Seventy-nineth parkrun

Ran at the Memorial Park this weekend and managed to finish in the low thirties but, thanks to a scanning glitch, I can't be precise about the time other than to say somewhere around 20:45. It was a nice run, although I haven't done it regularly enough to have a good feel for the hills, so I generally slow down more than I should on the downhill sections. My dad came to watch and I saw him at the entrance to the playing field on my first loop, but despite some enthusiastic waving, he didn't seem to see me. Then, only my second lap, I saw him come up the hill from Coat of Arms bridge towards the perimeter path and, despite yet more waving, he didn't seem to notice me. After finishing and getting scanned — or not, as it turns out! — I waited around for my dad to show up. I allowed him 15 minutes for the walk to the monument and, when he didn't arrive, I ran back home. Sure enough he was there, telling the others that I must've gone in for some last minute marshalling because he hadn't seen me on the way round. Typical! ETA: the Coventry parkrun office have now fixed my missing entry so I can now legitimately claim this as my 79th run.

A 70th Birthday walk and lunch

Off to the small village of Preston Bagot for a walk and lunch. We started at The Crabmill and set off along the Stratford-on-Avon canal. There were a couple of narrow boats passing through the first lock we came across: The walking wasn't too strenous to begin with and the towpath was surprisingly dry — with all the rain, I'd've expected it to be thick with mud, but we were able to manage in ordinary shoes: We left the canal at the Yarningale aquaduct and turned northwest to cross a meadow into a field. In theory, according to our fearless guide, all we needed to do was walk to the top of the field and we'd be able to cross through to the main road and loop back to the village; in practice, we were unable to find a gate and had to retrace our steps when the boys rebelled. At the bottom of the slope, we found a gate that took us onto Rookery Lane and we headed up the hill towards the church: We divided at the top of the hill, with my nephew, my dad, and I walking over the top, while the others took the easier way round via the road. The churchyard featured a particularly noticeable gravestone for a former sexton who, according to the inscription, served his parish for 30 years: After a pleasant walk, we arrived at the pub perfectly on time for our reservation and we settled in for a fine lunch to mark my uncle's 70th birthday: Not quite a full complement: everyone thought it was best for my youngest nephew to go to his other grandparents; my neice and her boyfriend couldn't make it, so my great-nephew isn't there either; but everyone else was there.