...

The show must go on.

Yesterday I was sitting in a tavern on Park Avenue enjoying a drink or two and reflecting on what had been a pretty good day. And then my world imploded.

I received a message at 17:26 that opened with “I regret to inform you…”.

Five words to strike dread in to anyone. The message, whilst appearing to come from a very close and dear friend of many years was actually from his nephew. My reply was as lucid as I could manage given the flowing tears and waves of regret, but I had to be fast as he had stated that the phone would be switched off after the message.

Regret. Regret for having not seen somebody one last time, this is not the first time in the last month as my father-in-law also passed away and I was unable to see him one last time. In fact to compound the emotions yesterday was his funeral and I was unable to attend, as apart from being in New York I don’t think I would have been particularly warmly welcomed. Though I understand and accept why this is the case.

So now I have two new holes vying for position with others.

One of those past holes was made in New York. At 8:46 a.m. on the 11th of September 2001 one of my closest friends was in the wrong place at very much the wrong time. She had arrived early for a meeting at Cantor Fitzgerald in the North Tower of the World Trade Centre.

So I too am in the wrong place at the wrong time as multiple memories are conspiring to turn me in to a gibbering jelly.

But I will bounce back. I always do. And in the dark of the night I will remember, smile and mourn in isolation. And be grateful for what they all brought to my life.

Life that inevitably goes on.

Run fatgirl run...

In April you might vaguely recall that I had to run. Not for a bus or a train of course, honestly darling if you have to do that you need to review your life choices. No this time it was for a plane. And not as you might think that I was late to the airport but rather because I was sat at the champagne bar doing what every Contrarian should do, drinking fizz and writing. More specifically I’s been updating the new landlord with the Economy-7-not-working-so-we-had-no-hot-water problem.

A bit awkward really.

The thing was I had put that incident out of my head until this afternoon when I was standing in Gatwick’s departure hall and saw said bar. You see I had been so engrossed I’d not heard my flight called and being blind as a bat couldn’t see the display. So when I checked and saw that the gate was closing in just a few minutes time I actually ran.

And this is what I remembered. Me. Running. Me.

I’ll leave that to sink in. No giggling at the back.

So here I am at 40,000 feet somewhere over the North Atlantic en route to New York. A place that I realised would mark an important milestone. When I run there I will pass one hundred miles in my running shoes. Not sling backs, actual running shoes. It’s been a difficult journey.

So what went wrong?

Well back in August my ex announced that they would be doing the couch to 5k program. I was vaguely aware of this as I knew of one or two other lunatics who had done it. But me? Well I had sort of praised myself that I would start running when I was down to weight which, needless to say, never happened as a mixture of chrimble, road trips and general comfort eating did its very best to reverse all may good intentions.

In short dear reader, I was back to being a bit overweight. And when I saw a  bit I don’t mean a bit.

Inevitably I had to do some research, after all if the ex was seriously considering it then really anything they can do… And it didn’t look so bad. She says. All I had to do was install an app, do a little bit of walking and a little bit of running et voilá 9 weeks later I’ll be able to run five thousand metres. Or roughly the distance from my apartment to St Pauls. What?

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

I honestly wasn’t sure this was a good idea but I did at least see that the idea was to slowly break you in. Well, that or just break you. So off I toddled to Sports Direct, found some running shoes in my size that owing to their shocking colour were much cheaper. I suspect this is what is known as unfashionable.

Or a little something I call normal.

Anyway, I decided that there was no time like the present so on getting home I felt there was no time like the present, changed in to something vaguely sporty that I used to wear for roof exercises in the old place before the roof terrace burnt to a crisp. And fuelled by a fury from a text message I’d received I stomped out to try and make sense of the app and do a run.

Having chosen Sarah Millican as my voice of encouragement, she at least speaks like me, I headed off for that first brisk warm up walk. After the five minutes had passed it was time for a minute running. It didn’t seem so bad. This was easy, I was a natural! This was followed by a walk then another run. Still okay. In fact there would be eight one minute runs. How hard can this be?

Very. Bloody. Hard.

The first run/walk

By the last run I wanted Satan to rise up and point out that it was my round at the No Hope cocktail bar in hell. Jeez.

The 25th of August would go down in the annals of time as being the day I lost my good sense and sense of decorum.

