So....

I know enough to know that I don't know enough

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Ben

Today I ache.  My shoulders, my thighs, my knee, my unmentionables.  All ache. Not horrifically so, but just enough to remind me that yesterday I did my longest single cycle ride so far of 68 miles.  So I feel the discomfort, try to accept it, because I know worse is to come.  Much worse.  The draining, sapping fatigue, the muscle spasms, the dehydration.  Day after day.  Dark thoughts gather.  Nerves twist into fear, which warps into doubt.  What the hell are we letting ourselves in for?

So a boost is good, a lift.  The sort of news that puts a big, stupid grin on your face.  And that is what we’ve got.

Ben is back.

The third member of Cycle Thru 8 and with Paul, the originator of these cycling adventures, is back on board.  Personal circumstances and a ton of Olive coloured fun has limited his training and participation time, but he has agreed to rendevous with us on day four, then follow us in his car as back-up, relieving us of rucksacks, transporting a spare emergency bike and generally offering the sort of support we’ll be desperate for at that stage.

I have talked at length elsewhere about Ben’s calm pragmatism and his dogged determination.  He knows better than most what this sort of undertaking entails and having him along for at least part of the ride will be the perfect, if a little hairy, comfort blanket.

Good news is fuel to us now and this is the best sort of good news.  Bring it.

http://www.justgiving.com/aspley500

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We Continue

Team meeting called last night, this one, by necessity, involving Mum.  A decision needed to be made on the Grand Depart for the Aspley 500.  A delay of a week had been mentioned, but not yet committed to.  The original start is now just two days after Dad’s funeral, but a week’s delay would put it two days after the internment of his ashes.  Mum assured us she would be ok with this second date, she will have friends to stay with her whilst we are away and she knows how important this ride is to us.  Obviously this isn’t ideal circumstances, but we are having to be flexible with our plans and approach.  Cancellation was never an option and to delay any further would narrow daylight hours to such an extent that night time cycling would be a dangerous necessity rather than a possible fall back. The decision was made.  Right or wrong, time will tell, but for now all we can say is that it feels as right as it possibly can.

With departure now set for 2nd October, preparations have to kick into a higher gear.  Paul rode with Simon at the week-end and was pleased to see how well he coped with a swift 35 mile ride.  Both of our bikes are now in for service, to be returned at the end of the week, allowing us our last, long training ride on Saturday.  The plan is for 60+ miles, importantly with packs on for the first time. We will also conduct a full equipment check, before loading the packs (mine graciously donated by Ben) to give us the full experience how the ride proper will feel.

Paul’s back has been declared fit by his osteopath, although we will be taking a generous supply of ibuprofen, just in case.

Sponsorship and support has been amazing.  Please keep both coming.  

We continue.

http://www.justgiving.com/aspley500

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Best Laid Plans

Today we were to train.  Nothing unusual in that, but with a little over three weeks before the start of the Aspley 500, each session has taken on added significance.  And today, our separate efforts were to have been large stepping stones towards our upcoming adventure.

For Paul it was his back.  Still uncomfortable despite a rigorous regime of hot baths and stretching, this was to be his first time aboard the bike since the problem had returned.  And for me I had planned to late enter the Bedford 10k, a sign of my growing confidence that my running is improving after a period of viral-related fatigue.

But it wasn’t to be.

At nine o’clock this morning we were called to the hospice.  Dad had been through a bad night and was still struggling.  All plans were instantly jetisoned as we hurried to his bedside.  Thankfully we were able to witness his ongoing tenacity and stubbornness, as he made some improvement throughout the day.

But another day had slipped by.  Is this foolishness, planning such a testing endeavour whilst Dad battles on with his condition?  Or does his plight, his bravery and the astonishing care he is being given at the hospice fuel us in our determination to see this thing through? 

Time will tell, but I am certain we will be doing our damnedest to make sure it is the latter.

http://www.justgiving.com/aspley500

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Bad Backs and Rucksacks

Four weeks to go before Paul and I launch ourselves into the Aspley 500 and there still seems an intimidating amount of things to do.  Top of the pile has to be - Mend Paul!

Paul’s unpredictable back has given out again, with warning signs coming from the slight knee pain he experienced on Saturday’s 50 miler.  A swift text to his osteopath for an emergency appointment will hopefully remedy this, plus he has two other sessions booked prior to our departure. With these wince-inducing manipulations and Paul’s trademark determination, I am sure he will be fine for the big day.  But as the nerves begin to mount, it is a distraction he could well do without.

