Category Archives: dogs

keep on running

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P1210953Last Sunday, for the first time, I took part in the annual Bristol 10K. It was an incredible experience to run through the streets of Bristol with around 9,000 other runners, and then out along the Portway, with the gorge rearing up on one side and the river on the other. It was wonderful to spot Joe and the girls in the crowd, fun to look out for my running friends amongst the Lycra-clad pack and amazing to be cheered on by thousands of total strangers. Running alongside giant bananas, polar bears and lots of superheroes was pretty fabulous too. And through the generous sponsorship of family and friends I managed to raise £245 for COCO, a really fantastic children’s charity founded by Steve Cram.

I completed the course in 61 minutes and nine seconds. Not an especially impressive time — the winner finished in 30 minutes and five seconds: those pesky seconds! — but it was impressive for me because this time last year I hadn’t run anywhere for over twenty years, and I didn’t even own a pair of trainers.

But last August, inspired by both the Olympics and my husband’s distinctly chipper post-run demeanour, I decided to give running a go. I also realised that standing in the park watching the dog run around was not really keeping me fit. Better, I thought, to go and run around with the dog.

My first run took all of three minutes and I hated it. My second run, a day later, was about a minute longer. The only reason I managed a second run was because for a good few hours after the pain of the first one, I felt completely high: a strange sense of elation mixed with a feeling of increased energy. Within two weeks I found that I no longer hated the running, and I began extending my run as soon as I could complete a particular route without stopping. In mid-september I started the couch to 5K regime with my friend and fellow dog walker, Nicki, and I ditched the daily run in favour of three thirty minute sessions a week.

I’d really recommend this approach to anyone who wants to take up running. It’s a brilliant combination of walking and running and you work steadily towards being able to run three miles in around thirty minutes. I’d also really, really recommend finding a running partner: last winter was unbelievably cold at times, but because we didn’t want to let each other down, Nicki and I kept to our routine. We ran through rain, lots and lots of rain; we ran in high winds where we could hardly catch our breath; we ran in snow, which was fantastic even though our toes froze. We ran when it was so cold that our legs felt like lead, our noses were pinched and we couldn’t feel our fingers. In fact only icy pavements and illness kept us from running.

Now, nearly nine months on, I run two to three times a week. The first mile is never much fun. But after that something strange happens. My brain detaches from my body, and even if my legs feel cold or tired, I’m able to keep going. My mind is free to think. Or, if I am running with a friend, which is often the case, we chat (though we’ve learned that at least one section of the run has to render us incapable of saying anything other than “bloody hell!”). We also freestyle our routes, allowing ourselves to be drawn down interesting-looking roads or along beautiful tree-lined avenues. Sometimes we strike out over the Suspension bridge, or drive to the woods where the paths are soft and springy under foot. Sometimes our runs last about 40 minutes, others are about an hour and a half. I am addicted. But oddly enough, as I pull on my running gear, I never, ever feel like running. That only happens once I’m doing it. And sometimes it only feels good when it’s over, which sounds perverse, I know. The post-run sense of well-being, however, kicks in without fail and lasts for the rest of the day.

And as for the post-race* high, well that seems to last even longer. Which is why I want to do it all again. Only this time I want to go a little further, and perhaps slightly faster. I’ve got my sights set on the Bristol Half Marathon.

* race — I use the term in its broadest sense because, of course, although this sort of event is a race, only those wearing white bibs are in it to win it. For the rest of us it’s simply a race against yourself in that you want to improve on your PB (personal best). The back half of the pack I was running with were still crossing the start line as the winner arrived at the finish.

PS This is the LINK to my Just Giving page for COCO, if anyone feels in the mood to donate!

out of bounds

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6

Exciting things are happening at the bottom of the garden. We are not allowed outside.

Or rather, I am but Sybil is most definitely not. Trenches are being dug, large sleepers are being lugged around and paving slabs are stacked a little too conveniently against a neighbour’s wall. Sybil cannot be trusted. Given half a chance she will either a) hop over the wall, b) get squashed or c) dig to Australia. Or all three, but in a slightly different order.

She’s grounded for the week and feeling tragic. I am busy tweaking planting plans.

swinging in the rain

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This weekend’s incredibly muddy walk: Abbot’s Pool, just along from Leigh Woods.

There is a large lake, a smaller pool and several little water falls, but best of all a very high tyre swing. This is the one walk the girls are always up for, come rain or shine.

wet, wet, wet

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Life at the moment seems to consist of endless rainy walks with lots of mud.

The dog loves it and, although not my favourite walking weather, I don’t really mind the rain either, even when it’s black-sky biblical stuff. Or at least I don’t mind whilst I’m out there in it, but when I get home and find that my knees are cold and damp, and a change of clothes is the only way to get warm and comfortable, I begin to resent it. So much so that I usually don’t bother – wet jeans are surprisingly difficult to take off. 

awol

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I had a plan of sorts for today: a long To Do list and a significant goal. But then, for one reason and another, my plans went awry and whichever way I looked at the situation I could see that I would never get back on track. At least not in a very productive way.

