August

[Sweder]

A week amongst the sunflowers and vineyards bordering La Gironde has left me mellow, reflective and slightly dependant on daily samples of Pineau des Charantes. I am not, however, bereft of running mileage. As in 2005 when we first holidayed in this wonderfully fertile region of south western France I’ve been getting my morning plods in - early too, so as to avoid the beastly effects of the cruel mid-summer sun. Sunshine may well have been banished in northern Europe but not in these parts; we’ve seen plenty as my gently darkening skin will attest.

Outings vary in pace and length. Pleasant, leisurely three-milers, complete with friendly ’bonjours’ offered to the local fauna; here a mentally deranged grey stallion, flicking his sun-bleached mane and trotting alongside as I sweat my may past his enclosure; there a family of waddling ducks, the mother quacking her polite reply whilst ushering her brood to the safety of the long grass; and, mercifully behind the sturdy chain-link fences, the apparently rabid guard dogs defending local dwellings one reasonable earth-tremor away from rubble. The hard-fought, lung-bursting flat fives are a personal novelty. I note with eyebrow suitably cocked a la Roger Moore that my average pace on these longer sojourns is no quicker than my best Blackcap efforts.

This morning called for something a little different. Heavy cloud had slipped in under the cover of night, erasing the spectacular display of stars both stationary and shooting to wrap the region in an early morning blanket of matt dullness. Rain, steady, relentless, splashed on the generous sun shade covering our al fresco dining table. I clapped my hands as I skittered down stairs to launch the first brew of the day; perfect running weather at last! I’d not really scheduled anything special but as hit the start button on the 205 the thought occurred that I should take it easy to start with in case I fancied something a little more taxing. So it proved; an unscheduled, out of the blue - well, dirty cloudy white really - half marathon. Leaving the complex of stone-walled cottages and onto the narrow winding trails, some tarmac, some blended stone and dust, leading through endless fields of drying, dying sunflowers and ripening Merlot grapes. The former have a tantalising odour as they reach the end of their summer duty, following the raise, arc and descent of their yellow god across the heavens. As the oil, so highly prized by the farmers, floods their fibres they emit a perfect facsimile of freshly lit home-grown. It’s great once you get used to it, and so long as you don’t succumb to temptation and seek the nearest gangaweed dealer.

I ran through the hamlets of Billeride, Givrezac and Tanzac, at each turn setting off the local alarm-dogs. Strong winds clattered across the fields from the west, a reminder that I’d face a tougher test when I turned that way. Rain came and went in squalls, blessing the land with a generous dousing before swirling off to pastures new. I didn’t complain at the soakings; without giving today’s route a second thought I’d left home without water or food (except a hastily scoffed banana before the off), so each and every ‘freshener’ was welcomed with slightly sun-tanned yet freshly goose-pimpled open arms.

Ten miles in and I realised if I wanted the thirteen point one I’d have to improvise. The route I’d taken would bring me home just past the eleven mile mark; some jiggery pokery would be required. Luckily I’d covered a number of local trails in previous days and figured out a wiggly route to eat up the extra two-point-one. As it turned out I stopped the watch point three of a mile (whatever the hell that is in new money) from base at 1:55, a reasonable effort given I was alone and taking it fairly easy.

The rest of today was spent much as the previous week has been; nose in a book, lips caressing the edge of a glass filled with a variety of local produce; Pineaus rouge et blanc, a very nice vanillary Metard and an entirely agreeable Borgogne Aligote. I’ll be onto the vin rouge in a bit and no doubt pouring a generous measure of Pastis to accompany this evening’s in-house screening of The Aviator and the pass-the parcel of various bars of chocolate. Oh, and if any of your wine buffs have an inkling where I might get my hands on a case or two of a Medoc Pontac (2003) I’d be eternally grateful for a lead; we polished off a couple of bottles of the blood-red velvet in Port Maubert last night and it was heaven in a glass.