BEN ABDELNOOR: THE COVID VIGNETTES

INOV8 ambassador Ben Abdelnoor, a UK Lake District-based trail, fell, mountain and ultra runner, recounts his experience of the Covid-19 lockdown.   

THE SHELTER (PART ONE)

I have taken to sleeping under a wooden lean-to shelter. A thin mattress laid on wooden pallets. Carrying tealights in painted jam jars up to the shelter in the evening in order to be able to read is a simple, warming pleasure.

From my lofty slope in the garden I can look out across a sleeping town. The soft glow of house lights and street lights brings to mind the image of a South American favela, except there is no sound of gunfire, car exhausts, loud music or shouting. Save for the occasional barking of a dog the town lies under a muffled silence until first light, whereupon a dawn chorus begins soon after 4am.

Each evening, after a short time spent reading, I’ll blow out the tealights and lie on my back. I will look up at the stars and the sliding satellites, then just as sleep begins to take me I ease my eyemask down over my eyes to ensure I might sleep beyond that first light of day…

PHONE CALLS (PART TWO)

Contact made, a reconnection, a friendship kindled and memories reawakened. I have chosen names, not quite at random, from a phone book of friends and family. Some I have not spoken to for a month, others I have not rung for many years.

Time has slowed. We now have the time. No reason or excuse for me not to make the effort. Each call is appreciated and a welcome surprise. Often there is a promise to reciprocate but it doesn’t matter either way to me.

A snapshot of someone’s life: locked down, isolated, living inside, family, children. Interests and hobbies are talked about and shared. We talk of plans, visions and hopes. A sense of optimism and opportunities, thoughts shared on loss and tragedy, the unknown.

Contact and reconnection. A conversation. The call ends. Silence.

ORIENTEERING (PART THREE)

Martin, a professional cartographer and talented orienteer, has set short navigational exercises in the woods and on the fells around the local area. I have always enjoyed studying and understanding maps, and at a time when no competitions are taking place here is a chance to compete – against the clock.

A map will be posted online, detailed and accurate in the way a piece of mathematical artwork might be and comprehensible only to those who can read the language of orienteers. Out on the fells and in the woods a series of sticks, tied with white ribbon, have been placed in the ground and their whereabouts indicated on the map. The challenge is to find these controls, in the correct order, as quickly as your athleticism and map-reading skills allow. To the uninitiated the map, with it’s enigmatic legend, will confuse and befuddle. However, with some prior application I have a sufficient, though basic, understanding of this new language.

Out the door I will go, with socks pulled up to to my knees to protect against nettles, bracken and ticks; laces tight and double-knotted; map in hand with a fingernail pressed firmly on the place marking “I am here,” or more accurately marking “I think I am here.”

There is a satisfaction, disproportionately greater than you would expect, at interpreting the map correctly and finding a control where you hoped, dare I say expected, it to be. Foot of crag, re-entrant, north-east side of knoll; choose an attack point – an obvious point on the map to home in on – and depending on your ability, hope or expect, it to be there. I savour these occasions, the flush of pride in finding the white ribbon, the glowing sense of satisfaction.

In contrast to a satisfying find is the slow, sinking realisation, the feeling of despair, that the white ribbon isn’t where you wanted that white ribbon to be. There’s a sense of loneliness as you turn and turn and turn in widening circles, or aimlessly zig-zag, angry, cursing and frustrated.

I took the dog with me once. He has never looked so bewildered at my choice of route for a run. Without warning I would leave an obvious path to scramble up a slope, bash through twisted, prickly undergrowth or clamber over scree, only to retrace my steps a few minutes later, or not. Eventually he gave up, realising the sensible option was to wait patiently on the path whilst I went in search of a control. He had it figured; I would either return, or I would give him a whistle, calling him on, on, on.

