As I was tucked up in bed, sloth like, watching Homes under the Hammer, I became inspired to go for a run. The destination was St Andrew’s Park of which I had heard good things about, yet was put off by the great big hill I had to climb to get there, Ashley's Hill. Upon scaling Ashley I was breathless pausing to take in the view of the allotments and the city below. I was transfixed by the beauty as the green patterned sea unfurled, accented by hues of yellow and pink. St Andrew's Park is like the park of your childhood, mature trees, winding paths, a instant sense of calm and an area populated by rather excited little children, happy that finally with the return to school the play area is no longer dominated by those bigger than them.
On one of the lawns was Project Bicyclette setting up for a gentile busking session with a sound system ran solely on bicycle power. There 2K sound system was out of sight used mainly for free parties and fundraisers. A rather friendly Springer Spaniel took a project manager stance, majestically overseeing everything.
The journey home (downhill) was a far easier, spurred on by my endorphins I searched for a more challenging route. A detour into the forest (aka man-made woodland trail) along the functioning railway line and past the mound (a popular viewing point, with many a campfire to be found once the stars takeover the sky), I stopped in awe of a overwhelmingly whimsical save eccentric house, with stone animals, junk and woodwork spilling over itself to take your focus. I heard a crack of the bush behind me turned around and a fox looked me in the eye, wow! It look far healthier than those I found wandering round Tufnell Park, yet not quite as well kept as Fantastic Mr Fox*.
Last stop on my adventure was punctuated by a full steam jog to St Werburghs Farm, on Saturday we consumed breakfast at the café followed by a wander around the site, a sow lay there panting almost in labor, I wanted to see if she had survived her ordeal, upon arrival there was no sign as to her fortune, further enquiry lead me over the fence and inside the sty with the farm hand as my guide to the heat lamp where the piglets lay and suckled from exhausted looking Mother, today perfect tiny piglets, three were to remain the rest off to the farmer to fatten up, tomorrow freshly slaughtered bacon in the café…
* I took in the trailer for Fantastic Mr Fox, disappointed to discover a British staple given a brash, mass market Hollywood/American makeover, such a waste.