Carrying everything we need for the trip ourselves will require sturdy, reliable and most of all, waterproof, rucksacks and after a cursory inspection of the one I have been lent, Paul declared it not fit for purpose.  So, as ever, I am immediately on the scrounge.  If you are reading this, own a rucksack that fits the above description and are prepared to allow me to lug it to Wales and back, I would be much obliged.

After the initial astonishing surge of sponsorship, donations have somewhat slowed. So predictably here’s the link to the Just Giving web-site and if you could consider chucking something our way, it will certainly help inspire us in what will be the toughest physical challenge of our lives.

http://www.justgiving.com/aspley500

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Race

The call room is quiet.  Athletes pace nervously, some stretch, others adjust shoes, or check fastenings on numbers for the umpteenth time.

Surreptitious looks at fellow competitors, sizing them up, assessing.  The clothing, shoes, appearance, demeanour.  Are they relaxed, keyed up, chatting nervously, focused?  Whilst examining you try to remain remote, detached, concentrating on your own rhythms.  Breathing relaxed and easy, trying not to sweat too much. Nerves will do this, wasting valuable liquid.

The call comes, “Athletes to the track.”  

The lady official, clipboard in hand, waits at the door.  No way back now.  All checks have to be complete, preparation time is over.  

So trust.  Trust in your training, trust in your form, trust in your experience.  

Outside it is blustery and drizzling, a sharp contrast to the air conditioned calm of inside.  Not cold though, some crumb of comfort.

You cross the infield, a blazer clad official leading twelve competitors to the back straight.  No-one talks, all locked in their own thoughts.  Some may glance at the stand for friends or family, whilst for others this would be an unwelcome distraction.

You have five minutes.  Use them well.  Strip off leggings, exposing bare skin to the elements, the breeze feels refreshing, invigorating.  Some strides - short shuttle sprints, designed to raise the heart rate, but equally good to channel the nervous energy plucking at your muscle fibres.  Four, maybe six.  You can sweat now, you need to sweat, this is where the work begins.

You are summoned forward.  Rest of kit removed.  Just vest and shorts now, as lightweight as possible.  A sheen of rain glistens on your skin.  Your number is called, placing you in order behind the start line.  Shoulder to shoulder with your competitors.  Poised, you are acutely aware of the starter’s voice.

Pause.

Then gunshot.

Instinct impells you forward, athletes converge, hunting for the inside line. Legs touch, bumping, jostling, not enough for a recall.  You run confidently, elbows thrust out slightly, creating an area of protection.

You find yourself in second place.  The wind whips down the home straight, buffeting the leader, but in his slipstream you are sheltered.  A near perfect start.

And so it goes on. This is championship racing.  You are here to win.  No working with other competitors to generate a good time.  Here you have to exercise restraint.  Forget the clock, an almost alien concept as so much of what you do is time driven.

So you sit in, allowing your keen leader to pull things along, with the bunch doing the same in your wake.  Twelve and a half laps.

Although the pace is acceptable, it soon begins to hurt.  Try to relax, shoulders, arms, breathing.  Even now demeanour is important.  With every step you are sending messages to your fellow competitors.  All will be getting tired, all will have doubts about their own ability and all will contemplate the possibility that you are feeling better than they.

But of course, what is for them is also for you.  How do they look?  The leader must be confident to take the race on in these conditions.  You can’t see those behind you.  Are they tracking you even as you mark the leader?  Just relax and stay in touch.  One area of confidence, the major weapon in your armoury is your finish.  You doubt any can out kick you in the last moments of the race.  Maybe this is an entirely erroneous opinion, but it matters not.  Your coach, supporters and yourself have instilled this belief.  It is integral to your race plan.

A mile in, the rhythm of the race has settled, you are feeling good.  Stride alters to avoid clipping the heels of the man you are following so closely.  Initial nerves now quelled, you are eager to attack the heart of the race.  You step out from the shelter of the lead runner and the wind buffets you.  Back inside.  The plan.  Stick to the plan.

Second mile, four laps to go.  You feel tired now, trying to avoid the tension that fatigue will bring.  Five minutes of racing remain.  Training, good wishes of friends and family, the distance and time you have taken today to reach the start line, all distilled into the next few minutes.

An attack.  From the dwindling group behind, someone surges.  It’s on.  He passes the leader and yourself, a sudden five metre lead as you head down the back straight.  The gap sticks but does not extend, not a determined break, one fired by panic.  You respond.  Ten strides and the two of you are upon him.  Twenty and you are past. His race is done.  

