A SENSE OF PURPOSE
With the publication of Northern Horizons came many emotions - relief, satisfaction, a little pride, but also a sense of loss. The project had lent purpose to so many trips, steered my running and taken me to places which in some cases I had not seen for too long. The first of the routes described in Northern Horizons to which I returned, was in Torridon. But it was perhaps the hills of Sutherland, pictured here, that proved most elusive, the Cuillin of Rum the most memorable, and those of South Uist and Harris the most enchanting. Most of the trips were completed at short notice, taking advantage of narrow weather windows as they arose, though all too frequently those windows closed more rapidly than anticipated.
I remember running over Cranstackie, battered by an April squall, wet snow driving in a fierce wind, slithering across the boulder fields before turning for Fionaven. In four days of running on those tops, I met just one person on the hill, a friendly man who seemed simultaneously bemused and appalled at my light weight approach to a long day on the snow clad, rough quartz ridge. We chatted a while, both enjoying the novelty of conversation after days alone in the wild, before parting to north and south. It was one of many such meetings in the years of recces, some of which formed part of the narrative in the book, all of which I remember clearly, along with that sense of purpose that accompanied each run.
Injury has plagued the months that have followed, motivation to run being provided simply by the desire to regain some sense of the hill fitness I took for granted. It seems a distant goal still and doubtless racing will be a shock to the system. But as before, the recces lend purpose and the promise of new hills, new routes and races, fresh inspiration.
