I go on holiday, a weeks camping in Lincolnshire. I've been here before and I've had some good runs both on the beach and along the paths. This time days go by and I don't run. I can't work it out, I am as empty as a clear morning, the hungry black dog inside me that demands that I run is silent, I have nada motivation. Then on the penultimate day something stirs as I sit lizard like outside my tent. I recognise the voice and change into running gear and off I go. I run down to the village of Alford and then along the path to Rigsby. I run through pristine wheat fields somnolent under a windless sun before retracing my steps along the disused railway line toward Well before doglegging my way across ploughed fields and country roads, it's good to run after a hiatus and I return to camp satisfied.
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