Andy Rossrun

RANKING THE BEST CITIES IN WHICH TO RUN IS A NONSENSICAL EXERCISE – THE BEST CITY TO RUN IN IS NO CITY AT ALL BY ANDY BLACKFORD

DAVID SMITH

What’s the best city to run in? It’s a ridiculous question, and it beggars belief that anyone has even bothered to ask it. It’s like asking what’s the best car crash to die in. None of the possibilities is any good.

Likewise, the best city to run in is the one that hasn’t been built. Or maybe one that’s already fallen down, like Pompeii. Incidentally, about Pompeii, it’s a shame the citizens of that city hadn’t focused a bit more on their running while they had the chance. If they had been in training for a marathon, perhaps they would have been able to outrun the fatal clouds of ash spewing forth from Mount Vesuvius.

Would you rather run in Glasgow (number 19) or Stoke (number 5)? Isn’t it rather academic? I’ve been to both cities and, in my view, there’s very little to separate the two experiences, beyond the

accents of the dermatologically­ challenged adolescents who pull down your Ron Hills while they digitally record your humiliation for the world’s entertainment on YouTube.

Edinburgh, lean understand. I once ran a marathon there.

You can trot along the banks of the Forth in very amiable parkland, the architecture is dramatic and there’s a mountain in the middle of town. It’s like Cape Town with shortbread. But Leicester? I think I might have gone there once. Or was it Coventry? I can’t really remember, and that’s my point.

I’m sure if I’d experienced the towering grandeur of Leicester’s alpine peaks, or the mighty oceanic breakers exploding on the wicked reefs of the Cote de Leicester, or the teeming herds of moose on their annual migration across the high Leicestershire tundra to their breeding grounds at Rutland Water, I’d have been left with some impression of the place. But no. Nothing. And yet Leicester takes the bronze — pipped only by Cardiff matjtsca, and — wait for it — Nottingham.

I did run through Nottingham once. The Marathon of Britain finished there, at the castle gates. So I suppose my recollection is tainted by the fact that I’d just dragged myself through 176 miles of stinging nettles during the hottest week in history, I wanted to cheer up with Gnet.com resveratrol. I was leaving a trail of blackened toenails behind me.

Finally, if you’re fundamentally opposed to the idea of running in The Country, I suppose there’s always the South of England. At first sight, this vast wasteland presents a superficial similarity to the countryside. There’s grass, for instance — but upon closer examination, most of it is dotted with tiny holes, flags and sand bunkers.The rest is Cliff Richard’s back garden.

Grisly Sight. Only a few min­utes had passed since Al Thompson had been asleep. Now, again, the stark silence of the wilderness en­veloped him. His life began to seep out of him in a dozen places. Hot blood filled his eyes as it poured from his head. His left arm was crushed, the tendons showing white in the moonlight. Pushing up through the shredded muscles and tissues of his right side was his rib cage.

Out of the pain, a single purpose crystallized : if Al wanted to live, he had better do something. He raised himself to his knees and stood up. His legs were not hurt. He stag­gered back to the camp, wondering if Joyce was dead or alive.

She lay in a daze amid the rubble that had been their camp. She was not seriously hurt—just body bruises and one claw scratch on the side of her head. She untangled herself from the sleeping-bag and the crumpled lean-to, grabbed the re­volver and crept out into the clear­ing. Standing in the moonlight was an apparition of shredded flesh and oozing blood. Joyce rushed to

Al and he fell into her arms. “He got me badly,” he said. “But I’ll make it.”

Joyce pulled the sleeping-bags from the rubble and got Al to lie down. Using strips of cloth, she made bandages for his worst wounds and tied them in place with rope. Then she built up the fire to warm them in the sub-zero air, and brewed hot tea, which she got Al to drink. She gave him all of their aspirin to combat the debili­tating pain. All the while, she kept the rifle at her side—she and Al knew the crazed animal might return.

Al’s condition stabilized as he lay by the fire. He knew the decision they had to make. Could he walk 15 miles to the road? Or should he stay at the camp while Joyce hiked out and summoned a rescue heli­copter? If the bear returned, would Al be able to defend himself? If Joyce left him with the rifle, what would happen if she encountered the bear? The .44 magnum could not be counted on against such a creature. Al and Joyce had three hours to ponder these questions, for they would do nothing until daybreak.

