I had left Honey Dale behind and continued walking, soon reaching a section of the Wolds Way. Striding along the high ridge path, the wind roaring through the trees, three women, perhaps a mother and daughters, with a lovely, small dog approach. I veer off the path to ensure adequate social distancing and we smile, safely exchanging greetings while the dogs say hello. Moving on, I reach a signpost and turn left, following the footpath through a small copse (which can be seen on the skyline above the twin tracks), then drop down the the valley bottom. I had remembered that there was a water trough here and George drank deeply. We then followed the path up the steep hillside. The persistent wind blew strongly, to my left, I saw a bright red object shining through the gorse. As I gained altitude, I looked over and saw that it was a rucksack, a elderly couple had taken refuge among the gorse bushes and were sitting looking across the valley, enjoying sandwiches and a flask.
I detoured off the path finding a steep bank to sit on, it was luxuriously deep, tussocky grass. George lies beside me, I set up the paint box, the tripod needs to have splayed legs to conquer the slope. The sun is dropping quickly and I start to feel cold as a pheasant barks nearby. I see no walkers, it is late now, then from nowhere, in the valley bottom, two red shirted runners appear, labouring up the steep slope opposite. The Wolds Way shares this route with the Centenary Way, making it a well used area for walkers and runners. I hurriedly decide enough is enough and begin to pack up, a signal for George to frolic, making things a little taxing on the steep incline. He settles eventually and I realise that the temperature has dropped a lot. We walk away and soon get warmed up, gratefully emerging above Thixendale near Manor House Farm, then to the car for a hot drink. At the car, I was sorting myself out, when the two runners appeared in their red tee-shirts. A young boy and his father who, like me had grown a beard in these Covid times, enthusiastically explained that it was their favourite run, being just four miles. I remembered my running days and completely understood their joy, their elation, and with post run endorphins racing, they returned to their car, and sailed away. Perhaps I should try running again.
Two red ants,
Are out, on a winding,
Wolding run,
Inching along a fert free valley,
They seek a tree lined ridge.
Below their feet
Vessey senses an itch, and
Is slowly waking.
The wethered day prepares to sleep as
Easing winds
Hug the hillsides.
Yan Tan Tethera
Newly liberated sheep,
Nurturing inquisitive, dancing lambs,
Whisper, Whisper,
That the grass is
Greener, greener over yonder.
Besides a sleeping and deserted Cross Keys,
Next the scrubby hillside trees,
Roosting pigeons look down as
A father and son,
Complete their favourite run.
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