trek training back on track

I open my notebook, and it falls open at Rainbow's number. I feel guilty; I promised to ring her next time I was here. Perhaps I should have rung her before leaving Bridport...

No. I need to savour my solitude, recover from having an unexpected observation (! that was a bit of a shocker), and have a play with words before walking.

Yesterday, after half an hour, I was shaky and nauseous. Not so fit, then... It was only six-thirty in the morning, maybe Crysse was right and the time of day had more to do with my physical struggle than fitness per se...

All the same, I take things pretty gently today, with lots of rests.

It's colder today than my last visit. In the - three? - weeks since I was last here, clumps of purple pompom flowers have colonised the cliffs' edges. I want to call them sedge; it sounds right, but of course I have no idea what they ACTUALLY are.

I have always loved basking in summer silence, broken only by the ocean's background murmur and bird calls. Voices drift over on the wind, and cattle crunch contentedly, systematically cropping the hardy thin stems of grass.

The few trees are sculpted by the elements into Marge Simpson hairdos caught in high winds. A dual-rotored helicopter - are they Chinooks? - putters below me, scanning the water's edge for incident or just practising low flying.

How lucky am I?

Being paid to facilitate a workshop with a wonderful group - I was moved to tears earlier while driving through the vibrant landscape, hit by the realisation (while driving through West Coker) that I wouldn't swap this minute of my life with another living soul.
Not for all the money, prestige, or power in the world...
And the Dire Straits track, Why Worry comes over the airwaves...
I played that album to death when I was pregnant (Brothers in Arms and Billy Holliday were practically the only albums I owned!)

My own journey amazes me sometimes. How did I get from the edges of Edinburgh, nestling by the foothills of the Pentlands - to its Gothic centre, out to its sink estate margins, then deep into its black heart... yet end up in a sleepy Somerset market town for twenty-odd years? (recently Frome was featured by the Guardian!)

Trainspotting at the Theatre Royal on Friday was interesting. Ducking and diving in desperation... I'd say the interpretation only hinted at that. Forgoing depth for too much indulgence in ranting; predominantly cursing. While I know only too well how authentic the language is, too much of it is just tiresome. And some dialogue would have been a welcome rest from the lengthy asides.

From a half-life in Scotland's then-impoverished capital, to these riches, this wealth - a miraculous journey. Largely accidental - or should I say synchronicitous...
Now this dreamer, this lazy girl greedy for dreamtime, this rebel who bit off more than she could chew when she entered the city's underbelly (and nearly didn't emerge at all, at least three accidental ODs that I remember, plus a few deliberate ones), now this misfit can roam the South West in her battered peppermint green polo to deliver workshops that are a delight and a privilege to facilitate.

I have a handsome, incredibly bright and nearly-grown son (when do we hit 'adult'? - not sure I have!), a first-class honours degree - and roots in two countries...

Today, I have a guide called Eve who navigates the least steep slopes - saving those knees this time! - to deliver me to the foot of Golden Cap. I think of Jean breakfasting there on her walking retreat, and remember my promise to John that we tackle it together. At the pub, I munch through a bag of crisps and knock back a virgin Mary; should keep me going...
... til hot doughnuts and a welcome cup of tea back in West Bay. And a fag on my return to the car. After at least seven (strenuous!) miles, I feel like I deserve such simple pleasures.
A little of what you fancy...

Duck-egg blue airbrushed with cloud, intense green slopes in the setting sun.

Time to go.