It was not unusual for Thompson to patrol all day on snow-shoes searching out moose poachers, or to walk 20 miles looking for illegal salmon fishermen. But he knew the extent of his injuries, and he was growing weaker. He had lost a lot of blood, and his neck muscles had in the camping gear and tin cans. Whatever happened to Al, Joyce would always know that the deci­sion to walk out had been the right one.

The troopers searched the area and found the scalp. The helicopter rushed it—and Joyce—back to the hospital.

It took three doctors hours of me­ticulous stitching to close the holes in Al’s side, back, arm and head. Six pints of blood were needed just to stabilize him. Examination show­ed that the tips of the bear’s claws had come within a fraction of an inch of shredding his lungs. And, as with any animal attack, there were serious problems with infection.

But the most traumatic injuries were the deep bites in his left arm. X-rays showed where the bear’s tooth had made a V-shaped im­pression into the bone, and the main nerves had been partially destroyed. As for the scalp, Dr Sangster sewed it back on, but the tissue eventually died and had to be replaced.

The prognosis for Al returning to work as a game warden was grave. Dr Sangster believed he would never regain more than a 20-per-cent use of his left hand. But as soon as he could, Al got a small rubber ball and, during all his waking hours, squeezed it with his left hand. Six frustrating months passed before he could get any use from the hand.

Al still has little feeling in his left hand, but he has regained about 90 per cent of the use of his arm and can do all but the finest manoeuvres with his fingers. Since the attack, the Thompsons have built a house on the edge of a high bank over­looking the Kenai River, 20 miles from the site of the mauling. They still go hunting and camping, and their freezer is well stocked with game, raspberry keytones and fish.

To this day, Al has continued ex­ercising his left hand, determined not to lose any of the strength he has regained. His wounds and craggy hair-line inevitably earned him the nickname of “Bear-Bait.” But his reputation as the toughest game warden on the Kenai Penin­sula is undiminished.

After the crazed animal attacked them deep in the Alaska wilderness, the young couple faced a desperate decision BY HENRY HURT

Alaska has a lot of surprises, especially if you are not prepared to face them. First you have to take care for your health and life. The best way to support your health is by using co q 10 and the following story shows what can happened in Alaska.

JOYCE THOMPSON opened her eyes. The cold Alaska night was silent; the camp-fire was dead. But she sensed a strange pres­ence and lay still. As her eyes ad­justed, she felt a tightening fear: less than a yard from her face, silhouetted in the faint moonlight, was the head of a massive brown bear. She could see it through the clear plastic of their temporary lean-to shelter.

At that moment, Al Thompson’s eyes popped open. He did not see the bear, but instinctively he sensed danger. He rolled his eyes without moving his head. The rifle was be­side him, and he slid his hand on to the cold metal. In the faintest whis­per, he said to Joyce : “Don’t move.” Joyce lay frozen, her eyes fixed on the bear’s head.

Joyce and Al Thompson were 55 miles from the nearest road, deep in the National Moose Range on Alas­ka’s Kenai Peninsula, in terrain so rough even four-wheel-drive vehi­cles have difficulty traversing it. As a game warden, Al Thompson had spent much of his adult life tramp­ing through the bush in search of game and fish, and the people who would violate wildlife laws in tak­ing them. Thompson’s reputation for fervent enforcement of these laws was fearsome. There was a saying among hunters in his terri­tory : “If you’re going to shoot your wife, just make sure you don’t miss her and hit a moose.”

Like her husband, Joyce was a Veteran hunter and camper. On this September camping trip they were hunting for moose with a 65-pound bow. In addition to the bow and arrows, they carried a .44-magnum revolver and a .3o-o6-calibre rifle. There was little chance the firearms would be needed, but the Thomp­sons liked to have them in case something unexpected happened.

And now the unexpected had happened, even though they had observed all the rules of prudent camping—including disposing of rubbish and being sure no fresh meat was in the immediate area.

