Hello again!
For reasons I needn't go into here, I spent last weekend in a village in the middle of nowhere.
Actually, that's a bit unkind, as San Marcial is only 12kms south of the beautiful provincial capital of Zamora, which itself is perched high above a bend in the River Duero, but when you go to the village you feel as you've travelled back to a time to when...well, God knows what they did then. So it's not just a journey of the best part of three hours from Oviedo, but a massive cultural leap, too. Backwards.
In Summer, the population swells to about 400, as people who have long since cleared off to Madrid, León, or even Oviedo return to spend time in the family house they've renovated with the spoils of their new-found prosperity. There are two (yes, go on, count 'em - two) bars, and a general store even pulls up its rusty shutters and declares itself open, despite the fact there's nothing much you'd want to buy there. But although I moan, I actually quite enjoy my brief visits there, as long as I've first armed myself with a couple of good books, wine, and a crate of beer. The bars serve the robust local wine and tapas of things like sweetbreads, pig's ear and black pudding, and I always take advantage of a trip to go into Zamora and stock up on such honest delicacies to stuff my freezer (and later, my face) with.
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| Refuelling, San Marcial-style |
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| How to make a silk purse out of these? |
In nearby (well, 8kms away) Morales del Vino, there is a open-air swimming pool with gardens and a bar, an excellent place to spend the hot afternoons. In the balmy evenings you can sit outside your house and marvel at all the stars visible, while bats and swallows swirl overhead...
On the other hand, out of season, it's a grim, forbidding place. The (fool)hardy permanent residents number about 60 (a generous estimate, this), one of the bars closes up till July, and the shop disappears completely. The weather turns nasty, too. It rains a lot and can get perishing cold, with temperatures of -10ºC not uncommon.
But the main reason I let myself be persuaded to go down there are the possibilities open to the runner. This is agricultural country, and in the past, many of the rolling fields surrounding the village were given over to vineyards. These days they are more likely to be growing sunflowers, rapeseed and wheat there. But in any case, between these fields, and stretching for miles, are trails ideal for running on. Under an enormous expanse of blue sky, you get a real feeling of liberation as you cruise along in total isolation.
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| Now which way do we go? |
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| I get to dig out my Salomon trail shoes, too! |
The only sounds are the crunch of your own footfalls and the breeze rushing past your ears. Occasionally there's a flutter of wings as a frightened pheasant takes to the air - this never fails to give me a massive scare, too.
The one downside to all this are the dogs out guarding the sheep, and if you get just a little too close, they bound towards you, snarling, and make sure you get the flock out of there, pronto. Still, that's good for a bit of impromptu fartlek.
Once, and only once have I seen the shepherd while I've been out in the fields running, but it was a memorable meeting, in its way. I was going along nicely one fine morning when I spied what I thought was a bundle of clothes a couple of hundred metres down the trail. As I approached, it became clear that those clothes were still actually being very much worn by someone, and this someone was taking advantage of the peaceful solitude to deliver himself of a, well, a massive poo. Needless to say, we did not exchange pleasantries and I continued on my way, choosing not to dwell too much on how - or indeed if - he had wiped himself, and what with.
So, anyway, this past Sunday I got out reasonably early and spent a very enjoyable hour and nine minutes trotting along the trails. It's surprising how the more yielding surface underfoot slows you down (I assume this happens to others, too, and not just me): it probably loses you 20 seconds per kilometre, I would guess.
Apart from a minor incident with a sheepdog which appeared to be even older than me, it was a good outing - my legs felt fine, The Knee played the game and my lungs seem to be finally coming to terms with the increasing effort required of them. In all I did 13.2 kms (8.2 miles), for a weekly total of 37.6 kms (23.4 miles). So slowly onwards and slightly upwards, I suppose you could say.
Another positive is that my weight finally seems to be coming down gradually, something I put down to not only the (admittedly small) increase in my training, but also to a deliberate attempt to start being a touch more careful with what I eat and drink. But rather than explain that now, I'll leave it as the topic for the next instalment of this blog.
I hope you'll be there for me to share it with. In the meantime, thanks very much for reading, and enjoy yourselves as we go into November, already!
Bye for now.
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