#11 - What a Day... In More Ways Than One

Some days give you exactly what you signed up for.

Others give you considerably more.

This was definitely the latter.

My adventure deep into Shropshire, with Ludlow as the eventual destination, started bright and breezy. Well, that's not strictly true. It was still dark when I set off and there wasn't even the slightest hint of a breeze. What there was, however, was frost. Plenty of it.

I rolled out bang on 7:30am, the plan being to meet my mate at the first checkpoint roughly 15 miles down the road.

Just before 8am the sun finally began to rise. The eastern horizon lit up with a deep orange glow while a layer of mist hung over the fields and distant hills. It was one of those winter mornings that instantly makes you glad you got out of bed. The sort of morning that promises cold fingers, frozen puddles and, if you're lucky, a cracking day ahead.

And it absolutely delivered on all three.

A Flying Start

The first section went brilliantly.

I knew most of the country lanes from previous runs, although I was equally aware they double as morning rat-runs for commuters. With the low winter sun directly in drivers' eyes, I was probably more concerned about being seen than usual.

Not that I could have made myself more visible.

I was dressed in a fluorescent yellow running jacket, matching beanie, head torch and, for good measure, had attached cycling lights to my running vest. Short of running with a flare gun and a luminous billboard, I don't think I could have stood out any more.

The miles ticked by comfortably and before long I arrived at the first checkpoint a full 30 minutes ahead of schedule.

To be fair, I'd deliberately built plenty of contingency into the timetable. Navigation errors, muddy fields, locked gates, rogue livestock and general incompetence all had to be accounted for.

The timing worked perfectly. As I entered the pub car park, my mate was pulling in.

So far, so good.

Things Start Getting Interesting

The second checkpoint was only about 10 kilometres away.

The catch was that there was a decent climb involved.

Still, I continued to make good progress and actually extended my advantage over the schedule. Another quick bite to eat, a brief chat, and I headed off knowing the real challenge of the day was looming ahead.

Wyre Forest.

Or more specifically, navigating through it.

The problem with some of Britain's famous long-distance routes is that they're often neither as famous nor as well-signposted as their reputations suggest. In this case I was following stretches of the Geopark Way, which seemed to operate on the assumption that walkers possess either natural navigational instincts or carrier pigeons.

Upon entering the forest the signage essentially disappeared.

With no obvious route markers, I reluctantly resorted to following my Garmin navigation and hoping the watch didn't decide to reboot itself due to hypothermia.

The forest section was brutal.

The trails were chopped up, flooded and relentlessly boggy. At one point the route directed me into a stream that was approximately calf-deep.

Why?

I still don't know.

There were diversions caused by flooded paths, closures that appeared without warning, and a road closure that completely wrecked what little route rhythm I'd managed to establish.

By the time I reached the penultimate checkpoint, I was physically and mentally drained.

"Only" 10k To Go

My mate greeted me with the kind of encouragement that only another runner can deliver.

"Only ten kilometres left."

Only.

This was, of course, after I'd already covered the thick end of thirty miles.

Still, after grabbing some food and receiving what amounted to a motivational bullying session, I headed back out.

The finish was getting closer.

The route, however, had other ideas.

The Woods Fight Back

The final section marked the beginning of the Shropshire Hills and delivered exactly what you'd expect.

Climbs.

Mud.

More climbs.

More mud.

One woodland section in particular was probably the boggiest ground I'd encountered all day. The real challenge, though, wasn't the mud—it was the fallen trees.

There were dozens of them.

Some required awkward crawling underneath. Others demanded clambering over tangled branches and trunks that seemed specifically designed to snag clothing, running packs and dignity.

Attempting these manoeuvres after more than fifty kilometres on tired legs is far less graceful than it sounds.

At one point I very nearly gave myself a life-changing injury while attempting to negotiate an especially awkward fallen tree.

Let's just say it was a close call and leave it there.

