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I forgot what long runs can do to your nipples

This month was very good for the progress of the Run Across Britain, if not for the shear number of new miles logged then for the psychological boost brought on by piercing the membranes of Norfolk, Suffolk, Essex, and Hertfordshire thus expanding this at least to more than just a Run Across Cambridgeshire {this is a little disingenuous since I already had some runs in Edinburgh and London, but almost everything to the end of July was centered on Cambridge, Stretham, Ely and Fordham}.

There were a couple of decent long runs to the north. The length from King’s Lynn to Ely (mostly in Norfolk) was covered in two runs each with an end (or start) in Downham Market.

From Downham Market to Ely, I made a bad map judgement at the confluence of the River Ouse (pronounce like “ooze”) and some large washes and found myself steered to Hilgay along a very pleasant dike but had to run the rest of the way mostly through thick grass along the A10. The run became more like hard labour as I trudged along without proper carbs and into a steady 15 mph (gust to 30 mph) wind.

The path from King’s Lynn went much better and yielded many nice sights along the Ouse. There was the cemetary in King’s Lynn, the paper plant (with an ambiguous name, I thought), and the ruins of a large church along the way.

This past weekend took me from Wisbech through March via a path along the River Nene and a bike route built on an abandoned rail bed passing Her Majesty’s Prison and a land fill close to March.

I got trapped on a farm where, I suspect, the farmers had sabotaged the trail markings; faced with a choice between running back a mile or more (already at 18 miles into the run) or finding a way across a drainage canal I soon found myself dangling beneath and 8 inch diameter gas line going hand-over-hand NEARLY to the far side…lost my grip and ended up running the last 2 miles in sweats soaked to mid thigh.

I finally connected a few runs by doing an out-and-back to Aldreth, famous for the causeway that William the Conqueror used to approach the Isle of Ely in his last assault against the forces of Hereward the Wake. Aldreth falls off down the hill from Haddenham’s high spot as part of the Isle and makes for an unusual bit of terrain in this dreadfully flat part of the country.  The road here sort of dead-ends, as well, so there’s a manageably small amount of traffic even when the paved bit of pedestrian access ends.  Some of the subsequent late evening and early morning runs have yielded stunning views of the surrounding farmland.

One afternoon on holiday I managed to get out to Little Downham and do another farmland loop.  I was rewarded with some rustic bridges and a visit to an out-of-the-way village called Coveney.  Pretty.

There were two runs out of Kentford, a small Suffolk village on a bus line out of Cambridge (and Newmarket and Bury St. Edmunds, should you find yourself there).  Kentford is rich with footpaths and pubs and seems a relaxing stopover if that suits your interests.  The first run followed the trails and bike lanes to Gazeley and the Icford long distance trail to Ashley and Cheveley before climbing to Newmarket along wide wooded B-roads with very wide verges (shoulders, in American) to accomodate the thousands of thoroughbreds housed at the farms and studs around the area (Newmarket being the home of British racing). At the end of this run, I decided I had had enough of the Sundown at the Pass t-shirt (rides up in back) and left it for the vagrants near the Three Horseshoes in Newmarket.

The second run from Kentford was more recent and involved an hour and a half in torrential rain, high winds, and 12 deg C temperatures.  That said, the run was most pleasant, taking some reasonably mildly travelled roads across the rolling terrain past Barrow and into Bury St. Edmunds, a larger market town in the center of Suffolk that I really have taken a shine to considering its distance from both the house and the campus.

I entered Hertfordshire on the trail from Harston to Royston (another easy bus trip to or from Cambridge).  Another hilly town as you leave the Fens, Royston is fairly large and seems to have a vibrant nightlife with many bands and clubs supporting them.

Essex is thus far represented by a trail passing through Littlebury and Saffron Walden, a really cool little market town bordering Audley End.

Audley End is an estate covering hundred of acres within its walls but the stately home is open for tours and the grounds host open air concerts throughout the nice weather.  The gardens are designed by Capability Brown, whose gravesite got a mention in last month’s wrap up.

Finally, a couple of runs came to be on our trip to Oxfordshire, setting a target for future runs to connect.  One run found me on some steep hills, passing through the village of Great Milton, and eventually slogging through a marsh and some especially stingy stinging nettles.  The next morning I got lost in some fields, squashed thousands of black slugs (no offence to Arthur Gash), and looped through some very small villages.

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The Three Horseshoes opens early and, although there is no ale, is an interesting old pub a few meters from the clock tower in Newmarket.

I did a morning run from Kentford through horse farms into Gazeley, Ashley, and Cheveley on a warm and humid morning and was refreshed with an ice cold Fosters and met by a cheery bunch of staff and a couple of customers.  The place might come off as a bit shabby, but service is excellent.

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No ales here, but a right friendly welcome.  The garden is mostly concrete and picnic tables, but a couple are under a roof for bad weather.

There are two bars (starboard and port from the colour scheme) and a small stage for the frequent musical attractions (the stage doubles as the darts alley) complement a snooker table and old political cartoons framed around the bars.  The house looks like it can hold 200 people since the twenty here were all milling about far off at the port stern.

I had a Fosters which was ice cold and perfect (it’s hard to fuck up a lager in these places, but I’ve had a few from dirty lines).  The background music was 70′s rock but odd stuff: Stranded in the Jungle by New York Dolls, Telegram Sam by T Rex, Julie’s Been Working For The Drug Squad by The Clash…must be a jukebox in here. Very comfortable local, and I wish it wasn’t so out of the way.

