#I made it about fifty metres before I fell off into a ditch full of prickly weeds | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thistreeferret · 5 years

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A Most Peculiar Run

22nd March 2017

I have often walked the coast path from our house to Pwlldu Bay. It is a decent walk, not too far and with great views, typical of the Gower Peninsula. One day, I thought to myself, I could probably run this if I tried. I’m not much of a runner, but, one foot in front of the other and all that, it’s quite doable. So, two days ago, I set off to do just that. Sun singing, birds shining etc etc.

About ten minutes in, I came to a steep decline into Bishop’s Wood down to Caswell Bay. I’ve run up and down that hill a number of times since living nearby, but that day it was particularly slippy. I was very careful with my footing as I descended, making sure not to rush it too much. To my right there was an almost sheer slope populated with large gorse bushes, amongst other prickly fuckers. About half way down, it levels out for around five metres. I took the opportunity to get off my toes and relax a little. As I put my heel down to flatten out my foot, it slipped right out in front sending me into a Basil Fawlty-esque goose step. I threw my arms out to steady myself and it worked, I managed to not fall on my arse immediately. Sadly, I did not manage to command my hands to grip tightly onto what I was holding. My water bottle sailed elegantly out of my grasp and arched down into the thorns below.

My first thought (or rather my second after ‘oh, fuck), was it’s only a water bottle - hardly the end of the world. My following thoughts, it turns out, were perhaps less sensible. I figured I was only at the very start of quite a decent length run. I am certainly going to need to hydrate if I hope to finish it before expiring. There were no shops en route, nor did I have any money on me with which to purchase a beverage anyway. The options I was left with, I thought, were to either run back home and find a different water bottle or simply fish this one out of the thorns below.

I looked down the slope for a moment and almost gave up as I was looking for a green bottle in a sea of green foliage. I spotted it, just a few metres down the hill from where I stood. It certainly looked retrievable, if a little precarious. I was wearing shorts so I accepted that I would get a little scratched up but stubbornly decided to give it a go.

I stomped down a few brambles to try to clear a path and got within a metre or two of it, but it remained just out of reach below me. I looked up and caught hold of an apparently good strong branch of a nearby tree. Leaning forward, I contorted my arm through the various tangles of the bush the bottle resided in. The thorns gave me a few small scratches as I slid past them. As I came to a full stretch, my fingers scraped the top of the bottle and for a second I had to put my full weight on the branch to give me the extra centimetres required.

The branch snapped, I grabbed the bottle, victorious. I managed to bend my arm and fell into the bush which became quite brittle when met with the full force of my flabby body. I went straight through it and quite like a cartoon character, with perhaps more swearing, I rolled down the hill. The terrain did not get any less spikey or steep and so, three complete revolutions later, I came to a halt - water bottle in hand.

My body was not in a particularly natural position. My legs were above me threatening to topple me into another roll. It was quite a fall and it occurred to me I may have broken something. I unravelled myself carefully. With surprise, I felt little to no pain. I stood up steadily and looked around for any witnesses that may bruise my dignity. Embarrassed, but thankfully alone, I found my way back to a path, grateful to still have my bones on the inside of my body.

At the bottom of the hill, I checked my wounds and after a quick assessment, thought I’d got away lightly. Then I turned over my water bottle wielding arm and saw a lot of blood. About nine or ten long scratches down my forearm oozed and dripped onto the floor. I cleaned it up a little using the water from my bottle sparingly in an attempt to not render my efforts meaningless. I thought about giving up and going home, that perhaps this just wasn’t my day. However, the scratches on their own weren’t too deep, there were just a fair few of them, which made the amount of blood more alarming. I pulled the sleeve of my hoodie down to cover them, confident they would heal quickly. My legs also looked quite scratched but they weren’t bleeding too much. I pressed on feeling a little shaky but with a nice buzz of well placed adrenaline.

I ran along the beach at Caswell Bay and up onto the coast path… who am I kidding? I wheezed my way up the stairs to the coast path. Running amidst the cliffs, I managed to keep a decent pace as I tried to make up for lost time. Roughly half way to Pwlldu Bay I saw a bicycle ditched at the side of the path. I thought it strange, so I came to a halt. I glanced around to see if I could spot any potential owners. Not wanting to linger too long, I assumed either the owner was close by or it was a stolen bike that had been abandoned after a quick session on the cliff paths.