Then Came The Golf Course

Just when I thought the route couldn't become any more frustrating, I emerged onto a golf course.

I have nothing against golf courses.

Unless I'm trying to run through one.

The official route crossed the course but appeared to do so secretly, with no clear signs, markers or indications that I was actually allowed to be there.

So I spent what felt like an eternity wandering around trying to identify the correct path while simultaneously attempting not to look like someone trespassing.

Once through, there was only one final obstacle.

Fields.

A seemingly endless sequence of steep, muddy, rolling fields.

Personally, I find these far more draining than major climbs. A long climb allows you to settle into a rhythm. Rolling farmland simply steals your energy one muddy step at a time.

Eventually, though, Ludlow drew closer.

And with it, beer.

Reward Earned

Despite all the navigational mishaps, bogs, streams and woodland assaults, I arrived at the final meeting point still ahead of schedule.

Not by much.

But ahead nonetheless.

After changing out of my mud-covered trail shoes and soaked socks, we made a crucial decision.

Rather than checking into the hotel first, we headed straight for Ludlow Brewery.

There were three perfectly reasonable reasons for this:

I'd just run over 50 kilometres and wanted a reward pint.

The brewery was closing unusually early.

We wanted to buy beer.

All very sensible.

We'd visited Ludlow Brewery before and remembered both the quality of the beer and the atmosphere fondly.

Thankfully, neither disappointed.

The Blonde and Gold were exactly what I needed after a day on the trails. Beautiful cask beers that vanished from the glass in record time.

Déjà Vu In The Hotel Bar

Having secured twelve bottles each of the Blonde to take home, we headed to the hotel.

A shower has rarely felt so satisfying.

Before dinner we settled into the hotel bar and started reminiscing about our previous visit.

The last time we'd stayed there we'd ended up chatting with a couple who had two dogs. Somehow the conversation had revealed a mutual acquaintance through work.

A small-world moment.

Remarkably, history appeared to be repeating itself.

Yet again we found ourselves sitting near a couple with two dogs.

Yet again we started chatting.

Dog owners simply can't help themselves.

Mention a dog and we're all instantly best friends.

The evening was starting to follow an eerily familiar script.

Then it took a turn that neither of us could possibly have predicted.

Meeting A Hero

It was my mate's turn to buy the next round.

Instead of walking towards the bar, he wandered off in the opposite direction.

A few moments later I heard:

"Sorry to disturb you, but can I buy you both a drink as a thank you for the music over the years?"

I turned around.

And there, sitting a few feet away, was Paul Heaton and his wife.

Yes. That Paul Heaton.

The driving force behind The Housemartins and The Beautiful South, songwriter, musician and creator of countless songs that have soundtracked chunks of my life.

Somehow my mate had spotted him immediately.

The next thing I knew, Paul had politely declined the drink, then invited us to join them.

Naturally, we assumed they were simply being polite.

They weren't.

For the next hour or so we sat chatting about all manner of things.

Music. Running. Life. Dogs. Travel.

Everything.

I'd heard before that Paul Heaton was one of the nicest and most grounded people in the music industry.

The rumours were entirely true. People often say you should never meet your heroes. In this case, they're wrong.

He was warm, genuine, funny and incredibly generous with his time. His wife was equally lovely and just as easy to chat to. It felt less like meeting a famous musician and more like sharing a drink with friends.

Eventually, with dinner reservations calling, we said our goodbyes, grabbed a quick photo, thanked them both and headed off for food. For a brief moment we joked that we could probably have stayed and gone for a curry with them.

But that might have been pushing our luck.

What A Day

When I set off that morning, I thought I was embarking on a challenging run across Shropshire.

And I was.

I battled bogs, flooding, fallen trees, dodgy signage, golf courses and more mud than should legally exist in one county.

I ran further than 50 kilometres.

I rewarded myself with excellent beer.

And somehow ended up spending an evening chatting with one of my musical heroes.

Not bad for a random Thursday in January.

Not bad at all.