Saturday mornings are back to normal!

Back to parkrun this week, although I was only intending to walk after doing something to my hamstring muscle, apparently, it is in the top part of the leg at the back.

Now I mix with so many runners, all amateurs, yet all seem to be medical experts. I never grasped the biology thing at school so have to bow to their superior knowledge; in fact, you could say I don’t know my arse from my elbow!

I am astounded to discover the number of injuries one can pick up from the simple motion of running. You only have to hang around at the start or finish of parkruns to learn a plethora of new words and phrases previously unknown to the human race, or me at any rate!

Lots of them are so long and complicated that I can’t even recall them. Treatments are another thing. I heard one bloke say he needed to get his heel treated with dry needles. Why? I have never understood sticking needles in oneself for treatment or pleasure, never have worked out why anyone with an ounce of sense would opt for tattoos or injections.
For the record, I am a self-confessed trypanophobiac. Like everyone, or most people anyway, I joined the queues to receive the covid jabs, but never again. Nerves, trepidation, call it what you like, I am terrified of needles.

The very thought makes my heart beat like a big base drum. Once, when I was about 12 years old, I was at the doctor’s for one of those childhood injections, one sight of the syringe and I was off like a rocket. I ran all the way home!

Until covid I hadn’t had another one, I will not go to any country where I need a sharp weapon plunged into my arm.

One good thing to come out of it, though, is that I developed a love for running, it can get you out of all sorts of trouble.

I must admit, I think, apart from my blood clots, I haven’t been to a doctor except when we first moved to our present village. When we tried to register at our local surgery, they insisted on us coming along for a once over. It didn’t end well.

I was informed I was either too short for my weight or too heavy for my height; how rude! Then they stuck a band around my bicep or, at least, where a bicep should be, tightened it up, which felt like torture, I was sweating, only to be told my blood pressure was through the roof.

Wow, wonder why that was? No idea what it is, although I am told by a medical practitioner I know, that it is White Coat Syndrome! I wonder if it stems from the time when I used to play cricket and the man, it was always a man back then, in a white coat would, when I was batting, raise his finger in such a threatening manner.

I have to say, Swaffham parkrun does not have a great reputation on the circuit. I don’t know why? Well, I do actually, and, most categorically, it is not warranted.

The three lap course is a delightful little meet, there were only around fifty of us taking part so the volunteer to participant ratio is among the best you can get. Every single one of them was most welcoming.

Many people at the other more populated events ridicule Swaffham by saying things like “I hear it is about fifty times around a playing field.” And to be honest, that is the impression I had formed through this fake news.

Yes, of course, a playing field features, but it is only three circuits, many events held in parks have more laps. I am no expert in this matter but would have thought it an ideal course on which to get a PB, which was borne out when Jane achieved her second best time.

A PB was not in my thinking for the reasons discussed above. A pleasant stroll in the warm air would hit the spot.

The Run Director asked me if I would like someone to accompany me? Why not, I thought, and accepted his kind offer.

I was foisted upon a fairly well-known local government politician, who happens to live in the next village to us, and my heart dropped right down into my new sports socks on realising I would be spending the best part of the following hour with such a person.

I can’t emphasise enough, however, what a wonderful time I had, and I hope he did too. We certainly put the world to rights in the brief time allowed to us.

Now, I don’t know where you are regarding the conspiracy theories around our devices listening in on our conversations? I have always had my suspicions but now, after this briefest of encounters with this gentlemen, I am convinced that Big Brother is tracking our every move and recording our every word.

Jim informed me of his involvement with a local housing issue in recent times. Later in the morning, I was staggered to be scrolling through FB when a post cropped up, from a hitherto unknown news platform, about housing in King’s Lynn, and guess what, it was exactly the same matter we had been chatting about.

What is more, the person top and centre of the story was my walking companion. Spooky, or what? It won’t be long before they can get inside our minds, which, in turn, might lead to prosecutions about what we are thinking. I could end up spending the rest of my time behind bars, as you can probably glean from my writing. Personally, I believe this to be quite worrying.

I have always wondered how these smaller events can boost their numbers if, indeed, they want to? The answer, my parkrun friends, is simple. Change the name to something like Xanadu parkrun or Xenon parkrun or, my particular favourite, Xenia parkrun, and you will hit on a winner.

The town in question will get such a boost from parkrun tourism it will not be able to count the parkrun pounds rolling in. The local economy will grow exponentially. There could be tax refunds to each and every resident living in that particular community.

I would, however, exclude parkrun protestors, you would be required to cough up double or, at least, be sent to prison for your evil thoughts!

White Cane Ratings*
Car Park: good for smaller event; free - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
Welcome: very good; friendly and incredibly enthusiastic - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Atmosphere: good - 🦯 🦯 🦯 (3)
Course: very good; level, entirely on grass, comfortable - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
Marshalling: very good; - 🦯 🦯 🦯 🦯 (4)
*These ratings are how the event suits a blind person, and are my opinion only; they are not scientific. Whatever happens no-one must be put off by me. The best way to learn about something is try it for yourself.

Down Under: Cookstown

Speaking of things that give me the heebie-jeebies, referencing the needles, and we only discovered this as we were returning to the tender pickup point.

Promenading along the riverbank, as we were, I glimpsed a series of signs from the corner of my eye. When Jane enlightened me as to what they were, I was stunned, right on the edge of a residential area as we were, they were warning of the presence of crocodiles.

I know that you sighted people might think this a little on the pernickety side, but to me it would make absolute sense to make these signs give an audio warning as well. It tells me that the Cooktown elders really don’t mind sacrificing a few blind folk to appease the river monsters.

I wonder if they actually think the more the merrier, it cuts down on the welfare bill? Food for thought! It does make one’s legs turn to a quivering jelly.

