Socrates' Poison

His temper was evenly spread before courtly crowd,
Who bade for blood of infidel unbowed,
Strange ethereal calm settled on him condemned,
To drink deep draughts for words as yet unpenned.

And die he did, wisdom incarnate eternal is he?
Whose mind is set loose and spirt split free,
From mortal longings in bodies despair,
To greater things and places than Plato's lair.

So why then does your poison flood my veins?,
It has reached my heart and soul; and ingrained
These eyes to ask questions of wherefore and why,
Until all around me is just follies' dead lie.

Courage I ask for, to stop in his tracks,
Purge this hemlock whose burden on backs,
Cripples and squeezes joy's journey alighting,
Into dialogues and arguments, all endless fighting.

Time to stand and stare at things themselves,
Perhaps to dream and imagine of woodland elves,
This thing i ask to drink from fern soaked brooks,
And leave behind all poisoned athenian books.

Bob Graham

Few people have heard of Bob Graham or what he did over seventy years ago. But over 1200 people have given up years of their lives to follow in his footsteps; thousands of hours in rain and wind, in gyms and roads, in cars travelling to the fells of england, wales and scotland.

Sport in the 20th century will be remembered as the century when a man first dipped under the magical 4 minute barrier for a mile; when Tensing Norgay and Hillary became the first people to stand on top of the world. We might remember Zatopek winning three golds in Helsinki and collapsing over the line of the marathon, or Michael Johnson running a golden blur of a 200m metres in a scarcely believable 19.32. Or Magic Johson running the boards and throwing outrageous no-look passes, or time slipping into slow motion as Jordan floats to the basket, or maybe Ali coming to life after a horrendous 8 round beating and exploding a right left right combination of Foreman's chin on the night they rumbled in the Zaire jungle.

Bob Graham and all those who have followed him deserve to be ranked along side these moments. In 1932, legend has it that Bob Graham was forty two. A Cumbrian gardener all his life, he was running a Keswick guest house at the time. He loved the fells and in the June of that year achieved a round of 42 Lake District Peaks under 24 hours. 42 in 24 hours - that is over 72 miles encompassing over 28,00 ft of ascent (about equivalent to Mount Everest). He wore tennis shoes and was fuelled by bread and butter, hard boiled eggs and sweets. His record would stand for over thrity years. Olympic altheles like Chris Brasher, the founder of the London Marathon, tried on several occasions to match it but fell short. Eventually other runners completed the round and the Bob Graham Club was set up - the only requirement for membership was a successful completion. Today over 1200 people are members. The current record for the round stands at 13 hours (!); most peaks completed in 24 hours is 77 (!)

These feats are more glorious than anything Thierry Henry or Ronaldinho will do this summer. Up on the high fell with just a handful of witnesses, these men and women put themselves through unimaginable tests, just for the fun of it. Can you imagine having run for eight hours and maybe climbed 10 peaks and realising you still have over 30 to go and more than 16 hours running left? Just for the freedom of running and running in the wild places of Britain which aren't ever seen by most walkers. Increbible.

Long live the weeds and wildness yet

Love this from gerard manley hopkins.

This darksome burn, horseback brown,
Its rollrock highroad roaring down,
IN coup and in comb, the fleece of its foam,
Flutes and low to the lake fall home.

A windpuff-bonnet of fawn froth,
Turns and twnidles over the broth,
Of a pool so pitchblack; fell frowning,
It turns and turns Despair to drowning.

Degged with dew, dappled with dew,
Are the groins of the braes which the brook runs through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.

What would the world be bereft of wet and wildness,
Let them be left; Oh let them be left,
Wildness and wet,
Long live the weeds and the wildness yet.