Three laps.  The skirmish has pushed up the pace.  You don’t look behind (NEVER look behind) but there is no footfall pursuing.  Down to two.  The leader eases back. You decide to test him.  Your turn to surge, fifteen hard strides.  He responds and responds well.  As you enter the last kilometre the roles are reversed. Now you are the hare to his greyhound.

Two laps.  He has you where he wants you.  Instinct tells you the gloves are off, time to race, push on, but he can see everything you do, whilst you nothing of him.  It is not yet time, so you dramatically slow and step to the side.  Into lane two. Almost without realising he draws level, on your inside.  He glances across, uncertain.  Excellent.  Doubt you can and must feed off.  The pace quickens once more.  He covered your break, hauled you back, he should take some confidence from that. You still believe, have to believe in your finish, it’s all there is left now.

One lap.  The bell.  Fight the explosion of adrenalin that courses through your muscles.  You run shoulder to shoulder, another upward shift in momentum.  His intention is to grind you down.  How much have you got left?  When you go, you go.  It will be with everything.  In these last moments he cannot be allowed to get a gap, stick on his shoulder, let him work, attack as late as - 

And you go. Instinct and experience combine.  There is a headwind in the home straight, this needs to be finished before it comes into play.  At two hundred and fifty metres you unleash your sprint.  It is everything you have, all in and it has blown your rival away.  He may respond, but fatigue has dulled his senses, blunted his reactions.

Last bend.  There, ahead, an insignificant white line, one you have already crossed twelve times.  Tunnel vision, locked in.  Maintain form, arms pumping, stride stretching out as muscles contract, infested with lactic acid.  Maintain, maintain, maintain.

Fifty metres.  As suddenly as it came, it goes.  Your last burst has emptied the well, there is nothing left to draw on and for the first time you break the golden rule and glance behind.  The gap is surprisingly large, but also closing.  He has recovered from the shock of your instantaneous attack and is giving chase.  Hard.

Drive, drive for the line.  Beyond the line.  Give nothing away.  You deserve this. You have earned this.  It is rightfully yours.  Take it.

Then relief.  The overriding emotion.  Not jubilation, but relief as you sink to your knees, hands slap against the wet tartan of the track.  Great rasping, shuddering breaths.

For a short while victory has quelled the demon, the urge that drives you on, pushes you to continue.  For now it is quiet.  You have won.  And until training rolls around again, that is all that matters.

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The Fag Casanova: The Expendables

This isn’t so much a review, as just a loose collection of observations on the film, possibly in a list format to save me having to bother stringing them together with actual sentences. Who knows, it’s exciting isn’t it.

You don’t need a review of this film, it’s exactly what you are expecting….

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Landry Zahana Oni

Landry Zahana Oni

Height -                     175 cm

Weight -                    68 kg

Date of Birth -              08/08/76

Nationality -                 Ivory Coast

International Hons – 1 appearance each for France U16’s & U 17’s

Few who were there that day will forget the incident which epitomised Landry Zahana Oni’s Luton career.  With the 98-99 season petering out in the doldrums of mid-table obscurity, Luton faced a trip to Northampton’s Sixfields Stadium.  It was a drab end of season affair that so much typified the League 2 (as it was then) years of Lennie Lawrence’s stewardship. 

With Luton trailing by a single goal, Zahana Oni, who had only made brief appearances since signing over 12 months previously, found himself clean through, with only the keeper to beat.  The break stopped many Luton fans in their tracks as they headed forlornly towards the exits, convinced of defeat in another lacklustre performance, but here was a chance to salvage some pride. Collectively the away supporters held their breath.  But he fluffed it, a woefully tame shot trickled wide, sealing Zahana Oni’s fate with Luton fans, as the punchline in jokey lists of underachieving former players.

Starting his career in France with Le Havre, Zahana Oni had looked an encouraging prospect, making a solitary appearance for both France under 16’s and under 17’s.  Like so many of the French team of the time and indeed through to today, he was born in Africa, Ivory Coast to be precise, with immigration to Europe giving him his chance to represent his adopted home.

At the start of the 97-98 season he was brought to Stirling Albion, by then manager Kevin Drinkell, one of an influx of foreign imports signed to compensate for the loss of several key players at the end of the previous season.  This approach though was to be disastrous, with that campaign ending in relegation from the Scottish 1st Division.

