Darling Mortals, come with me, if you dare, as I take you on the Halloween adventure that is the Bolton Abbey Pumpkin trail. Once through these gates, there’s no turning back, you are bound to complete the harrowing mile by my side, see the frightening sights and hear the horrible sounds. And should you make it to the end, well then you get to do it all again – but in reverse and worse because I’ll be a mile more tired, a mile more sweaty and a mile more huffy and puffy. So. Enter. If you are brave enough.
Our journey begins up a frightful slope. It’s victims rest, in peace or otherwise, at the bottom. Or maybe it was the toadstools that finished them off or possibly the potions further up. I beckon Bramble to come join me on my run. Afterall, every witch needs her sidekick and there is not black cat to be seen. Bramble however doesn’t seem keen to leave her grave and as my pathetic untrained human lungs struggle to do their job up the slope, I begin to see why. The potions cabinet, while well placed for foolish mortals exerting themselves, offers nothing of use. No oxygen, nothing that suggests a sugary gel. If it’s something to slow down a rival you’re looking for though, it might be worth a longer stop. I have only just started so lingering is out of the question, though much desired . Maybe when I return, I can sit with Bramble for a while.
Onwards my travellers, we must fly. Well, actually that would be cheating. So we park the broomstick here. The downhill was fun while it lasted, it felt a bit like flying, just slower and more, well, grounded. I wondered where I’d put my hat. I am that age now where finding things in weird places is normal. But its too big and cumbersome for running and it might fall over my eyes. I shall leave it there and summon it later. And Alas, this trail teases with modes of transport. But no wings for me today. I vowed to make it through under my own steam. Yes, hm, steam. Is that what is burning in my lungs? And are we sure flying would be cheating? Seems unnecessary for my legs to have to work this hard when we could just… no. Onwards.
We must leave temptation behind and make our way deep deep into the forest. There is no chance now of anything lurking not hearing me coming. I haven’t run for weeks and before that only sporadically. I sound like a steam train with a bad cough and I am less efficient. Loud and slow in these woods? Not safe, not safe at all. And before you know it, out comes Henry (this year, as far as I can tell, all spiders are called Henry. There’s one on our kitchen ceiling, he’s Henry, too). Henry, with his unreasonable number of legs and menacing look. Is that a scream I hear? Oh, yes, ok, that was me. And I run a little faster. Perhaps a little too much faster because the next stops presents an attractive looking resting place and I contemplate a nap. A long long long long nap.
Or maybe what we need is lunch, looks frightfully delicious. Doesn’t smell so good though. Or is that me again. No time to work it out because I run past a some parrots pretending to be pirates or maybe there are some pirates somewhere that own the parrots and they are nearby somewhere left to our imagination – but anyway, that display may be the scariest of them all because it’s weird so I run past without stopping or taking a photo. I also skip past the dancing skeletons because I do not want to dance with a skeleton. Or dance at all really, I have enough of a job on remembering how to put one foot in front of the other. But then I have run too far and my lungs, if indeed I still have any, are protesting. I stop at the bone jokes, they’re so terrible they humerus. (Sorry).
And when I can breathe again we move on to a squished scarecrow and crows and a Halloween looking archway. Did our trail designers run out of scary things? We have made it mortal friends. We got to the end of the mile. Just over a mile in fact, though barely. The scariest thing about the mile was undoubtedly the pace. It was frightfully slow, held back and distracted as I was by the trail’s demons and spirits. Oh hang on, that was just the voices in my head reminding me not to get too carried away and that a mile stop-start running while looking at displays and making up stories in your head doesn’t make you a runner.
It’s time to head back but now I am in my head. It is time to head somewhere anyway. Back? I am in my head so that turns to backwards and negative and no point and I need something else. Just because I am now doing the trail in reverse doesn’t mean I am going backwards. It doesn’t mean retreat or going back to where I started. Because that was then and when I get back it will be now. Or then. Or something. I can’t do time, it confuses me. But this wasn’t about time, it was about being in my head about not being a runner.
As I look at my options for a destination on the last display, I realise that maybe stop-start running while looking at displays and making up stories is exactly what makes me a runner. I mean if you’re not a runner it is a pretty stupid thing to do. So here’s my story of a little witch who, one Saturday morning decided enough was enough and it was time to get her sizable arse out for a run. She went somewhere where she thought she might blend in and had a good chuckle at what the humans entertained themselves and their young ones with for Halloween. The broom and the wings were impressive, she had to admit. She lingered at the broom. So big, probably fast, perhaps a little clunky in the air and not really sparkly enough.
The rest was a little gimmicky, though the eyeball soup looked yummy. She nearly stopped for some but it was positioned too close to the spiders, who seemed nice but spiders are so needy, always talking and scuttling about. Henry this and Henry that.
The running was hard going. It had been too long – what a good 300 years maybe? Bones were creaky, joints all seized up and the little witch was not at all convinced that a witch should ever feel her lungs like that. But she got to the end of the trail having captured each stop (but one, pirates and parrots for Halloween?!?) and was pleased with herself. She took in the view, not a bad place for a little rest, and then she made her way back. One foot in front of the other, running for at least a minute each time, some runs were much longer, some just felt like it but all of the running was strong and felt capable and the little witch smiled, because this, she thought, is what it feels like, when your body is on its way to being able to do things. It can do hard things and then those hard things get easier. So the little witch ran all the way back to the car park, got changed and went home happy. Maybe she drove, but maybe she flew. And maybe I am a runner or maybe I cheated and flew.
