It was as if there was a sigh of relief as soon as we landed on Jura. Hardly any cars or people, just glorious, golden sunshine and a perfect road winding round the coast. It had been hard cycling, so we were very pleased to cycle downhill into the tiny village of Craighouse, the island's hub. I took it as a very good sign that wafts of whisky and beer hit us as we cycled in: the Isle of Jura Distillery and Hotel respectively. 
Easter came up on us rather unawares, to be honest. Somehow, though, we managed to hatch a plan so cunning that...you know the rest...
With our faith restored in local Scottish baking, we got over to Islay and by the end of the day, on to Jura without a hitch. It had all turned out very well, as if we had made it to the Arran ferry, the extra cycling would have creamed us.
Brother Alun and nephew Richie headed up north for a quick visit last week. On Sunday we managed to wear them out by suggesting a huge walk over the Helvellyn range while Stu paddled about on Windermere, and while I realised I'd got the date of the fell race wrong (guh). I opted to run up Coniston Old Man instead which was a fair second to the Grizedale trail race. Lovely sunny day. Monday saw Rich, Alun and I on Sharp Edge (fetchingly modelled by Rich). There were a startling number of people freaked out by the ridge, wobbling around, on hands and knees. It was a lovely day, clear, with some high cloud. 
But the weather was no excuse for Alun lobbing into Scales Tarn on the way down. Cold just didn't seem to be expressive enough. Painful would have been better. As I was taking photos, with the sounds of someone shouting in the background, I wondered about the sanity of this act...
Anyhow, Alun emerged from the water, seemingly unscathed. A good day out. Earlier in the weekend, Stu and I made a daring bid to start our outdoor climbing season in the Lakes. On Friday night we squeaked out an easy route on Brown slabs at Shepherds after spitting the dummy at Quayfoot Buttress, which wasn't quite ready for us...a bit dank and slimy. 
We camped high up at the Three Shires Stone at the Wrynose Pass in an attempt to get onto some rock early in the morning, but this backfired on two counts: (a) complete inability on my part to get out of a tent quickly, and (b) high winds built up overnight and by morning it was really too cold to climb. We sped back to Castle Rock and Stu had the heady delight of leading a particularly fine VS on smashing, grey, dry rock.
Still, we had a laugh at the strange unfolding of events during the course of the week: the rope being confiscated by the airport security men (perhaps not helped by Stu quipping "yes, it is a bit sharp, isn't it?"...), finding our villa only to find that it came with an owner as mad as a box of spoons, inventing the new sport of "cave running", and the final hoop of fire, a cancelled flight home. 
We were informed that instead of heading to Liverpool we'd be flying into East Midlands Airport (where, I hear you ask)? On arrival we found it to be positioned in a place called NottinghamLeicesterDerby, and that we were going to get from it back to Liverpool by coach. This is when Stu told me he "didn't like" coaches, and that it was my job to get a seat as close to the front as possible, otherwise there "may be consequences"...
With trepidation I managed to bat my way to the front (displaced Ryanair passengers can put up a bit of competition) and relaxed in my seat. I was beginning to see a pattern in all of this when we realised that we had a two hour journey in the company of the Big Band sound of Radio 2. A double-edged sword, because we were perfectly positioned at the front, yet right next to the speakers. We did manage to have a great time though- cave running and climbing for three days, sometimes in heroic conditions.
New pedals installed, I took off to the top of Penrith- where the Beacon lives. Fantastic little place for bombing about. Only fell off once when I forgot to disengage feet from new clipless pedals. 
Then, we took off the next day for a loop of the fells around Crosby Ravensworth. I'm hoping that a distinct lack of skill will one day turn into deft wheelwork.
There's something that I have been meaning to do for some time: run the length of Hadrian's Wall. Why, I hear you ask...because it's there, of course. Why else? 
After ditching the car at Brough By Sands, I got on an empty bus to Bowness on Solway, the start of Hadrian's Wall. The milky blueness of the day had given way to a stern greyness. The bus driver must have left something on the stove at home, as he raced his only passenger there and whizzed back past like a rally driver.
