We are nine. At nine we
cross the threshold, ghost busters on a mission.
Getting there we bob
and weave and laugh, a line of Cyclops across fields and paths. We brave the
bull in the field and sharply contour along barbed wire fences. Our first
objective reached we stand beneath it's sagging beams. We drink a
brew named Odd Shaped Balls pulled by an odd
shaped barmaid. In another room her companion with a tangled beard
and a tangled soul hides his eyes under a cap and stares at a fuzzy
black and white TV mounted on a crate. There is a parrot in the
inglenook. It may know where the bodies are buried but it doesn't
say. As we leave I stare up at the limp flag of St George above me
before we are swallowed up in the dark night. Once again we traverse
the Downs in darkness, my feet bonded to the earth and my spirit to
the heavens. I love running like this and I am pleased that Liz has
joined us, she is our first lady, wry, dry and faintly Northern.
We
are nine. At 10:30pm we reach our second objective, the end. We cross
the threshold thirsty. This pub is warm and bright. I drink Fosters.
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