Zahana Oni’s contribution was a reasonable 6 goals from 25 starts but this wasn’t enough to convince the new management team that replaced Drinkell over the following close season to retain his services.  He also experienced the ugly side of football, when he made claims of racist chanting against a section of Partick Thistle fans, which were countered by accusations of abusive gestures by the player, aimed at the same supporters.

A move to English non-league side Bromley followed in a season which would end in promotion for the London club.  But Zahana Oni wasn’t around to enjoy the celebrations having left in the January to join our beloved  Luton Town.

It wasn’t to be the most fruitful of periods for the Frenchman, with his appearances limited to 4 full starts and 5 from the bench.  Luton had by this time settled into the 3rd tier of English football, their fall from the top flight temporarily stalled by manager Lennie Lawrence.

After making virtually no impact on the first team Zahana Oni would find himself heading out of the exit door at Luton, preceded by manager Lennie Lawrence as new owners installed club legend Ricky Hill in the managerial hot seat.

A prolonged spell in the footballing wilderness followed for Zahana Oni, with unsuccessful trials in Scotland at Montrose, Ross County and Airdrie and back in England with Dulwich Hamlet.  It wasn’t until November 2001 that he joined Hastings United.

He made an immediate impact for the team in the Doc Martens Eastern league, netting a remarkable 7 goals in his first 6 games, including a hat-trick in a 3-1 win over Dartford, before being sidelined by a fractured cheekbone picked up in a friendly against Sidley.  So aggrieved was Zahana Oni with the challenge which had left him injured that for a while he considered legal action against the opposing player.

Zahana Oni returned to fitness in the January, where he would continue to play regularly, scoring an excellent 11 goals in 22 games as Hastings marched to the league title and promotion to the Doc Martens Premier.

Zahana Oni continued to shine for the south coast club in what was to be a difficult and ultimately disappointing season, ending in relegation back to Division 1. But Zahana Oni had enjoyed another fruitful season managing 42 appearances in all competitions and 11 goals.  The team also enjoyed a prolonged cup run, culminating in an appearance in the first round proper of the FA Cup for the first time in their history.  The run was ended by defeat against Stevenage, in what was a grim day for Zahana Oni as he failed to complete the game after being sent off for violent conduct.

Huge restructuring took place over the summer of 2003 at Hastings, with a new manager, Steve Lovell coming in and all but 2 of the first team squad being moved on.

Over the course of the next year Zahana Oni struggled to find himself a permanent club and after short spells with Carshalton and Bromley, before finally finding a full-time role in Cyprus with AEL Limassol, managed by former Ukranian international, Oleg Protasov.

For the next 2 years Zahana Oni made a number of appearances for a side that failed to rise higher than mid table, with the first season only finishing narrowly above the drop zone from the Cypriot top flight.  With a disappointing 2 goals in his first season, followed by one in his second, he failed to make the impact he surely would have liked.

As the number of appearances Zahana Oni made for the first team shrunk even further, he had short term loans, first in Holland with Roda JC, then in Norway with Molde FK.

At the close of the 2006/7 season at the age of 30, Landry Zahana Oni called time on his career, going into a somewhat early retirement.

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Doors

Footfall on wet paving.  Rapid, uncontrolled, caring not for their next impact.  Breathing jagged, panting.  Stacatto, exherted grunts, unthinking, unbidden.

A light, sapphire blue, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing.  A skitter and skid, rubber sole straining to a halt, leaving just raw, shuddering breaths, caught on the air, brutal against the silence.

Car engine, faint at first, but growing in volume and rhythm with the blue pulse, brighter, nearer, reflected in shimmering puddles.

Skin on brick work.  A hand, pressed flat, oily sweat and moisture intermingling, fingers twitching, nerve endings firing, anticipation.  Fight or flight?

Then sanctuary.

A rectangular patch of light, a living picture obscured by a figure.  Paused at the entrance to the alleyway.  Dark.  Dark and cold.  Instinct takes hold. Moments.  A beat.  Blue again.  Slower.  Sweeping.  Adrenalin crystallising surroundings, clarity. So forward.

Darkness absolute.  No, not absolute.  Light, grey at first ahead.  He moves on, arms outstretched, fingertips straining, eyes wide, desperately absorbing any detail.  A breath, lighter, sweeter than his own.  Cooler.

Out.

A courtyard.  Cobbled.  Waxen moonlight filtered through omniscient clouds, casting a weakened aspect.  A door ahead.  Twelve paces.  Fifteen maximum.  Walls enclose.  Hesitation.  Then voices.  And a light.  A beam.  Strident.  Searching. Searching the passageway behind, running over walls, floor, ceiling.  Hunting.