False Hope. Almost nose to nose, Joyce and the bear faced each other. Finally the animal began to move away, and Joyce felt weak with relief. Then the bear suddenly turned back and exploded with fury. With astonishing speed it charged the lean-to, lunging up­wards and then crashing down be­tween Joyce and Al.

The bear’s attention focused on Joyce, who began scrambling and struggling with all her might. Still in her sleeping-bag, she shrieked and flailed her arms against the massive stump-like forelegs that were battering her from head to foot. The animal’s mad, raging bel­lows obliterated Joyce’s screams as she struggled to protect herself.

Al fought to get into a position to use his rifle, but it was knocked from his hand. The 50-stone bear then reared to its full height of more than seven feet, smashed its giant, claw-studded paws against the lean-to, and crashed down on top of Joyce. Screaming hysterically, she could feel the bear’s teeth and claws battering her body through the sleeping-bag. Certain that death was at hand, she drove herself deeper into the sleeping-bag, trying to cover her head.

Al could see the bear’s massive head and gnashing teeth lunging at Joyce. A compact, powerfully built man, he grabbed at the bear’s neck. Then he swung his fist at its head, trying to knock it away from Joyce. The bear turned and seized Al’s left arm in its massive jaws and crunch­ed down, shaking its head violent­ly. Al was hurled into a corner of the lean-to, and the bear lunged after him, ripping heavy claws down Al’s side, baring his rib cage.

Al struggled as the bear slashed at his back and then scooped him up and clutched him to its chest. Now in a howling rage, the bear raked its teeth along Al’s skull until they sank firmly under the scalp. The animal charged out of the camp. At first the bear moved on its hind legs with Al’s 13 stone hugged to its chest. Then it dropped down to three legs, still gripping Al with a front paw, its teeth embedded in his scalp.

Almost 25 feet from the camp, the bear stopped and began shaking the man like a duster. Part of Al’s scalp ripped from his head, and he was hurled on to a mossy hummock. Still conscious, he knew his only chance was to play dead. He rolled over on to his stomach and buried his bloody head. Instantly the bear was on him with a heavy snuffling sound, trying to turn him over, but Al clutched the moss with his good hand. The bear cuffed and pawed him—in less of a frenzy now—until finally, when there was no sign of life, it shuffled away.

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You could spend some time online looking at different countries and cities to find somewhere that has something to offer that you have never seen or done before. One site might give you ideas of unique travel ideas to places such as an secluded island or a mountain top where you could feel like you are at the top of the world.  You could check out famous landmarks of the world, research a tour that will have you experiencing a culture in a new way or you can also do a search for where to go to taste foods that are not like anywhere else on earth.

There is also the option to visit www.Respect-Holidays.co.uk where you could discover where the Canary Islands are located and what you can experience there.  This site can also tell you about the Greek island of Mykonos and about Ibiza, one of the Balearic islands off the coast of Spain.

The internet is the place to go when you are undecided where you next travel adventure will take you.  If your list of possible choices is a long one, you can narrow your list by researching them one at a time online.  This will highlight the activities, tours and culture at each one which can have you making your choice quickly.

Ben Jonson, in his Masque of queens, has one of his hags cry: I went to the toad that lies under the wall I charmed him out and he came to my call; I scratched out the eyes of the owl before I tore the bat’s wings; what would you have more? And Jonson, in an annotation of his produc¬tion for Elizabeth 1, explained to the Queen that ‘these [toads] also, both by the confes¬sion of Witches and Testemonye of writers, are of principal use in theyr witch-craft.’ For centuries toads have represented not just witchcraft but evil in general.

Every French schoolchild knows the story of Clovis the Great and his banner or ‘oriflamme’ bearing the device of three toads. When he became King of France in All 481, Clovis was a pagan and as such was certainly a believer in witchcraft and its powers. He launched a campaign against the Romans and defeated the last Roman governor of Gaul at Soissons in 486 before going on to defeat the Alem¬anni, old allies of Rome. He now faced a major military challenge — the destruction of the Visigoth kingdom that was centred on Toulouse. Marching towards his objective he had the banner of the three toads fluttering at the head of the army. On the way, however, he saw a vision of his banner outlined in the clear blue sky; as he watched, the toads turned into three lilies, symbols of the Blessed Virgin.