So I took the dog for a walk and, having cleared my head, I set off into town with a new goal in mind: the Norman Parkinson exhibition, An Eye For Fashion, at the M Shed, with a little nose around St Nicholas Market along the way, and perhaps the Arnolfini too.

St Nick’s is undoubtedly the foodie heart of Bristol. Although there are lots of wonderful delis, bakeries, cafes and restaurants dotted all over the city, I think it is fair to say that St Nicholas’s Market has the highest concentration of specialist food stalls and pocket-size restaurants in Bristol. And the number increases twice a week: on Wednesdays with the Farmers’ Market and on Fridays with a string of stalls along Wine street.

And it was on the Wine street stretch that I picked up a box of falafels from Jacob’s Finest (for lunch tomorrow), and one of these goat’s cheese tarts from Chef de Maison (lunch for me when I got home – delicious). Both stalls had long queues when I retraced my steps and hour or so later.

I was sorely tempted by the fabulous cakes on Crumpet’s stand, but then remembered that I’ll be able to treat myself to one of their delicious creations tomorrow, when I take Martha to her dance lesson at The Tobacco Factory as they supply the cafe. From St Nick’s to the M Shed is a brisk ten minute walk, but I ducked into the Arnolfini, and then, sadly, back out again. It was good in parts, but overall, not good enough.

The M Shed opened its doors barely a year ago, and it’s always busy. No wonder – the displays are well-thought out, look wonderful and are very engaging for both adults and children. In places it does, however, feel a little like a work in progress. This isn’t a criticism, just an observation. And I think one the museum would agree with, not least because one of its primary functions is to be an ever-expanding repository for local history, and as such it never will be complete. Everywhere there are little blank labels and pots of pencils which invite visitors, Bristolians in particular, to share their experiences and memories of the city.

The Parkinson exhibition is a complete delight – it features photographs from the Angela Williams Archive and covers the ten years from 1954 to 1964, at which point Parkinson left Britain to live in Tobago. It is remarkable to see how much fashion changed in that time; not just the clothes, but the age and appearance of the models who, in the 50s look so much older than their 1960s counterparts. It was oddly refreshing to see that though slightly matronly, the women in the photographs from the 50s were undeniably glamourous. It’s a shame that older models are such a rarity these days.

So although my to do list remains exactly as it was this morning – not a single item has been crossed off – it was a very productive day after all.

PS I would thoroughly recommend getting the catalogue, which at £5 is good value, and it contains lots of lovely images and some interesting essays.

signs of life

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The garden is coming to life, and although there is still far too much bare earth for my liking, I can comfort myself with the knowledge that a transformation is underway.

The new Clematis armandii is in flower and, although quite small (and rather early), what little perfume it offers is a treat. Two years ago we had to remove its enormous predecessor and, although essential building work left no alternative, it felt criminal to be cutting down such a fabulous plant. Each year in late March or early April its scent would waft through the windows on every floor of the house. Last year, although in the throws of reinvigorating our garden, I felt as though I had completely messed up – first because we had to cut down the armandii and second, because I managed to kill a lilac. Both were plants I valued for their flowers, their perfume and their role as seasonal heralds. So it’s good to see the armandii back, now I need to replace the lilac.

Every morning I spot more bulbs emerging. Some, such as Iris ‘Katherine Hodgkin’, below, I’ve been awaiting eagerly, checking progress daily and photographing obsessively.

Others I can’t even remember planting…

These mystery bulbs, peeping out from a tangle of old Paperwhite leaves, look a lot like tulips, with a few alliums thrown in for good measure. But when did I put them in this pot, carefully layered beneath the Paperwhites? I’m impressed that I did it – because it’s clear that it was me, it couldn’t have been anyone else – but I have absolutely no recollection of having been so organised. It will be interesting to see what comes up.

These irises – Iris reticulata ‘Cantab’- have been popping up in various places around the garden, and now that they have appeared I can see better where I should have planted them. I can also see that I really need to think about more ground cover.

I was looking enviously at a mass of snowdrops in a local front garden this morning, trying to work out why they looked so lovely (aside from the obvious fact that snowdrops are lovely). Gradually it dawned on me that it was because they were emerging from a carpet of dull bronze leaf litter, rather than dull, in the boring sense, bare earth. Below are the lovely Iris reticulata Springtime which are also in the wrong place.

