Hello Dartmoor my old friend

A run across the moor in big shoes, and some thoughts on Kenyan doping

On Saturday it was Dartmoor Crossing day, a now regular day in my calendar where a bunch of runners meet in a car park in the village of Belstone, on the northern tip of Dartmoor, and then set off across the wide, craggy moor, into rain and sun, on the trail to South Brent, 55km to the south.

We met very few people along our way this time, and not a single other runner all day. Miles and miles with no sign of cars or houses, just the wet grass shivering in the wind, and the rocky tors standing like waymarks guiding us home.

At one point, on the brow of a hill sat about 20 figures on horseback. It felt almost medieval, to come across their silhouettes, as they stood watching us, like sentries, one rider breaking off at a gallop across the hill. What was going on?

As we neared, we realised it was a hunt. The leader, riding over to me with long black hair and a neat beard, looking like the dashing hero of some Jane Austin novel, asked if I needed a drop of whisky to help me on my way. He actually had a little bottle in his hand. I thanked him but declined, and almost felt like saying “good morrow” as I shuffled on.