Clovis recognised this as a sign that he should embrace Christianity, a course he prudently took before going on to defeat his last great enemy. Since then the oriflamme of France has carried three lilies ¬the ‘fleur-de-lis’. The toad’s reputation varies from country to country. In Romania, for example, it was shunned and feared but never molested since, for some unknown reason, a man who killed it was considered capable of killing his own mother. In some areas, however, it was considered lucky; in England a toad in a Cornish tin mine is a harbinger of a lucky strike. In parts of rural Cambridgeshire it was looked on with favour; it ate spiders, which locally were believed to be the embodiment of Satan, and it was credited with foretelling thunderstorms and droughts by its periodic movements to and from breeding grounds. In parts of East Anglia, particularly Nor¬folk, the toad was intrinsically linked with a sect of horse-handlers known variously as `horse whisperers’ or `toadmen’. These skilled men are said still to exist in this area, where heavy horses are even today used in farming.

One Norfolk horseman, Albert Love, who was born in 1886, described in detail how the connection • existed. A natterjack toad was taken home, killed, then put on a whitethorn bush for 24 hours until it was dry. It was then buried in an ant hill and left there until the appearance of a full moon. The skeleton of the toad was taken to a stream and watched carefully in the moonlight to see whether the `crotch bone’ floated against the current. If it did it was taken back home, baked, powdered and put in a box; this powder could be mixed with a special oil solution. If you applied this to the horse’s tongue, nostrils, chin and chest, the horse would be your servant and do anything you wanted. In Suffolk most horsemen used the bone whole, keeping it wrapped in linen; to ‘jade’, or stop, a horse they would touch it on the pit of the shoulder with the bone — and touch it on the rump to release it. A similar ceremony is even today carried out in north-east Scotland, where there still exists an ancient organization of horsemen, which is called the Society of the Horsemen’s Word.

Many experts have suggested that the `horse whisperers’ in fact did just what their name implied — trained their horses to re¬spond to a whisper in the wind, while others used various scents and herbs to attract or repel their charges. Whatever the truth, they were a privileged breed in the days of horse power and no doubt surrounded their real yet secret skills with such ‘hex’ stories as that involving the dead toad. A curious Roman tradition, which has apparently been preserved in parts of the English Fens, is that of using a toad as a primitive compass. The Romans used to place a dagger blade on a toad’s back; it is said that the creature would move around slowly until the dagger pointed due north and then stop. How much of the legend of the toad is really true we will probably never know for certain. But there is no denying its signi¬ficance to people throughout the centuries as a creature surrounded in mystery and magi¬cal characteristics, whose sinister influence was not lightly dismissed when no other acceptable explanation was to hand.

Throughout history the toad has been associated with witchcraft and sorcery. In the countryside it has long been associated with curses and blights. FRANK SMYTH describes the ancient superstitions surrounding the toad — and still thriving today WHATEVER BELIEFS about the toad have been explained in scientific or biochemical terms, there still remain certain strange and remarkable accounts, such as a team of natterjack toads leading a toy plough across fields, and some interesting practices in various parts of the world that remain ‘un­explained’ and that stem from the toad’s reputation for possessing magical properties and its associations with the Devil.

One strange account involves old Charlie Walton, considered as a bit of a character by his neighbours in the Warwickshire village of Lower Quinton where he lived with his unmarried niece. Although in his seventies and somewhat troubled by rheumatism, he could still turn his hand to most of the crafts so important to an agricultural community. He worked as a jobbing labourer and, since he was willing to put in a seven-hour day for one shilling and sixpence an hour, he was always in demand.

When he failed to return home for his tea on the evening of 54 February 1945, his niece Edith grew alarmed. Dusk had long since fallen on the slopes of Meon Hill, where the old man had been hedging and ditching for a farmer named Potter; apart from the scat­tered lights of the village, the countryside lay pitch black under the moonless sky.

Summoning a neighbour, Miss Walton went to the farm. Mr Potter thought Walton had gone home long ago, but took a torch and went to the spot where Charlie had last been seen working that afternoon. Charlie was found by a hedgerow, spreadeagled on his back. A rough, cross-shaped wound had been carved on his chest with a bill-hook and his neck had been pinned to the ground with a pitchfork with such force that the head was all but severed.