Elsewhere in the garden I can see that my tulips are pushing up through the soil, and some show signs of having been damaged by Sybil during her high speed nocturnal circuits. I have started erecting temporary barriers fashioned from bamboo canes and lengths of netting, chicken wire and green mesh. They look ridiculous and really unsightly, but I can’t think of any other way to ensure that my precious tulips aren’t trampled. Once the   leaves are up a good few inches, I think I’ll be able to take the barriers down. At least I hope so. If not, my garden will look like a weird zoo for plants. Not the plan at all.

And last, but by no means least, Joe has managed a temporary fix for the computer.

park life

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The first time I visited St Andrew’s Park, five years ago, it was as a parent rather than a dog walker. I thought it was rather gloomy despite the well-equipped playground and charming cafe (run from a van around which tables covered with polka dot oil cloths are set up), and vowed to visit only if I really, really had to. How things change.

Several years on, and now a dog owner, I find that I am in the same slightly gloomy park on an almost daily basis (I must add here that Sybil does get walked elsewhere, but time is limited at the moment, and a local walk is all we can manage). Given my initial feelings about the park, you’d think this would be a recipe for utter misery and boredom on my part, but curiously, for such a small place, there is always something new to see.

Over the last two weeks snowdrops have been emerging, first one small cluster and now great clumps light up an otherwise dull corner. The crocuses have also started popping up: brilliant flashes of electric yellow and purple along the muddy banks. And although the trees are still leafless and skeletal, there have been some interesting additions: this kite, lit up by the sun, caught my eye the other day.

And at the weekend I could hardly fail to spot this spectacular bit of yarn-bombing.

Recently, I came across a whole group of photos that I took last July when the trees were covered with ribbons in advance of an annual arts festival. Sadly, we weren’t around for the actual festival and I guess that’s why I never got round to posting these photos.

 As I’ve said, St Andrew’s park is not particularly large, or even especially pretty, but I love it more and more, and clearly I am not alone.

busted!

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Whilst photographing Mary’s lovely felt decorations I spotted a couple of lame horses amongst the biscuits on the tree – a hoof missing here, a leg there. It was bound to happen to one or two of them I reasoned, but then, as I looked closer, I saw that almost all the biscuits had been picked at – all stars were at least one point short. Grrr.

Of course the girls tried to blame Sybil. It was the dog, they chorused, faces solemn. But I’m not that stupid. And anyway, Sybil has been banned from the sitting room since the biscuits appeared on the tree – one whiff of them sent her trotting around the room like a demented show dog, nose in the air as if held up by an invisible thread, hungrily drinking in their scent. I knew the biscuits wouldn’t last long, and they are meant to be eaten, but I had hoped the girls might share them with their cousins on Boxing day. Fat chance.

busy, busy …

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To say that this week has been a little hectic would be quite an understatement. But in amongst the craziness fun has been had. Back in October I agreed to participate in a scrap fabric Christmas decorations swap organised by Very Berry Handmade. It seemed like a fine idea, especially as I was in quilt mode at the time and scraps of fabric were scattered around the house.

But – and I think you can probably see where this is heading – fast forward two months and with Christmas just around the corner, maddening last minute requests pouring in daily (She says we’ve got to wear black leggings and Christmassy top), not to mention my having agreed to coordinate a big end of term event at the girls’ school, my plans for a little low-key sewing project morphed into a caffeine-fueled sewing frenzy.

I’m nearly there and it has been fun to do, just not quite as relaxed as I had hoped.

Meanwhile, out in the garden, the dog, as ever, has been hard at work. It turns out that I had disturbed Sybil’s stash of bones when I planted some of my daffs. Silly me. It’s taken me a week to work this out. A week of cursing the dog and re-planting the bulbs, only to find that, under cover of darkness – she’s quite canny when it comes to this sort of thing – she has dug them all up again. I’ve given up with that particular spot. It’s hers. The bulbs have been re-homed. And this weekend I must tackle the last three packs of bulbs – some tulips, which should be fine, and some alliums, which may well fail as a result of being left too long in their box. Who knows. We’ll find out next year.

And on the subject of the garden, the flowers are in short supply so I’m resorting to the tiniest vessels I can find for my Lilliputian posies: old sherry glasses, narrow-necked fizzy drinks bottles, and now these sweet little bottles which someone was chucking out.

Off to the store that I love to hate – Primark  - the only place I can buy a last minute Christmas carols outfit at a price I won’t feel too cross about.

a shaggy dog story

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A year ago today we drove to Wales to collect Sybil. She was tiny and incredibly
sweet and, as far as the girls were concerned, it was love at first sight.

Although I found her comic appearance endearing, I admit it took me a little longer to feel that I loved her – Joe even longer still. But one year on, she’s very much part of the family. She is also very naughty. So far she’s eaten shoes, attacked my bulbs repeatedly, gnawed a pat of butter, wounded countless Sylvanians and destroyed four dog beds.

As you can see, each one is diligently eviscerated and it’s pretty exhausting work.

Of course digging is what terriers love to do, and Cairn Terriers are no exception.