Crossing the stile - Exercise for the mind

I’m leaving behind the muted light and pleasant musty smell of decaying leaves. Stepping up from the soft woodland track, the weathered tread of the stile feels firm under my foot. Jumping down into the open field I’m startled by intense light as if emerging from a cinema in mid-afternoon. However many times I cross this stile, located at the boundary of a farming estate and the woods, I am still taken aback by the contrast in landscape.

My running route is clearly mapped out ahead of me – a well worn track across the grassy field. I glance around, as my eyes adjust to the light. Will the cows be here today? Eying me suspiciously and then backing away as I approach. No. They must be in a distant part of the farm today but watch out for the cow pats, especially the fresh ones!

Out in the open sun, I see a tall lean runner keeping in pace with me. She’s wearing exactly the same clothes but I’m envious of how tall and lean she looks stretched out on the ground in front of me.

Ahead of me now the mature trees stand majestically guarding the field boundary. “Global warming is causing UK trees to produce autumnal colours rivalling those of New England”, says the Tree Council Charity, causing “the most spectacular leaf displays ever here in the South”. Seeing the paint-chart array of greens interspersed with vibrant cranberry and mango shades around me, I am inclined to agree.

Apart from a distant clatter of a train, the only sound is the breeze in the trees. My mind wanders. I hear a stampede of footsteps. Hundreds of runners, their trainers trampling the long grass into a channel, churning the muddy puddles into thick brown custard. I can hear their laboured breaths as they push up the hill. I recall the one day of the year when the estate is open for our local charity run. I’ve seen the photos of competitors five abreast, just where I am now.

The sunshine and shadows today are so different to last week. The trees loomed, monochrome, and the grass was soggy underfoot. Returning from my run, my shoes were muddy and the stile was shiny with damp moss. I climbed cautiously, wary of slipping – imagining the local paper headline “runner found dead by stile”: SOCO found hair fragments on post… head injury….coroner concluded....accidental death….found several hours later by shocked lady dog-walker.

Sometimes when I go for a run, I think my imagination gets a better workout than my legs!