Author Archives: Roads

108. The moonlit door

guildford-parkway-the-listeners.jpg‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champ’d the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor.
The Listeners
Walter de la Mare (1873-1956)

It’s unusual to find a poem on the side of a building, especially picked out in brick and 15 m high, but that is one of the unique attractions of the Guildford Travel Inn.

It may be one of the few, actually, since its location right beside the booming A3 dual carriageway is nowhere near as lyrical as the inspiration adorning it. But it cheered me to learn that its author Walter de la Mare was born in Maryon Road in Charlton, just a short sprint from mile 4 on the London Marathon course.
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107. Don’t it make a bad run good ?

wey-valley-winter-guildford.jpgThirteen for me today. Cold, wet, grey. Rain spreading from the west in the second hour.

I’ve felt slow, sluggish and lack-lustre in this worryingly intermittent campaign. I wasn’t sure of the reason, since my weight appears to be under control.

Nevertheless, the inability to squeeze into 36L trousers at the sales this afternoon tells its own story. I do need a bigger size than 5 years ago, mostly because my thighs have grown with all that power muscle (ahem) so that I appreciate a more roomy cut. However, this does not usually extend to not being able to do the darned things up.

The truth revealed – that my weight has recently found a new home just above my belt.

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106. A Highland reel – Pitlochry, Perthshire

pitlochry-mountains-snow-perthshire-scotland.jpgTwo thousand miles
Is very far through the snow
I’ll think of you
Wherever you go
The Pretenders – 1995

It wasn’t all of Chrissie Hynde’s two thousand miles, not quite, but it felt like a very long way as I drove back from Pitlochry last week.

Five hundred and eleven miles. An intriguing distance – more or less an entire marathon training programme, packed into eleven hours. And covering a similar range of emotions, perhaps.

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105. A crisis of energy

It was a less of a bang, and more of a low thud, which woke me on Sunday morning just after 6 am.

tarifa-windfarm-buncefield-fire-bp-alternative-energy.jpgSomething had fallen off a shelf downstairs somewhere, I thought, and I went back to sleep.

I’d never really believed those stories about the Krakatoa explosion being heard in India, 5,000 km away, or of Londoners being able to hear the First World War guns in France, but now I do.

Because that sound which woke me early on Sunday wasn’t generated in the house at all, but by an exploding oil storage facility on the other side of London, over 100 km away. Remarkable.
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104. Puke, lies and finishing tape: Brighton 10 km

brighton-madeira-drive.jpg

What a way to spend an early winter’s morning. Late November sunshine streaming unbroken from a frostily huge and cloudless sky. Cool breeze hardly leaving a ripple on a dark blue sea. The gentlest ambling stroll along a quiet promenade, gazing up at the Regency splendour of Brighton seafront.
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103. Atlas shrugged – in the mountains of Morocco

la-roseraie-ouirgane-atlas-mountains-morocco.jpgThe road from Marrakech.

Traversing a flat and featureless plain stretching southeast from the city. Empty. Just bare soil, patchy scrub, a village or two, and a few goats.

And always ahead is the grey outline of the mountains, rising slowly in front of us. They beckon silently with an understated call, and it’s only half an hour from the city that the scale of their promise is revealed.

For the Atlas Mountains are no mid-continental ripple – that much is clear as soon as the blue haze crystallises above the foothills to uncover the height of the snow-capped range behind.
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