Probably 50 years ago, as a child, I had the tragic experience of dropping an ice cream onto the sand at Greystones beach. Refusing to believe my misfortune I demanded to be taken to the same spot the following day to see if the ice cream could be recovered. I daresay the whole incident damaged me and might explain one or two things that have happened in later life.
Today I wasn’t planning to run, but Bank Holiday Monday stretched out ahead alarmingly. In days gone by, back in Blighty, one could rely on BBC’s Bank Holiday Grandstand with moto-cross, rugby league, maybe a spot of show jumping. Today there was the dubious offering of snooker and IPL cricket until Aston Villa v Hull much later. So I pulled on my whiffy gear again and set off. Someone had mentioned the cliffpath between Bray and Greystones as worth checking out so, armed with iPod I hopped on the DART to Bray.
It’s about a kilometre from Bray DART station to the beginning of the cliffpath, and the seafront is redolent of many a small English resort with its cheap-and-cheerful novelty shops, cafes, arcades and well-established hotels all under a grey and breezy sky. Soon enough you are onto the cliffpath which rises gently and makes its way around the coastline, up above the railway line. Gently or not my calves were reminding me that they had also done some unaccustomed extra work on my beach run yesterday.
I had intended maybe walking or walk/jogging these few miles but instinct took over and I eventually ran the whole distance. The path gets a bit rocky in places, but generally it’s fine for ordinary running shoes. It’s an easy run, certainly compared to the north coast cliffpaths of Jersey which provide some serious ascents to the intrepid runner. But all hail to those that created – or at least made useable to the public, the coastal ways and cliffpaths we find all around our islands.
Coming into Greystones was a disappointment. There is huge development going on at the north end and, whatever the end result is going to be, it presently resembles a nuclear disaster area with the walker/runner grudgingly afforded a wayleave through the destruction into the town. But, once you get there it’s a cute enough little place with plenty of bars and restaurants. Outside the DART station I purchased a Lucozade Sport rather than an ice cream for the trip back to Dublin. Nice to get five miles in the log so early in the week.