Up, up and away!
Sitting here in the central library (aka: home away from home) at 5:15 on a Sunday afternoon I am happy to see that I am not the only person who stops in with their groceries between the supermarket and kitchen. In fact, it seems to be quite a common practice... :)
When I awoke this morning, without the assistance of my alarm for the first time since I arrived 9 days ago, I thought it was maybe 5 o'clock. It was 7:20. Although I do seem to be adjusted to the time in general, I can't get a feel for the light in this town. It doesn't start to brighten until nearly 8, and then it's not a gradual process like in Korea, but rather an abrupt shift from dark to light. The street lights seem as confused as I am, refusing comically to shut off until well after their utility has vanished in the new sun.
Since I had promised myself last night that I would start today with a good run, I was happy to have woken up a bit ahead of schedule. When I left the house just after 8, the only clouds were festive crowns on the crests of far distant hills (pretty much a constant accessory). The air was fresh and clear. I ran around the perimeter of the botanical gardens, forcing myself to stay on the streets outside instead of on the inviting trails within, so that I could get a better sense of what's around. So far I've run nearly every day, and always on a different route. At the opposite end of the gardens from where I live, Opoho Street makes a looong line from the valley floor up a fairly steep hill. I ran the whole way, 1.1 km, relishing the feeling of accomplishment and expanded lung capacity (seriously, no matter which direction I go from home, everything is uphill in this town!). It was so gloriously bright and inviting at the top of the road that instead of making a downward turn to return home I followed the other bend towards the
viewpoint at Signal Hill and kept on going up.
After 3.5 km of constant climbing I gave up the pretense of running and slowed to a walk. But I kept going up. The sky was blue, the distinctive singing of yellow-beaked black birds filled the bushes around me, and I had the best views of town I've seen yet. At 8:30 in the morning, hardly anyone was moving in the picturesque little neighbourhood clinging to the rising crest of hill. All around were verdant green slopes draped in flowers the creamy yellow of egg yolks plunging to the creek beds in the valley bottom where the bulk of development resides. If you've ever been to Scotland you know exactly what Dunedin looks like. There's a reason why they say it's the most Scottish place outside of the British Isles (other than the fact that
64% of the population can still trace their ancestry directly to Scottish roots).
When the two lane road, well marked with street signs and paint, left the houses behind and narrowed to a country lane I began to notice the descending clouds. My glasses kept blurring with a fine spray of mist. But I'd already come so far! My first thought was that I'd finally climbed into that ever-present crown of clouds at the top of the hill...my destination must be in reach! The flock of curious sheep, fat with grimy winter wool, encouraged me on (my first live, up close, New Zealand sheep!). And then the 'Moa' gardens (moa being a giant bird that the maori hunted to extinction a long, long time ago, I'm pretty sure...). And then the monument at the top of signal hill. At least I think it was the top. By then the mist had become proper rain and the clouds were so thick that I could barely see 10 feet in front of me, nevermind down the stunning vista of slope and shore that (I'm told) lay before me. I'd gone 5.5 km, nearly all up, up, up. And I couldn't see a thing.
The return trip, 4 km nearly straight down the hill (1.5 km at the start being the unneccessary loop around the gardens), was cold, wet and utterly miserable. I'm sure that plenty of people when they run get all toasty and warm and cease to feel the weather. I have never been one of those people. My outer thighs are the first things I feel freezing, usually when they start to get stiff with the chill and cease to glide smoothly. Then everything starts to feel cold. Half way down the hill the rain started pelting so forcefully that the only benefit to having glasses on was the fact that it kept the worst of the drops out of my eyes. Luckily there's no traffic on that road, since I couldn't see a thing. By the time I came through the doors of the house all 3 layers of clothes I was wearing were soaked through, and I could ring a pool of icy water out of my socks. I'd ceased to feel my thighs somewhere up on the hill behind me.
In addition to being deadly serious about their Scottish roots, they are not kidding about the fickleness of winter weather here. Let this be a
lesson to me on future runs! The rain has not let up since then, low clouds and persistent wet being common features of Southern winter. Despite the miserable end, I'm glad I got in the run that I did. Next time I will remember to bring my camera to capture some of those charming sheep and hillsides on the way, and a plastic bag to put it in once the weather (inevitably) changes!