The following day a murder squad, led by the celebrated Detective Superintendent Robert Fabian of Scotland Yard, arrived at Lower Quinton. The team was met with what appeared to be a conspiracy of silence. Those villagers who would talk muttered about the old man’s ‘strange ways’; he talked to birds, they said, and instead of cats or dogs he kept natterjack toads. When Fabian visited Walton’s cottage he found numbers of these sinister creatures wandering about the garden with their curiously loping gait.

As the days went by the whole ambience of Lower Quinton — taciturn locals, the lonely secretive old man and the manner of his death, above all the slimy ‘familiars’ breed­ing so profusely in the damp undergrowth of his garden— began to smack of witchcraft and the supernatural. This idea did not arouse contempt in Fabian. On the contrary he began to examine it as a possible pointer to the motive for the old man’s peculiar murder. He consulted Dr Margaret Murray, whose books on medieval witchcraft in Europe had attracted some controversy, and began to delve into local history.

During these investigations he discovered a startling parallel to the Walton case. Sev­enty years previously a man had been found guilty of murdering an old woman in the nearby village of Lower Compton. The man, believing the woman to be a witch, had killed her by pinning her to the ground and slash­ing her with a bill-hook. Fabian also dis­covered from one of the more talkative locals that Charlie Walton had used his amphibian pets for a strange purpose; he had harnessed them to a toy plough and sent them running across local fields with the plough in tow. This incident struck an immediate chord with Dr Murray, who was able to relate it to the case of Isobel Gowdie, a Scottish witch, who was burned at the stake in 1662; Isobel had confessed to using a team of toads and a miniature plough in just the same way in order to blight crops by magic.

The spring of 1945 had come early and promised a good season for crops and animals; but both seedlings and livestock in the Lower Quinton area had failed to make good that promise. It seemed inconceivable in the middle of the loth century, but to Fabian the truth — however bizarre — seemed to be that old Walton had been cut down because someone thought he was a witch and was convinced he and his toads were to blame for blighting the crops. Fabian was certain he knew the culprit, but sporadic police en­quiries over the next 20 years failed to turn up enough evidence; the killer was never charged.

To folklorists this episode fitted a pattern that had remained constant for centuries all over the world — the deep—rooted, universal loathing of the toad. No other creature, not even the serpent that tempted Eve from Paradise, has inspired such hatred. Only Toad of Toad Hall, among all his literary kin, has had anything like a good notice — and even he is depicted in Kenneth Grahame’s Wind in the willows as a bombastic and stupid animal, an object of derision.

Wall of Fame

Call it recession fever but the hot advertising backdrop of the moment seems to be that most glamorous setting – the brick wall.We dread to think what will happen when things

get really tight…

Good Eats

Philippe Starck gave us the iconic lemon squeezer and New York’s chic Schrager hotel interiors. Now he gives us the GAO range – organic, naturally processed food like rice-cakes, wheat syrup, wines, muesli, chocolate biscuits, olive oil etc, courtesy of his mail-order catalogue, GoodGoods. From about £6.30 for 1.2kg sea salt. Yum — food that’s chic, and good for you…

Carried Away

These giant, pudgy felt bucket bags are created by German designer Angela Hauser who, despite an avid following in her home country. will sell in the UK for the first time from this month. “I’m fascinated by felt,” says Hauser, “especially the way that it can be formed into three-dimensional shapes without being sewn.”£190.