I continued. Half a mile further along I was flagged down by two women. I came to a halt again and removed my headphones to hear what they wanted. They asked if I had seen the bicycle on the path. I replied that I had indeed seen it. They looked particularly concerned and I imagine I did not share this look. One of the women was a small and frail looking fifty-something year old and the other must have been seventy-plus years old but appeared much more able than her friend (or possibly daughter). The younger of the two explained they were worried that someone may have fallen off the cliffs whilst cycling. A quick glance at the older lady told me that she did not share, or at least cared less about the hypothesis. My first thought was that the bike looked placed. It did not suggest to me that the rider had been catapulted off it, over a hedge, to the rocks below. I attempted to poo-poo her theory as politely as possible so that I could carry on my merry way. The older woman, sensible as she was, agreed with me. The other, however, seemed determined to look for a corpse on the beach.

With two walking poles gripped firmly, she made a few precarious steps down a slight grassy decline. She slipped a little on her third step, her poles flew in the air as she emitted a piercing yelp. She managed to stay on her feet. Her companion rolled her eyes. Compared to my recent tumble it was nothing, but the look on her face suggested she had just lost both her legs in a terrible accident.

I silently sighed as I realised I was going to offer to go down to the sea myself and look for a corpse on her behalf. She wasted no time in accepting my offer with gusto. She said that they would walk back along the path and signal to me from the top so that I could line myself up with the bicycle whilst conducting my search. She spoke with haste, almost as if that had been her plan all along. As I set off, she informed me there were a few rocks to get over on the way. I half-smiled and waved as I left them.

Later on, when the woman thanked me for my efforts, she said that it would have taken her a while to do it herself. I can safely say that if she had made the journey herself, she would have died. The ‘rocks’ that she spoke of previously were in fact three considerable sized cliffs that rose steeply out of the beach below, each more treacherous than the last. It took me around twenty minutes to cover the same distance at sea level that had taken me less than two minutes on the cliff path. There were at least three occasions where I had to climb something potentially life threatening. Also, there were a few jumps over chasms in the rocks that could have resulted in a serious injury and there would have been nothing to do except slowly drown with the incoming tide.

By the time I got to my destination, I was exhausted. I looked up and saw those walking poles waving at me above the hedge next to the path. I glanced around. Alas, no corpse. The woman bellowed down to me but I could not hear her over the waves crashing against rocks behind me. I climbed a little higher. She shouted again.

‘Sorry?’ I shouted back.

‘Can you see anything?’ This time her voice was just about audible.

‘NO!’ I screamed back.

I climbed further up. There was no way to get back up to the path this way, but we could now converse using only raised voices as opposed to full shrieks. She asked what she should do with the bike and as I caught her eye through a gap in the hedge, I tried to say with my eyes ‘leave it where it is, you daft sod.’ Sadly, the hint was not received, and she told me that she was going to wheel it back to her house which wasn’t too far away. I saw her pick the bike up and take a step with it. Once again, she slipped and yelped as before. I realised my interaction with her was not over. I told her I would help. Before that though, I had to get back to the path. After a quick look around, it became apparent the only way back was the same way I had come.

Beyond knackered, I found them precariously shuffling down the muddy path, both holding on to the bike as if it were a rather exciting zimmer frame. For the next half an hour, I escorted them to their home. I held the bike up for them, but the younger woman insisted on also holding on, her walking poles dragging uselessly on the floor. As we walked, it occurred to me, that if we were going to go through the effort of attempting to return the bike to its rightful owner, then it may be in a better position at my house. My housemate cycles a lot and is in contact with various cycling groups on social media, if anyone had a chance of contacting the owner, I thought, it would be him.

When I voiced this suggestion, they both looked me up and down and concluded that it was better to take it to their house. A little taken aback, I too looked myself up and down for the first time since my tumble. I saw my now blood-soaked hands and the scratches all over my body. The look on their faces implied that it had just occurred to them that it may actually be me who was the bicycle thief all along. Battered and bruised, I was in no position to argue.

After leaving them outside their house, I said goodbye to them. Despite the fact I had helped them for a considerable amount of time, I am quite confident I left them thinking that I was a criminal. At this moment, I gave up. Pwlldu would have to wait. I jogged home.

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