Photo credit © @oneemptyshelfI run, one foot in front of the other, dark, brown peat sticky and squelching beneath the rubber soles of my trail shoes. My breath draws, burning, deep into my lungs, skin flushed, hair sticking to my damp face, jacket sticking to my back.
The sun glares down, the icy wind forgotten, left behind to chill and whistle across the exposed moorlands, flattening heather and leaving a frozen heart in the old stone walls. The river beside me runs shallower, the water brackish and coloured deep brown, running down high, rivulets catching in the light, a trail of diamonds within the expanse of maroon and purple that makes up the still, silent hills all around.
Wild, this place.
I run, one foot in front of the other, peat turning to stone, the only sounds now seeming amplified and singular in this space, this carved gap between ancient stone. A bird, flitting from heather to outcrop, whistling, calling. A breeze, an echo of the winds of just a few moments before, enveloping the land, stirring, jostling. And the relentless pull of my breath, the thud thud thud of my blood pulsing a beat, life and living. Body tiring but mind stronger, pushing and pulling and taking over, focus, on and on, so on I go.
Further and further and I lose track of time and I lose track of space and I lose track of problems and I lose track of people and niggles and daily life and nothing is important any more. There is just me, alone, alive, a part of the wild moors, an energy, a moment.
I run, one foot in front of the other.