The door is old.  Flakes of peeled paintwork crackle and break below a rough digital inspection.  Open.  

Must.  

Be.  

Open.  

Door knob, rusty flecks of ore dust against skin.  It turns reluctantly.  Admittance is granted.

Voices.  Footsteps.  Insistent.  From behind.  Purposeful.  Cautious but confident. Approach.

Ker-chick.

The door is closed, sealed.  He is inside.  The smell of age and must.  A single light bulb hangs betwixt ancient cobwebs, its feeble light unable to penetrate the room’s obsidian corners.  And a door. Identical.  Opposite.  Ahead. 

The voices behind echo beneath the door.  Strident.  Determined.

They must not catch him, not this time.  This time he has gone too far.  No slap on the wrist, this is serious.  And they would love to be the ones who took him in. Who finished him.  Ended his freedom.  That cannot happen.

Rushes forward, shouldering the door ahead.  Through and beyond, the voices calling his name growing ever fainter. 

Ker-chick. 

Again.  

Ker-chick.

Ker-chick.

Ker-chick.

Ker-chick…….

His forward progress sends him tumbling across the floor.  Another room.  Another door.  Identical.

Stops mid room.  Looks back through the rapidly narrowing doorway.  Unnerved he reaches out, fingers entreating.  Brushes past and is shut.

Breathing.  Raw.  Echoing.  Eyes dart around.  Two doors.  Opposite each other.

He listens.  Ears straining in the silence.  The voices are no more.  The silence is leaden.  Tongue flicks out, vainly licking at parchment dry lips.  A moment’s thought.

How many rooms was this?  How far had he come?  No sound of pursuit.  But why not.  This was the only escape. 

(The room is the same all the rooms are the same what the hell is going on here)

As before the door ahead opens.  As before the room beyond is indistinguishable.  Another door.  Implaccable.

He releases the handle with a tremble, stepping back, but eyes fixed on the next room, until it disapperars from sight and

(Ker-chick)

this becomes his world again. 

Turns.  And for the first time sees the reverse of the door through which his flight had taken him.  Just a door, a familiar, aged door, its surface stippled by the remnants of ancient paint.  But something was wrong, something was different, something obvious.  Furrowed brow as if seeing the door truely for the first time.

It has no handle.

Involuntarily he steps forward, arms outstretched to where the haft should be, as if enacting its turning would make the thing appear.  He grunts as his hand passes through, the handle of his mind’s eye dissipates in the gloom.  Both hands against the door, feeling its solidity, head bows, forehead resting on wood.

Ker-chick.

Time passes.

Ker-chick.

Bruises appear, scraped knuckles, a trickle of blood from a wounded scalp, a broken fingernail.

Ker-chick.

There is no back, only forward.

Ker-chick.

Through doors.  Or maybe the doors come to him.  Maybe he is now stationary and the world moves around and through.

Ker-chick.

Stumbling on, no longer expecting, hoping.  Resigned, broken, sobbing.

Ker-chick.

Until the first body.  Prostrate on the floor, arms outstretched, cadaverously reaching toward perceived freedom.

Ker-chick.

First of many.

Ker-chick.

And then screaming.  

Ker-chick.

Only screaming.

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Swans

So, immigrants are eating our swans.  And have been intermittently since 2003.  Don’t believe me?  Or perhaps you are way ahead of me and intermittently regurgitate this story yourself.

And who can blame you?  After all, you read it in the papers, didn’t you? Firstly, probably in the Sun in 2003, although you could be forgiven for having missed the retraction the same newspaper was forced to print by the Press Complaints Commission, after no evidence was found to corroborate the story.

But then our hungry visitors were at it again in 2007.  Luton Angling Club produced their own sign warning the culprits to desist from catching, killing and eating the Queen’s favourite bird.  This came after the mutilated bodies of countless swans were supposedly found in the area, according, at least, to the Daily Mail which ran with the story. Local fisherman and the RSPCA were quoted expressing their anger and determination to investigate the matter fully. 

Pretty damning evidence.  Well, until the RSPCA released a statement saying they had been grossly misquoted and although the bodies of some swans had been discovered, this wasn’t necessarily that unusual, stating such possibilities as collisions with power lines being as likely a cause for death as hordes of Eastern Europeans devouring them with savage, wanton bloodlust.

And these are just two examples.  Like all popular urban legends this will return again, making a guest appearance either verbally or in print, voiced by someone with an axe to grind, or simply the ill informed.

