Most missed

Strange as it may seem, one of the things I’ve missed the most since the first COVID restrictions were put in place is getting up at silly o’clock on a Saturday morning to go to Southampton parkrun. For someone who doesn’t run, and very rarely even walks the parkrun course, it would appear to be bizarre on the face of it. Even more so because, most of the time, I don’t even hang around to watch the running. Who in their right mind would give up a whole Saturday morning every week to not watch other people run? Why would anyone do such a thing? Let me explain.

An empty Southampton Common first thing in the morning is a thing of unequalled beauty. I’ve walked across it in all seasons and all weathers but, in my opinion, a winter morning with frost on the grass, ice on the puddles and the sun still coming up is the best time of all. My hands may sting from the cold, my eyes may water and my poor old feet may complain about the iron hard ground but the views are unbeatable. Then there are the people. The mad set up crew who appear like clockwork every single week to put out the poles, tapes, flags and signs don’t seem to care about the weather. They’re always cheerful and chatty, even when they’re knee deep in slippery mud. The jokes, laughs and conversation have been sorely missed.

Once everyone begins to gather for the pre run briefing, I usually wander off. More often than not I head for the Old Cemetery. Sometimes, it’s a rainy, slip slidy walk across the grass, sometimes its a frosty crunch, others it’s a squint against the summer sun kind of walk. It is always accompanied by the babble of voices and the Run Director on the PA system growing slowly more distant. More often than not a few latecomers are running towards me, desperate not to miss the start.

Once I reach the cemetery gates it feels like stepping into another world. Apart from the odd dog walker, I am usually all alone. An old, overgrown cemetery might not be everyone’s idea of fun but it brings me the solitude I crave, the thinking time. As long as it’s not too muddy, I tend to wander off the main path and stroll amongst the graves, stopping now and then to read an inscription. Some of the names feel like old friends these days, others have stories that make me wonder and imagine.

There is beauty in the wildness. The hummocky grass, the tangles of brambles and wildflowers and the haphazard, lichen covered stones with their faded letters and sad tales. Granted, it is a melancholy beauty but there is peace there too and a reminder of the never-ending cycle of things. Nature is in charge there and I love the jewelled sparkle of dew on bare winter branches, the frosty crystals, the deep dark autumn shadows and the bright splashes of spring flowers.

Then there are the little surprises that never fail to make me smile. A squirrel might dart across the path or up a tree, a robin might sit on a gravestone and watch me pass. Sometimes the ground is covered in a confetti of fallen petals, or a branch is bursting with blossom. Other times a fungi catches my eye, or a sunbeam casts a spotlight on a stone and I have to stop and try to decipher it.

I usually return to the parkrun finish funnel in time to see Commando cross the line, although he has been known to be faster than expected and beat me to it. Amongst the crowds I stop now and then to chat. There are celebrations, commiserations, records broken, or joy at getting round against the odds. They probably all think I’m mad to rock up every Saturday and never run. Don’t tell them, but I think they’re mad too. It’s probably the madness of it all I miss the most, oh and the coffee afterwards in the Bellemoor. With a little bit of luck, we might all be back there being mad soon. Keep your fingers crossed for us.