The soft earth was clinging to my feet. Or at least it felt like it through my heavy legs. Cold air driven from the north scratched my throat while the sun drilled into my skin. I kept running. A quick glance at my watch spurred me on. Faster. Up hill, up rocky path, round stumbling corners and over bracken covered burrows. This was a great idea, I though. A wild way to tackle a wild day.
The coffee dregs of three mugs were the tideline of my productivity for the morning. My diary lay open at a crumpled page with a list of things neatly ticked or crossed off in blue biro. Fresh air and a fresh head was needed by the early afternoon, so I ventured into the wind. The sun surprised me. Warm, strong and comforting, it cut through the fog of the past few days. It felt nourishing and energising after yesterdays brush with Bertha.
I decided a run would be good for me. And now here I was, alone on a headland at the far point of the island. The ocean was malevolently hunched and twisted, spraying the cliffs and rocks with white spite. The bare rock outcrops and walls stood silently in resistance to the winds attempts. But the plants bent willingly, subservient and bowing. Tussocky grasses rippled, small flowers grasped the earth in the withering winds. And all around the gulls maintained their watch, lifting into the air in effortless contrast upon my approach, mocking my clumsy movements in their cries.
I made it back to the farm, nearly sprinting down the cobble track, desperate to record a sub-thirty minute time for my lap of the island. Panting through a smile I recovered sat on the sun-warmed turf. Tired, content and cured from yesterday's laments.
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