Where were we? Oh yes, running 100 miles...
Leg 3: Briantspuddle to Dewlish, 5.6 miles, 551 feet up, 391 feet down
Fortified by the squash extravaganza and a packet of crisps, we set off again, this time headed in the direction of the sweetly named Affpuddle. Dorset is full of just delightful place names. My favourite is Shitterton, simply because of it's brutal honesty; if your village is a "farmstead on the stream used as an open sewer" then don't pretend it's anything else by giving it a charming little name, tell it like it is. After Shitterton, my favourite are the 'Puddles' or 'Piddles'. These are villages on the River Piddle. The River Piddle. Now that's a name. Further research has uncovered that, unlike Shitterton, Piddle isn't related to sewers. It means 'ditch or marsh'. So the River Piddle is the Ditch/Marsh River. Which doesn't sound nearly quite as good as Piddle ...... or, Piddlehinton, Piddletrenthide, Tolpuddle, Puddletown, Affpuddle.....
We piddled on down to Tolpuddle, where (shock) I found my parents sat outside the pub. Although I can't be too rude, because my Mum had saved me the biscuit from her coffee. Tolpuddle is home to the Tolpuddle Martyrs - six laborers who were arrested for forming a union, trialled, and deported to Australia (no piddles there), and here is the basis for the modern trade unions. To make this post less of a piddle, and more educational, there's some more info about them here: Tolpuddle Martyrs
Leaving the pub, I continued on (under the A34 - a sure highlight) and on to Dewlish. I came here a couple of days before to recce a bit that I couldn't for the life of me figure out on the map, and ran into some of the marshals who were sorting out some last minute things. I was very excited to see them again on the day! Dewlish is a tiny idyllic village (incidentally, while we're on the subject of place names, it means devilish, and the stream running through it is called Devil's Brook. It has a devil of a hill as well, come to think of it). The checkpoint was rammed with people, and it was not unlike stepping into a huge party of the best kind. Drinks were on tap (or, on bucket; more gallons of squash were sloshing around), and a long trestle table down the middle of the hall groaning under the weight of dozens of plates of gustatory delights. I swooped on a plate of cheese scones. While I was delicately eating/ inhaling one, a gentleman pounced on me. Not in a weird way, just that he had the cat like bounce and enthusiastically glinting eyes that all experienced long-distance-type people seem to have. Our exchange:
'Love the outfit' he said.
'Thank you' I said.
'Very co-ordinated' he said.
'Thank you, totally unintentionally' I lied.
'Do you mind if I make a short video?' he said.
What? I take it back, this is now definitely weird.
'I'm just collecting stories from people, as I go around, putting together a film of the event' he elaborated. Ah there we go, see, all makes sense, totally normal. And so he asked me a few questions and I tried to answer while not looking like an idiot in a pink outfit. He's called John Penfold, and he's made a brilliant whole hour long film (excluding the bit if me) of the event: John Pennifold's LDWA Dorset 100
Leg 4: Dewlish to Antsy, 10.2 miles, 1471 feet up, 1346 feet down
After my little brush with fame, I set off again. I've recced the next part, so I definitely won't get lost. Even though we are on the way to Gallow's Corner, which sounds a bit ominous to be honest. I also remember from the recce that about 1 mile is basically through nettles and wild garlic, so as well as getting stung, it smells a lot. I made it through though, coming out the other side looking at bit unhinged and scratching at my legs, smelling like a giant garlic bread. Still, a little boy and his Mum had come out of their house on the lane and set up their own little support stand handing out biscuits and ringing cow bells and cheering, so that made the whole nettle/garlic episode totally worth it.
Next, well it was probably a few miles later, but I've forgotten a lot of them now, it was on to Milton Abbas, which is even prettier than the other pretty unbelievably pretty places I've seen today. It's a small village (near to the 10th century Milton Abby), of a single street of white painted thatched houses stretching up a hill, with manicured lawns and flowers, and an imposing church at the top. A man was sitting on a bench outside the church, hands pointed together and head bowed deep in prayer, the picture of peaceful contemplation. As I got close, I noticed he was looking at his tablet (his computer tablet, not a pill) . Anyway, this seemed much funnier at the time than it does now, which I put down to having run a marathon by this point, while at the same time realizing I still had 3 more marathons to run before finishing. I think it sent me delirious.
So, I dived into the checkpoint in the village hall, got my card stamped, grabbed a handful of jelly sweets, and set off to tackle the next 3 marathons.....
So, a little more about Milton Abbas before we leave. Rewind to 1773, and the town that had built up around Milton Abbey was called Middleton. Lord Milton, the 1st Earl of Dorchester had a grand house nearby, however, and was uncomfortable with his less posh neighbors in the village being so close to his house. So he moved the village to the next valley. Yes indeed, you read that right. He moved the whole village, and everyone in it, to another valley, where he couldn't see them. And it got renamed Milton Abbas.
