I can easily relax these days. Give me sporting Bradwell and I admire the displayed skills and stamina. Not professional football of course, I mean amateur sport. The real sport is down in the depths where glory is not measured in pounds but in sweat. In the Peak District I see mountain bikers, runners and even walkers in competitive events. The joy they aspire to is simply doing better than last time, or better than someone they know. I used to know that feeling. It started early when when I was relatively fearless, and fast, in racing my compatriots off the top of Tryfan, a mountain in Snowdonia. I was first back to the car park, then, that was a prize!

Sport for all

On the one sunny day, recently, after 45 wet days, sport was everywhere around Bradwell. Looking from our house, the paragliders were hugging the sky. That looks a wonderful sport, flying like a bird. It is also the epitome of relaxation, the sweeping loops against the blue sky. On the same day, a fell race started from Bradwell. This was the Winter Half-Tour of Bradwell over 28 kilometres. We were out running so saw many of the runners. It was sunny and chill, but wonderful for running. We spoke to many of the runners, not least because we know all the paths. However, when the ran past us we felt like we were standing still. However, being surrounded by runners was a vicarious joy.

Sporting Bradwell

I will miss all this activity when we move south. It’s not that there is far less of it down there, rather that it all takes place in the sea. The surfers, swimmers and sailors are out on the water and I don’t participate. In fairness, our really elderly neighbours down there used to swim in the warm weather. Water is not my environment. Being thin and rangy, dry land is my forte. However, changes have taken place in the six years since I left Christchurch. Far more aged runners are apparent. Before long, I anticipate First Aid stations and oxygen cylinders suitably spaced along the coast. Far more useful to me than coastguards.