I’m as happy as a generally grumpy person can ever expect to be, but occassionaly I get it in to my head that perhaps I’d feel more at home somewhere else – the eternal grass is greener scenario.
This weekend, in search of lush lawns, I headed to Hebden Bridge.
Hebden Bridge is the UK mecca for guardian readers and “alternative practitioners”, and I’ve long held the view that the place would be enhanced by my presence. The “AP” euphemism was suggested by the local lesbian hotel and I’ve adopted it as a subtle way of getting this post past my mum.
I was accompanied by Lynn who was prepared to indulge my fantasy of returning to Yorkshire for a life revolving around yoghurt, communal vegetables, alternative practitioners, real ale and hill runnning (not necessarily listed in order of importance). Given that this weekend was forecast to be the wettest and windiest of the year, and even saw 1500 hardman mountain marathoners evacuated from the area by helicopter, I think it was incredibly public spirited of her!
My new home presented itself well, with a rather fabulous olde worlde railway station but friday night in dowtown Hebden was disappointly bereft of AP’s who appeared to have been replaced by spirit swigging teenagers – my favourite variety.
I’d planned an early start for our Saturday morning hike through the hurricane, but at 11am we were still struggling to swallow the locally sourced alpaca sausage that came bundled with the hotel room. I’d like to blame my sleep loving companion for the late start but I might have delayed the proceedings a little bit by leaving the walking guide hidden under the discarded and pre-requisite guardian on the Leeds train.
We got a map, which promptly disintegrated in the downpour and headed off with the plan to stick to the right handside of the river. A cunning plan, almost immediately rejected as we found ourself on a path, flanked on our right by a raging torrent and a strangely spotty youf holding a bottle of empty red wine. I thought he had puss coming out of his pores but apparently he’d just stuck his head in the river. A tick in the box for staying in London methinks!
The walk was random, preciptous and extraordinarily muddy but I enjoyed it immensely. My enjoyment always seems to be enhanced by adverse conditions. Seeing other walkers approaching me with a hang dog, god isn’t this awful expression, always makes me smile, and I think Lynn may have been cast in a similar mould.
Here’s Lynn, striding off in the wrong direction – in fairness the visibilty was somewhat impaired.
6 miles later we were sitting in the local cream tea house, being served by some of the local sullen teenagers – “What dya wan?!”
It’s a strange accent and in the mouths hungover teenagers it doesn’t go so well with the concept of “customer service”. Another tick in the box for London I’m afraid.
In order to swing the balance in favour of Hebden Bridge the hotel decided to throw a lesbian disco in our honour and although we did our best to miss most of it, we caught the tail end and were introduced to the hip and happening alternative practioners from the North Yorkshire vicinity. I have to say it was an eye-opener. My fashion sense clearly needs an overhaul if I ever hope to fit in, but I was pleased to discover that they still play the tunes from my early years at women only discos. 4 non blondes most definitely needs to stage a come back on my running playlist!
My dreams may have been shattered this weekend, but I’m not bitter. It ranks as one of the best weekends of the year and has given me a new found passion for running in wet and boggy conditions. I’ll be spending this weekend searching for good ole London mud and hills.
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