I could have sworn he gave me a look of suspicion a few days later when he saw me pulling up my socks and picking up a map…

EMPTY ROADS (PART FOUR)

It took a few weeks of lockdown before the penny dropped and I realised I should be out on my road bike rather than out running. What was I doing? In the coming years there would be plenty of occasions to run on the hills in ideal conditions – crisp winter mornings, warm summer evenings – and barely see a sole. However, the chance to cycle on empty roads in the middle of the Easter holidays on windless, blue-sky, sun-soaked days is literally a once in a lifetime opportunity.

So the next day I donned my cycle shoes and helmet, shoved some food in the back pocket of my cycle jersey, grabbed a bottle of water and took to my road bike.

At first I only went a short distance. I had a sense of foreboding, that I needed to be cautious, a feeling that I might be doing something against government advice, which I wasn’t. I cycled up Great Langdale valley, over Blea Tarn and down Little Langdale. Quiet and peaceful, I realised why it felt odd; for all I knew there might not have been a single person in any of the houses or farms I passed.

The next day I went further, back up Little Langdale, over Wrynose Pass and down my favourite valley, the Duddon. The Duddon valley can often be quiet, even at the busiest of times, but today it was eerily quiet. Then my ears tune in to the faintest of humming: a farmer in his beat-up Land Rover coming up the valley; the background twittering of the occasional bird; the faint trickling of the river. I pass no walkers, no parked cars, no sign of tourists and barely any movement from the sleepy valley’s inhabitants.

A few days later I go over Dunmail Raise, along the back of Thirlmere Reservoir and make a lap of Derwentwater. Again I’m cycling under perfect blue skies and in pleasantly warm sunshine. I count more cyclists than cars.

Our household of three takes a cycle trip around the back o’ Skidda’, stopping for sandwiches and a brief rest by Whelpo Beck, just outside the village of Caldbeck. We watch a pair of ducks floating downstream, then shaking themselves out on the opposite bank. On our route past Keswick we cycle along the dual carriageway. Why not? Nobody else is using it.

More rides: a leisurely pootle around the back of Thirlmere in an afternoon; tackling Kirkstone Pass and The Struggle one morning, leading to a leisurely outing alongside Ullswater, which involves getting lost in a maze of lanes leading up towards the main road to Keswick; Wrynose Pass again, this time including Hardknott Pass – lunch on a hairpin bend looking out to the Irish Sea and the Isle of Man – Eskdale valley and Birker Moor. Birker Moor, bleak and uninviting in winter, but in this long spell of warm, dry weather it evokes the pleasures of spring: the coconut scent of gorse; skylarks twittering invisibly; ewes with their young lambs; and uninterrupted views across to the Scafells and Duddon estuary. Just a single vehicle passes as I pedal from Eskdale Green to Ulpha.

On a bike you can get lost in your own world, meandering along country roads, staring up at the fells, peering over hedges. On empty roads, lost in your own imagination, a world without cars.

DENDROLOGY (PART FIVE)

Some months before this all began, I ordered a copy of Collins Complete Guide to British Trees from my local bookshop. The book sat in various places around the house: the kitchen table, the lounge, bedside table. I occasionally flicked through it, waiting for the right time and a certain level of enthusiasm. For many years it frustrated me that I couldn’t name, to a reasonable degree of certainty, more than four or five species. I wanted to know more; then this began.

I started with some basic investigation of the trees that edged the property and along the road at the end of the driveway. I didn’t have to go far to find plenty: hazel, hawthorn, sycamore and yew. With some identification under my belt I felt a swell of satisfaction and searched for new ground.

I moved up to the woods at the back of the house, beyond the garden: oak, more hazel, Norway spruce and the answer as to why the neighbouring property is called The Larches. A brief wander beyond the woods and onto the fellside turned up rowan and hawthorn, with some recently planted oak and hazel saplings.

By now I was eager to see what I could find beyond the boundaries of home. With a touch of excitement I headed up the road that ran alongside the river. Taking my time I was reasonably sure I’d identified elm and poplar, beech and maple. There were other species which looked interesting but I couldn’t identify, so I’d take a leaf home, place it on the kitchen table, stare at it, then turn it over, all the while flicking through the pages of my handbook.