I departed Milton Abbas, having found a new favourite place, no matter what the 1st Earl of Dorchester might think, and ran past the Abbey which is a building of enormous expanses of pale grey stone, gracefully placed in open rolling grounds. The rolling soon turned into an uphill rolling, and soon we were climbing a steep muddy path through a forest. I caught up with a gentleman walking by himself, and we had a bit of a chat, mostly about the mud, and the lack of other people we had seen for while, and I was much boosted to see a friendly face. His parting shot was, "see you in A&E! Or the mortuary! Whichever comes first!".
Encouraged by this challenge, I made it to the next checkpoint, at Antsy, where the kit check was happening. I've never had a random kit check on a race before, and was intrigued to find that it involved pulling a ping-pong ball out of a bag, and looking at what the ping-pong ball has written on it, and showing the marshals this bit of your kit, then you get your card clipped. I had to show them my reflective strips, which, predictably, although being the thing at the top of my bag when I packed it, were the thing I found last. I've been anxious about that for days. Now it's over. Phew.
I spend 5 minutes in the loos, performing emergency surgery on two enormous blisters, one on the side of each heel. I have NEVER had blisters here before in the whole of my history. I swear a lot (very very quietly) as I clean them and burst them, and dress them, all while stood on one leg. Then I realise I have left my map in the kit check area, which is a bit ironic.
I eat a couple of marmite sandwiches, and receive a lot of anxious comments from the marshals as I won't sit down, because I am worried my legs will fuse into a sitting position. I take a piece of fruit loaf for good luck, and head out. "Have a good night!" the marshals call, as I thank them on the way out.
Saturday night in Dorset. Ready for an all-nighter.
Leg 4: Dewlish to Antsy, 10.2 miles, 1471 feet up, 1346 feet down
After my little brush with fame, I set off again. I've recced the next part, so I definitely won't get lost. Even though we are on the way to Gallow's Corner, which sounds a bit ominous to be honest. I also remember from the recce that about 1 mile is basically through nettles and wild garlic, so as well as getting stung, it smells a lot. I made it through though, coming out the other side looking at bit unhinged and scratching at my legs, smelling like a giant garlic bread. Still, a little boy and his Mum had come out of their house on the lane and set up their own little support stand handing out biscuits and ringing cow bells and cheering, so that made the whole nettle/garlic episode totally worth it.
Next, well it was probably a few miles later, but I've forgotten a lot of them now, it was on to Milton Abbas, which is even prettier than the other pretty unbelievably pretty places I've seen today. It's a small village (near to the 10th century Milton Abby), of a single street of white painted thatched houses stretching up a hill, with manicured lawns and flowers, and an imposing church at the top. A man was sitting on a bench outside the church, hands pointed together and head bowed deep in prayer, the picture of peaceful contemplation. As I got close, I noticed he was looking at his tablet (his computer tablet, not a pill) . Anyway, this seemed much funnier at the time than it does now, which I put down to having run a marathon by this point, while at the same time realizing I still had 3 more marathons to run before finishing. I think it sent me delirious.
So, I dived into the checkpoint in the village hall, got my card stamped, grabbed a handful of jelly sweets, and set off to tackle the next 3 marathons.....
So, a little more about Milton Abbas before we leave. Rewind to 1773, and the town that had built up around Milton Abbey was called Middleton. Lord Milton, the 1st Earl of Dorchester had a grand house nearby, however, and was uncomfortable with his less posh neighbors in the village being so close to his house. So he moved the village to the next valley. Yes indeed, you read that right. He moved the whole village, and everyone in it, to another valley, where he couldn't see them. And it got renamed Milton Abbas.
I departed Milton Abbas, having found a new favourite place, no matter what the 1st Earl of Dorchester might think, and ran past the Abbey which is a building of enormous expanses of pale grey stone, gracefully placed in open rolling grounds. The rolling soon turned into an uphill rolling, and soon we were climbing a steep muddy path through a forest. I caught up with a gentleman walking by himself, and we had a bit of a chat, mostly about the mud, and the lack of other people we had seen for while, and I was much boosted to see a friendly face. His parting shot was, "see you in A&E! Or the mortuary! Whichever comes first!".
Encouraged by this challenge, I made it to the next checkpoint, at Antsy, where the kit check was happening. I've never had a random kit check on a race before, and was intrigued to find that it involved pulling a ping-pong ball out of a bag, and looking at what the ping-pong ball has written on it, and showing the marshals this bit of your kit, then you get your card clipped. I had to show them my reflective strips, which, predictably, although being the thing at the top of my bag when I packed it, were the thing I found last. I've been anxious about that for days. Now it's over. Phew.
I spend 5 minutes in the loos, performing emergency surgery on two enormous blisters, one on the side of each heel. I have NEVER had blisters here before in the whole of my history. I swear a lot (very very quietly) as I clean them and burst them, and dress them, all while stood on one leg. Then I realise I have left my map in the kit check area, which is a bit ironic.
I eat a couple of marmite sandwiches, and receive a lot of anxious comments from the marshals as I won't sit down, because I am worried my legs will fuse into a sitting position. I take a piece of fruit loaf for good luck, and head out. "Have a good night!" the marshals call, as I thank them on the way out.
Saturday night in Dorset. Ready for an all-nighter.
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