After having trouble settling in to the run, I started to listen to a podcast about Steve Prefontaine. This dangerously talented runner, whose life was cut short at the age of 24 or so, has absolutely nothing in common with me. 
So much so that he could have been a different species. Still, something had struck a chord. In his running, he found a way of expressing creativity. In each of his performances, unlike anyone I'd heard speak of their running, he saw that it was a creative process in the same way as art or music is. I may never achieve such a creative act with speed or performance, but in a small way, running over Hadrian's Wall to me, is one tiny grain of something close to this.
Early March sees the running club springing into action at the Haweswater Half Marathon. Set on the banks of ...yes, you guessed it...Haweswater, it's an idyllic, yet surprisingly hilly course. Last year we manned the sweep car, which wasn't the most dynamic of places to be, although it could have been a lot worse. The year before that, someone ran it backwards, which took quite some time, apparently. This year I was out on the course taking photos of the runners, which was fantastic fun. Penny kindly provided me with a moving target to practice with Stu's camera before the race...seems to work...
Well, quite a weekend that one: off to Scotland for a few mudsports. We started out on mountainbikes in Mabie forest- quite a blast on the fast trails and lumpier bits. We certainly need the practice but I think we're getting better. 
But the best bit came next- catching the last few dog races of the Nationals at Drumlanrig. The faster six dog races had already finished so we had the treat of the rather less mainstream ones- dog and scooter, dog and mountainbike (yes, mountainbike), and the CaniX. The CaniX is the event where the dog is attached to a runner, which seems preferable to the mountainbike race with the dog attached, which proved to be rather unstable in the muddy conditions. The doggie devastation at the start of the mountainbike and dog event was indicative of the general flavour of the events- fantastic to watch as things unfolded with dogs having a sniff, bikes and ropes getting tangled and the like. 
This was the winning CaniX runner. His strange position wasn't an unorthodox running style, but simply an attempt to stay upright in the incredibly slippy mud. Most people ended upside down at some stage or other, being dragged by a happy looking husky...
The doggie in this picture was as happy as a proverbial pig, but his owner was certainly less happy, having been dragged around the course, with a bike somewhere on the scene...The whole thing was a hoot, and we could have spent hours watching things unfold.
If it's Sunday, it's fellracing day. But before we headed to Cautley Spout, Stu continued his kayak odyssey on Windermere Lake. All went well, backwise, so that's great. 
The race at Cautley Spout was a new one to the Kendal Winter League circuit, so I didn't know how far, or how high this one went. A rather dry conversation with the guy with the race numbers revealed that it went "oop there" via "a coople of becks to get yer feet nice and wet"...and that was indeed pretty much it. Up 1500 feet, along for a few feet, and back down a precipitous slope. The good news? I think I was the fourth lady home. The bad news? There were only four ladies in the race. Still, the updated League table from 7 races reveals that I'm still second lady overall.
Saturday dawned a little dankly, but undeterred, we decided on a walk up towards Causey Pike. A lovely walk, but the rain got heavier and heavier. By the time we'd had a splendid lunch of locally-produced cheese, tomato and cob bread with lemon curd and Borrowdale teabread to finish (can you believe all that was cheaper than a garage sandwich?), we were sufficiently wet and cold to decamp to one of the Borrowdale slate quarries to check out some bolted climbs for our summer forays. 
A fantastic little place, complete with frog-filled lake. The climbs looked well bolted, yet somewhat tricky. Even the 3s and 4s looked a trifle blank...
Well, Sunday dawned to the sound of me screaming at the computer. What I thought to be a nice, gentle cross country race up Helm Hill just outside Kendal had somehow turned into a 4 mile (well, 4.6 mile), 1200 foot ordeal in the blink of an eye. Oh dear. Having spent rather more time last week exercising (nice, easy race on Sunday...), and bimbling around in the hills on Saturday, I was as ill prepared as I could be. Still. The day was very spring-like and warm. So, the 1200 foot of ascent was broken up into large and small chunks, which challenged the mind as well as the rest of me. It was two laps of of this hilly course, which I do believe was the hardest race to date in the series (I say that every week). I staggered in somewhere between W.G. Grace and Sir Stanley Matthews, in case you're interested...