By the time I got home I’d caught my breath and though I looked like somebody had thrown a bucket of water over me it didn’t matter. I actually felt pretty good. I mean shaky legs is good. Right? The next run would be at the weekend. This time though I
would have the ex with me as it sort of made sense for us to do it at the same time. It seemed harder this time, my body had clearly realised something was going on and it throughly disapproved of whatever it was.

Things seemed to be going well. Sort of.

The third didn’t seem as bad as the second and I decided maybe it would be okay. Well except that the next run was, well worse. The same idea but the intervals had changed a little. And it was harder though on the plus side it now meant I only had to contend with six running bits. Six perfectly formed little steps of torture.

By this point I’d decided the best time for me was to run in the morning as otherwise I would get home feeling too tired to go out again. Ladies and gentlemen, I had a routine!

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday I would *leap out of bed, pull on my running clothes, head out in to the dawn and listen to Sarah both encouraging me and giving tips. She’s a canny lass.

There was an upside to all this, I was getting to see some spectacular sunrises as summer drifted in to autumn and the sun gradually sunk lower in the sky. And there were more useful benefits, my recovery time was definitely better, my heart rate and breathing becoming normal far more quickly. It was still horrible but now it was doable horrible and whilst I couldn’t quite see how I could manage to run for thirty minutes I could see that Sarah really believed it.

By week five things were getting serious, three five minute runs with a pair of breaks. But day two was different, run eight minutes twice with a break. That wasn’t so bad. Or at least it was better than what happened on Friday and day three… Run. Twenty. Minutes.

What? No, no, no, no. I can’t do that.

Turns out sometimes I’m wrong.

Week six followed a similar changing pattern but things were getting longer. Oh crikey. Friday though… Twenty five minutes. I was by now urging myself on by saying run to the next lamppost. Or any other handy landmark that was a very short distance away. It was a case of mind over body and body was presenting a very persuasive argument.

Week seven took me by surprise, I was expecting it of course, but what I wasn’t expecting was being back to the runs being the same. Or that each would be twenty five minutes. Oh hell.

Week eight topped that as we moved to twenty eight minutes. I also now had a problem, I’d run out of places to run. I had been walking to the Thames, then running through King Edward Park, around Shadwell Basin, through Wapping Woods, along the ornamental canal and then turning around at Vaughn Way before retracing my steps. And those extra three minutes… Dear lord.

Finally!

The final week coincided with Missy being back in Blighty so we agreed that she would run with me on what would be my final week of the program and the point where I would run for thirty tiring minutes. Trouble is… She’s an experienced runner so our pace was up a bit. But. Incredibly…

I did it.

I couldn’t quite believe it. Fortunately I didn’t burst in to tears as I did when I reached twenty minutes but it was still emotional. As expected we ran out of track so we had to run on a way through Limehouse which I wasn’t entirely comfortable with but by this point I had to just keep moving or fail.

The second thirty minutes wasn’t much better. In fact if anything it was harder because I found that being tired has a massive impact on my ability to run and if truth be told I was running on mental and emotional empty. The route was different again, this time we ran along Limehouse Cut and past our old apartment. In fact we kept running all the way to the A12 before we had to turn around. It was difficult but doable.

For the final run we took the route up Regent’s Canal turning around at Victoria Park. We agreed that the trouble with the canal routes was that owing to the number of cyclists it was fairly unsociable as you spent a lot of time running in single file.

So what have I learned? Well the programme clearly works. And being tired is a really bad idea so I need to try avoiding late nights before a day I need to run. Similarly walking seventeen miles up and down hills and around Wiltshire is a really bad idea just before a run. I also learned that it’s nicer to run with someone, I suppose this shouldn’t really come as a surprise. But the big thing I learned was

Headphone health warning...

about me and about my sheer bloody mindedness in doing something I’ve not done in 35 years. And, incredibly, that I quite like it though this is tinged by frustration of my body and lack of stamina. Only time and effort can fix that. I've also learned that sweat and headphones are poor companions, if you look like the picture to the right after running then get yourself some waterproof ones. Just saying.

So what now? Well since then I’ve run another week and even this morning though I’ll admit the runs didn’t go as well owing to a number of very late nights taking their toll. I can’t promise that the first New York run will be any better but I can tell you this, I can’t wait to put the 100th mile on my running shoes.

Now that has to be an achievement.


*force myself to move as I really wanted to sleep more