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“[Y'] alright?” asked the old guy near the bar as I entered the 5 Bells; “yeah, thanks…y’alright?” I answered not yet able to swallow the y like locals do.  “Don’t order the Pedigree, mate.  Dave outside has already had to bring two pints back.” So, a Director’s Choice it was to be, thanks for the advice.

I went out to the garden and washed the chip fat from my hands in the fountain fed from the algae filled puddle out back.  The garden was a weird little kid’s playground full of weird little kids and their minders.  Back off to the right of the bouncy/climby tree thing there was a barbeque stand with some more taps and other bar set ups.  This is a perfect little family bar.

And, everyone is very friendly.  I’m glad that it turned out to be #200 of my pubs.

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Hidden away in the market cloisters in Newmarket you will find this little gem of a bar, The Bushel.  The staff is friendly and attentive, the other customers seem friendly and grounded, and the place is quiet enough to have a chat.

They had IPA on the pumps but the other two casks were still settling and weren’t yet ready.  It looked like a lager for me, so I dashed over to the nearby fish place and grabbed a cod and chips and settled into watching some of the afternoon races.  Life is good, sometimes.

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My bad luck at the White Hart got even worse at the Bull, down the street.  Here, the slightly less dickish crowd was piled around the bar waiting for the incompetent bar staff to pull their fingers out.  I got my IPA after a ten minute wait whilst the pubescent bartender chatted up folks he had already served.  I would likely still be waiting there had he not heard my accent when I started talking to another ignore-ee; “oooh, better serve the derelict, he sounds like a tourist then I can get back to not serving the regulars.”

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I haven’t seen a bar so full of assholes since leaving the states and had begun to think such a place didn’t exist.  Arrogant little middle aged middle management fucks strutting around with their stomachs sucked in to impress the evening attired provincial slappers half their age tottering around on far too high heels for so early in the afternoon.  What a bunch of dickheads.

The bar staff was okay and my tender actually looked over the fat little salesman that pushed in front of me and took my order for a Marston’s Ashes, which was tasty.  Some of the older folks seemed friendlier and less up their own asses, too.

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From the outside, the Crown has a great look but inside it is a spartan lager and whisky bar.  Nothing wrong with that and even sort of welcome this afternoon.  Me and my Fosters went to the window to watch the Newmarket High Street traffic and have a look around the pub.

The bar was surrounded by gamblers (as was the Waggon and Horses), and the telly was firmly tuned to horse races (whilst every other pub in the country is glued to cricket with the first of the Ashes Test Matches going on, Newmarket is doing the ponies).  I wandered over to the dart board in the abandoned lower bar and almost immediately a guy steps down and offers to play for a round.  I’m rubbish at darts, but I especially didn’t want any part of a match here (look at this scoreboard and tell me the guy on the left wasn’t getting hustled by the guy on the right):

"I must've gotten lucky these last four throws...another round?"

Yet, it is a friendly pub although I get the feeling it lacks furniture either because it has all been broken in fights or because it could be used as weaponry in fights.  Or, maybe the furnishings were the cause of fights (“that’s never a regency armchair, you twat, it’s definitely art nouveau,” I would imagine the melee would start).

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The Waggon and Horses is a Greene King pub, but a good one (35ml shots are standard instead of the usual 25mL ones you most often find).  There is a giant fireplace, tons of old timber holding the low ceilings up and a lower level to the bar as you go toward the telly to watch some racing (Newmarket is the headquarters of British horseracing and has been since at least Charles II).

Standing there with my Old Speckled Hen on the upper level, out of the corner of my eye I caught the top of the head of what must have been the landlord’s child standing next to me on the lower level; over the din of the race fans in the corner he said somethng to me I couldn’t quite hear because of his strange accent and the fact that he sounded like he was huffing a helium ballon to change his voice.  I looked again and realised it was a little man about 4′ 10″ tall.  “Fucking hell, you caught me off gaurd there.”  The barmaid laughed and he smiled then mock punched the bar and said “That’s how they do, umhmm, that’s how they do,” then appeared to struggle to put his thoughts together.

I moved down to the lower level but it made him no less elvish.  Turns out that he is quite insane having taken a tumble in a jumping race (I’m not sure which race but he was saying something about the Grand National, this grueling four and a half mile circuit with hedges and walls and the lot).  Trampled by the field (the Grand National usually has 40-60 horses) he was in a coma for 3 months, so you gotta excuse his little verbal tic:

“Where you from, lad?”

“Atlanta. Atlanta, Georgia.  Ever been there?”

Confused look, slowly fading to drunken smile, the bar punches and “That’s how they do, umhmm, that’s how they do.”

I could have done that all day.

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The Golden Lion is labeled as a Wetherspoons Free House…confusing because when you walk in it is decorated and laid out as a Wetherspoons pub/restaurant always seems to be (with an awful lot of tables for dining, the same carpeting I’ve seen in all of them, packed with people gobbling down the good, cheap eats).

Still, they have a bunch of guest ales and a few that are made particularly for Wetherspoons.  I had one of those, a special brewed for them by the Bend Brewing Company out of Colorado called Uncle Sam’s Independence Ale.  I took it outside to enjoy the cool breeze this overcast afternoon and found it full of citrus and pine, a little floral and astringent…very nice.