So in spite of no evidence, arrests, witness statements or even swans with teethmarks in them, why has this story become one of the anti-immigration tales whose path into folklore has gone relatively unchallenged?  One that has now become ‘accepted fact’ by those who are only too happy to have their isolationist world view reinforced.

I’m guessing it’s something to do with the Queen.  As well as being eaten by foreigners, one of the other things known about swans is that they are the property of the Crown.  Mute Swans that is, whilst the rarer Whoopers and Bewicks are free to do as they please, the Peoples’ Swans if you will.

So an attack on a swan can be seen as a direct attack on royal property and indirectly on the Queen herself.  If that’s the way you mind works, of course. Their regal, serene beauty and brilliant white plumage is a perfect metaphor for purity and goodness.  And these cunning, conniving immigrants, we are told, are not just catching them, but feasting on them too. 

Logistically though it just doesn’t seem that likely.  The final ‘accepted fact’ I have yet to mention is that a blow from a swan’s wing could break a man’s arm.  This is of course nonsense, but it is mildly believable due the bird’s size and would at least give the hungriest of hunters pause to think twice before tackling one.  And if you’re of a mind to rustle up an illegal riverside feast, why not just catch some fish?  (Something for which there is a wealth of evidence, although obviously not exclusively for immigrants, but mostly for the indigenous population.)

When you actually give it some thought, it doesn’t make a lot of sense.  And when you add to this the lack of evidence, it all begins to look rather silly.

Immigration is a hot topic, now as much as ever and we are all entitled to our own views and opinions on the pros and cons.  But surely if you do hold strong opinions on the matter, it would be better to base these views on the truth rather than peddled obfuscation and lies?  Take a step back and a moment to think about what you are being told.  It may not change your overall opinion, but it may at least challenge it and surely that is good thing for us all.

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Lamerwood

So I run.  And one of my runs from the village of Wheathampstead takes me through Lamerwood golf course.  Lamerwood was an exclusive leisure facility set within beautiful Hertfordshire countryside, but recently things have changed.  As a golf course Lamerwood has died, but in the process it has been reborn.  

The course has been closed for some months and aside for some sluggish refurbishment work taking place at the club house, it has been left unkempt. And here, where man had sculpted and managed, manicured and maintained, nature has slowly regained its hold.  The fairways are overgrown, tufts of moss and lichen carpet the greens, rabbit droppings and pawprints adorn the dull, disturbed sand traps.  

As I run, the late afternoon heat beating down upon me, I remove my t-shirt, my bare skin welcoming the cooling breeze my progress engenders. Ahead a deer pauses, startled at my approach.  We eye each other warily before it skips away, the white flash of its hind quarters flickering into the undergrowth.  A pheasant scurries through the enveloping grass.  The clatter of wood pigeons taking flight, the raucous laugh of a green woodpecker, mocking my trespass onto land which is returning to the wild.

For something that had been maintained to such a pristine condition, for it to be so suddenly and completely abandoned seems almost apocalyptic, the hand of man no longer holding any sway.

I leave the footpath that winds its way through the grounds, an irrelevance in the new order of things and am immediately amongst the trees.  Off road running exhilarates, the randomness of route, heightened awareness of footfall, looking for rabbit holes, uneven ground, wind blown branches.

Through the trees, across a fairway, now knee deep in grass, to a green, no longer brilliant malachite, but yellow and faded, but somehow all the greener for it.

I pause, breathing heavier from the slight incline and look around me.  With the flag poles and golf buggys removed, there was no longer any visible evidence of civilization and thanks to the prevailing wind, even the sound of distant traffic became imperceptible to my ears. I am being offered a glimpse into the past, a time when Lamerwood was a wild, wooded land, or maybe even the future, when entropy has eroded the last of man’s footprints.

As I drink in this moment I see it.  Giant wingbeats propelling it from history, a majestic, avian time traveller, it passes momentarily between myself and the sun. A Red Kite, its colours iridescent, head tilting, examining the ground below, its forked tail twitching in carefully controlled flight.  Had my presence summoned this creature here, the new ruler of this land brought forth to examine the interloper?   I stood transfixed, bare chested, primal, watching this ancient symbol scour its kingdom.

Effortlessly it turns, my presence dismissed, over the trees from whence it came, the spell broken.  And again I stood alone.

Lamerwood is accessible by public footpath from Wheathampstead.  Take a walk before man decides to subdue nature once more, and maybe stray from the path to see a wilderness long since hidden.