When I awoke this morning, without the assistance of my alarm for the first time since I arrived 9 days ago, I thought it was maybe 5 o'clock. It was 7:20. Although I do seem to be adjusted to the time in general, I can't get a feel for the light in this town. It doesn't start to brighten until nearly 8, and then it's not a gradual process like in Korea, but rather an abrupt shift from dark to light. The street lights seem as confused as I am, refusing comically to shut off until well after their utility has vanished in the new sun.
Since I had promised myself last night that I would start today with a good run, I was happy to have woken up a bit ahead of schedule. When I left the house just after 8, the only clouds were festive crowns on the crests of far distant hills (pretty much a constant accessory). The air was fresh and clear. I ran around the perimeter of the botanical gardens, forcing myself to stay on the streets outside instead of on the inviting trails within, so that I could get a better sense of what's around. So far I've run nearly every day, and always on a different route. At the opposite end of the gardens from where I live, Opoho Street makes a looong line from the valley floor up a fairly steep hill. I ran the whole way, 1.1 km, relishing the feeling of accomplishment and expanded lung capacity (seriously, no matter which direction I go from home, everything is uphill in this town!). It was so gloriously bright and inviting at the top of the road that instead of making a downward turn to return home I followed the other bend towards the
viewpoint at Signal Hill and kept on going up.
After 3.5 km of constant climbing I gave up the pretense of running and slowed to a walk. But I kept going up. The sky was blue, the distinctive singing of yellow-beaked black birds filled the bushes around me, and I had the best views of town I've seen yet. At 8:30 in the morning, hardly anyone was moving in the picturesque little neighbourhood clinging to the rising crest of hill. All around were verdant green slopes draped in flowers the creamy yellow of egg yolks plunging to the creek beds in the valley bottom where the bulk of development resides. If you've ever been to Scotland you know exactly what Dunedin looks like. There's a reason why they say it's the most Scottish place outside of the British Isles (other than the fact that
64% of the population can still trace their ancestry directly to Scottish roots).
When the two lane road, well marked with street signs and paint, left the houses behind and narrowed to a country lane I began to notice the descending clouds. My glasses kept blurring with a fine spray of mist. But I'd already come so far! My first thought was that I'd finally climbed into that ever-present crown of clouds at the top of the hill...my destination must be in reach! The flock of curious sheep, fat with grimy winter wool, encouraged me on (my first live, up close, New Zealand sheep!). And then the 'Moa' gardens (moa being a giant bird that the maori hunted to extinction a long, long time ago, I'm pretty sure...). And then the monument at the top of signal hill. At least I think it was the top. By then the mist had become proper rain and the clouds were so thick that I could barely see 10 feet in front of me, nevermind down the stunning vista of slope and shore that (I'm told) lay before me. I'd gone 5.5 km, nearly all up, up, up. And I couldn't see a thing.
The return trip, 4 km nearly straight down the hill (1.5 km at the start being the unneccessary loop around the gardens), was cold, wet and utterly miserable. I'm sure that plenty of people when they run get all toasty and warm and cease to feel the weather. I have never been one of those people. My outer thighs are the first things I feel freezing, usually when they start to get stiff with the chill and cease to glide smoothly. Then everything starts to feel cold. Half way down the hill the rain started pelting so forcefully that the only benefit to having glasses on was the fact that it kept the worst of the drops out of my eyes. Luckily there's no traffic on that road, since I couldn't see a thing. By the time I came through the doors of the house all 3 layers of clothes I was wearing were soaked through, and I could ring a pool of icy water out of my socks. I'd ceased to feel my thighs somewhere up on the hill behind me.
In addition to being deadly serious about their Scottish roots, they are not kidding about the fickleness of winter weather here. Let this be a
lesson to me on future runs! The rain has not let up since then, low clouds and persistent wet being common features of Southern winter. Despite the miserable end, I'm glad I got in the run that I did. Next time I will remember to bring my camera to capture some of those charming sheep and hillsides on the way, and a plastic bag to put it in once the weather (inevitably) changes!
posted by Roberta | 3:00 PM
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