11th Jan, 2010. Route4 anticlockwise. Out well before sunrise so a real dawn run today. It is nicely cold, the sky is overcast again, surprisingly light. I stop to chat to a tough little 60ish woman of the village who is delivering the local paper on her old bike. “Out for a run then are ee?”, and then, inexplicably, she starts laughing, loudly. I am a little taken aback, and then I remember, back in the summer, when I was up a ladder clipping the front hedge, she did the same thing, bursting out into laughter when she saw me. I don’t know whether it is me that she finds so hilarious, or the world in general. I hope it is the latter. There was something of a thaw yesterday, and a refreeze last night, so conditions are icy. On the guided-busway track, there is a completely different feel and sound to the snow. It is crisper, and more crunchy underfoot, with a bite, and where it has been compacted by walkers, runners, cyclists, horses and even vehicles, it is slick and dangerous. ‘Do not refreeze after thawing!’. I run gingerly, with small steps. A couple of rabbits flee in front of me, squeezing under the metal paling just like Peter Rabbit squeezing under Mr McGregor’s kitchen-garden gate, a favourite childhood image that comes back to me after half a century. Away from the street lights now the snow in the fields has a definite bluish tinge.
I turn west onto the grassy drove towards Longstanton, and am surprised to find a pair of running shoes in the middle of the track, frozen into the snow, both facing the same way, a stride apart. I’m pretty certain they weren’t here a few days ago when I passed this way. They look fine, but it is difficult to tell. There is a story here. I find it hard to believe anyone would carry a spare pair of shoes on their walk or run, so someone must have abandoned them and continued barefoot or besocked through the snow. I look around for more clues, other items of clothing. I even look in the ditch. Was it that he (for they were definitely men’s trainers) simply decided that it would be fun to run barefoot in the snow, like a Tibetan monk, or was it that he was jogging so slowly that the snow froze round his feet, rendering him immobile mid-stride so that he lurched forward face-first into the snow and had to undo the laces and abandon the shoes. This is not so far-fetched as it seems, for there are reports that the feet of ducks on Canadian lakes and ponds sometimes get frozen into the water, rendering them helpless, flapping their wings, until someone comes along and hews them out of the ice, or hews them for supper.
Past the Detention Centre… no inmates to be seen out and about (do they lock down at night?), only security guards checking cleaners and workers in and out … up the greenway to Longstanton and past the thatched church, locked unfortunately, where I had hoped to sit in the silence awhile. Back on the no-through-road towards Oakington, tarmacadamed and slick with black ice, forcing me to run on the grassy verge, or rather walk. I was just thinking about the lack of life I had encountered this morning when at least 500 wood pigeons pass overhead, flying fairly high out of the west, casting a definite momentary shadow over the land, forcing me to look up. They are remarkably evenly spaced, covering a good portion of sky, flying steadily, like bombers over Dresden. A sight to see.