It was around this time that a friend mentioned his interest in trees. He proved to be as enthusiastic in helping me identify trees as I was enthusiastic about learning from him. I would send him images of parts of whichever tree I was struggling to identify: leaves, needles, trunk, cones, branches. In turn he’d often send me down a new line of inquiry: “Looks like a willow; grey willow leaves are longer than they are round.” It didn’t look to me like a willow but invariably he was right and I’m soon learning the minutiae of osier, goat, bay and grey willow.

On another walk a friend, working in the grounds of the doctor’s surgery, pointed out a London plane. The circumference of it’s trunk is impressive, clearly displaying evidence of having been pollarded. The tree is huge, how had I never noticed it before?

I’ve become distracted and perhaps a little obsessed. I can’t walk anywhere without grinding to a halt to run my fingers over a leaf, looking for tufts of fine hair on the underside or visible glands on the petiole, to touch the bark or study the needles or cones.  As I walk along I’ll mutter under my breath a running commentary: beech, sycamore, oak, another beech, hazel…

I took a cycle ride along the back of the reservoir where I knew there was an interesting selection of trees. The ride took over an hour longer than the 90 minutes it would usually take. I didn’t care, I recorded fifteen different species including cherry, Scots pine, western hemlock, alder with it’s indented apex and elm with it’s asymmetric leaf base.

Confirmation of my obsession was realised when a friend asked if she could borrow my handbook. She was doing some work in the Scottish borders which involved identifying some woodland trees. Usually I’m happy for people to borrow my possessions but imagine being mid-way through an exciting novel and being told to give it to someone for two weeks. I felt a little ashamed as I turned down her request, I didn’t think I could manage without it.

My pursuit isn’t over and I imagine, like any study, it has no end. Lines of inquiry and investigation will continue, long after all this is over.

PAINTING (PART SIX)

A wooden bench sits beneath the lounge window overlooking the lawn. Technically it’s a pew, from a small church on the North Yorkshire Moors, but ‘bench’ seems more fitting.

It’s a sheltered spot to enjoy breakfast on sunny mornings; currently sunny mornings are all we’re having.

The bench doesn’t get the sun after mid-morning but sitting here still provides a captivating view of the fells to the east. It’s a sight I could enjoy long after the sun disappears around the corner.

Previously painted a pale fern green, a job no doubt carried out with great care, the bench now looks tired and ready for a fresh coat.

I buy one pot of paint in eggshell blue, two brushes and three grades of sandpaper. I think I have everything and begin the job.

It’s not an arduous task, I’ll see this through to the end. Sure, there are fiddly bits but I’m not after perfection, just something to occupy time and provide fulfilment.

Sanded down, bare wood exposed, I brush it free of dust, wood and paint. In the garage I find some exterior undercoat. One coat applied and dried, I sand and brush it down again.

The eggshell blue goes on in long satisfying strokes across the seat and backrest. I take my time around the legs, edges and less accessible parts. A light sanding and a second coat, it’s harder to see what has already been done.

The paint soon dries in the sun and the bench is ready to be sat upon, good for another couple of seasons.

CHRIS (PART SEVEN)

April 29th 2019. I remember the ambulance sirens, driving to work and passing his flat, calling his girlfriend and then a friend calling later to tell me the news.

One year on from April 29th and I get up early. Reaching the summit before 7am was Chris’  thing. It’s all I can think of to mark the occasion. Two of Chris’ friends have already been to the summit. They met with his girlfriend at the top and are now on their way down.

I sit by the summit cairn and take a minute to reflect. It’s just before 7am.

The dog sits with me. Then I throw a ball for him until we’re about half-way down. Then we turn and go back up to the summit to fetch the dog lead I left at the cairn.

April 29th is the only drizzly day in six weeks of sunshine.

In the afternoon I meet with two friends to remember Chris. We sit in the drizzle, in a small clearing reached by a short climb through woods from the back of the house. We sit, talk and drink a beer to Chris which, looking back, were three things Chris didn’t do very much of.

ILLUSTRATIONS: Britta Sendlhofer

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