Anyway, before we noticed this, we had a jolly good look around the town which, to be frank, would probably only rate as a village in the UK; its population in the 2021 census was 2,746.

When exploring the town centre, for want of a better description, it really does feel like a frontier town, hot and dusty, I envisaged Clint Eastwood riding along Main Street to the theme tune of “The Good, The Bad and The Ugly,” complete with tumbleweed.

It wasn’t that bad, to be fair, but to show its frontier status you need to realise it is 2,000km north of Brisbane, including the 328km from Cairns. The most northerly tip of Queensland, Cape York, is another 857km away by road.

When you bear in mind that Brisbane is 908km from the New South Wales border, it gives you a feel for the gargantuan size of this island nation. That’s crazy, you can leave NSW, enter Queensland, and drive for the best part of 4,000km without leaving the state, let alone the country. Mind blowing!

No prizes for guessing who the town is named after. Yep, you got it, our old friend, Lieutenant James Cook, we can now call him Jim, as he has been a constant whilst shadowing him along this coast.

Jim managed to ground his ship on Endeavour Reef, just to the north of Cape Tribulation. He had to jettison much of what he had on board, including cannon, spare anchors and stores. This allowed him to limp up the coast until he found a suitable place he could beach for repairs.

Astonishingly, he brought his charge ashore on the banks of the Endeavour River. I mean, what are the chances? He is sailing in a ship named HMB Endeavour and, firstly, he runs aground on a reef of the same name, then to cap it all he finds a river with the same name as well. And to think, you don’t believe in coincidences? Oh, ye of little doubt!

The stores included some meat on the hoof, in this case, pigs. Along with the inanimate objects, the crew threw the pigs into the ocean. Now, believe it or believe it not, they managed to get ashore to the mainland. How on earth did they avoid sharks and crocodiles?

Since then they have run amok in the north. This reminds me of when I stayed at a Youth Hostel at Cape Trib. Whilst I joined an excursion to the Reef for a spot of fishing another group went off a hunting. They managed to snare one of these wild boars, In addition, we managed to catch a big old fish.

I am not sure that I have eaten so well at any other time. I have many fond memories of life in Cape Tribulation including the time we played mixed unclothed football on the huge greensward in front of the camp.

Funnily enough, the opportunity of a return fixture has never presented itself since. I fear it might be too late now. I think, though, if we were able to reunite the teams and play all over again there might be a few more acres of skin on show! Perhaps not the attraction it was back then.

We were tendered to the pier from where we boarded a bus to drive the very short distance to the Botanic Gardens.

Whilst most of the Americans headed for the air-conditioned coffee shop we went for a stroll. Watch out for snakes! Just beyond the coffee shop there was an incredible carved wooden replica of a huge python. I gave it a cuddle.

From here, we reboarded the coach for the journey to the James Cook Museum. The museum is housed in an old convent which was acquired by the Australian National Trust, and, it has to be said, is rather splendid.

We were welcomed by an indigenous Australian man in his own tongue, much as Jim might have been greeted as he brought his boat ashore. Can you imagine the looks on the faces of the locals as the vision of the Endeavour sailing close in greeted them one day.

I find it amazing that Jim didn’t die on this beach but had to wait a further nine years for that to happen on a strand in Hawaii.

Cooktown is now known as the first white settlement in Australia, although the Dutch might have reason to dispute this as one of their ships, the Batavia, dropped off some of its crew on an island off the Western Australia coast about a hundred years earlier.

It is true that the latter landing is not one of the Netherlands more glorious events as the crew of the Batavia had mutinied and were cast onto the beach as punishment. I don’t think anyone has a clue what happened to them. I wonder if this is the origin of the phrase Lucky Jim?

Our aboriginal guide gave us a wonderful tour of the exhibition halls, including an area dedicated to Cook’s unscheduled landing. Much of what was tossed into the sea has now been recovered and is on show within the museum’s rooms.

As the main group left the library to return to the ship and the first of four afternoon teas, we elected to stay to further our education. We wandered around the town which, to be blunt, took all of about fifteen minutes, and that’s probably an exaggeration.

We spotted a unisex hairdresser, pushed the door open and found ourselves in someone’s front room. The woman said she was busy, I believe she thought Jane was the client, but we pointed out that it was me wanting a buzzcut.

“Ah. That’s different. I could probably fit five of you in before my next appointment.”
Don’t worry, love, I thought. None taken!

Seventeen dollars of the Australian variety. It felt so good compared with the 75 dollars of the American variety I had paid on the ship. They equate to £8 and £56 respectively at today’s exchange rates.

I felt a whole lot better for the Australian experience, although I think she may have been a sheep shearer in a previous life. She had migrated to Cooktown from the Sunshine Coast and, to be honest, you have to ask why? I’ve now been to both and know which one I like better.

We strolled out of town to the nearby highway, stared at the empty road in both directions before going back to the tender collection point.

On the way back through the main drag I glanced down at my feet. Something was not quite right. What was it? Yes, that’s it, I am used to something sticking out much further in front of me! Can you guess what it was? Give you a minute.

We found ourselves down by the river and thought that if we stayed on the riverbank we would, eventually, stumble across the tender port. That is when we came across the crocodile warning signs. It made a fifteen-minute stroll feel like a trek along an African jungle river. We lived to tell the tale.

Have you worked out what it was yet? Well done if you said my shadow. It does not do you any credit whatsoever if you thought I was talking about anything else.

Given that we were about 10° south of the equator and the sun was about two-thirds of its way back from the Tropic of Capricorn. It was almost directly overhead. I had never experienced this before and nor have I come across it since, for we have always visited East Asia during the southern hemisphere summer when the sun is nowhere near overhead.