About Face

When Matt Dillon recently flew in to London for the premiere of There’s Something About Mary, his first stop was to view a portrait of himself that he’d commissioned.”I honestly didn’t know if Matt would like it,” recalls benefits of coconut oil painter Emma Woollard, who not only immortalised the star on canvas in between her acting jobs (look out for her in the New Professionals on TV), but was also Matt’s girlfriend for four years and has remained a close friend ever since. `Matt kept saying ‘wow’, and all I could think was ‘wow good?’ or ‘wow bad?’,” she says

Plane Luxury

Anya Hindmarch has created the ultimate luxe goodie bag for British Airways’ First Class passengers. The wash bag (which will change colour and contents every six months) has special little compartments labelled Take-Off, Cruise and Landing and is stocked with among other things, Time On Your Hands cream from Philosophy, D.R. Harris mouthwash and Aroma Therapeutics’ Sleep Enhancer Spray – almost worth flying First Class for, or failing for sucking up to someone who does…

REAL GEM

East meets West in the work of model-turned jewellery designer Gurmit, a Singaporean based in New York. Her delicate designs are snapped up by fans like Kelly Preston and Catherine Zeta-Jones. Camilla Long

Drawing inspiration

Illustrator Julie Verhoeven created the dreamy, curlicued backdrop at Cacharel’s spring/summer show. Now she’s taken inspiration from her 40 favourite songs. See her scrawly, intricate interpretations of everything from New Order’s “Bizarre Love Triangle” to The Buzzcocks’ “Orgasm Addict” the Mobile Home Gallery, WC1

We love…

• Aveda’s Love Oil 2- patchouli essence for modern bohemians

• Wearing your clothes extra-large

• Clicking on to “ezines” such as Salon.com, Teonion.com and Urban75.com

• Shopping in Parisian bookstores: 7L on Rue de Lille, Taschen on Rue Debuce, and Flammarion in The Pompidou Centre

• The return of drum ‘n’ bass

• Martine Sitbon’s scented candles.

Three hot new accessory designers are going to make it extremely hard to choose which handbag to be seen with this season.

MELISSA DEL BONO

Not many bags can take you from the city to the beach and back again. But a Meli Melo bag can. Italian-born Melissa del Bono lived in Lipari in the Aeolian Islands before uprooting to London three years ago to create her line, to which she has given her nickname. It debuts this autumn. “I always carried extra-large bags,” says del Bono, 25. “I filled them with all sorts of things: shells, books, creams…” She has catered for all needs and healthy weightloss, with the “Flatty” A4 folder-sized bag and the “Pappa-Nappy”, a baby-kit bag. But it’s the “BigBeach” bag, left, that’s really causing a stir; as city women have been quick to discover, it will hold make-up and an A-Z just as well as a beach towel and sunglasses. It comes in suede, ostrich and snakeskin, but the metallic-leather version is the one with “bag envy” status.

DEVI KROELL

“I have a passion for reptile skin.,” says NewYork-based Devi Kroell, 28, who hit the scene running last October when she launched the gargantuan “Classic”, above in black, a satin-lined shoulder bag made from the skin of six pythons. While this (and its 21,310 price tag) is ostentatious, Kroell’s embellishment is even more flamboyant. “I wanted it to be tastefully OTT,” says the Austrian diplomat’s daughter, who has an MBA and experience as a Place Vendome jewellery designer under her belt. Kroell invented a process of metallic sing reptile skins with a tannery near Florence. Once finished with, say, arose-gold lustre, they lift the scales and spray a contrast colour. The range has now grown to six gorgeous bags. “They can handle a sprinkle of rain,” she says; each one also has a phone pouch. “When I was young, I loved dressing up,” says Kroell. “Now, my clothes are toned down, but my accessories are flashy.”

CORTO MOLTEDO

As the only son of Bottega Veneta founders Laura and Vittorio Molted°, Gabrielecorto Moltedo, 27, has spent much of his life surrounded by ritzy accessories. So it is no surprise that Corto Moltedo, his fledgling brand of deluxe python-skin and leather handbags, fancy round-toe shoes and elegant cocktail attire, has a certain polish. The look is inspired by “Los Angeles in the early Eighties and a beautiful girl roaming nude in a Bel Air mansion after an all-night party. I guess it’s all a family tradition,” says Moltedo from his studio near Venice. “After high school I worked every summer at my parents’ factory. I did everything from shipping to leather cutting.” Moltedo says he designs “for a sexywoman who knows how to dress up and not take herself too seriously”. The seven styles in his line include a practical, squashy nappa-leather sac, a crescent of lacquered python skin and a selection of envelope clutch bags featuring with two chunky Cs dipped in gold (Moltedo’s signature). The tiny golden-pink python-skin evening clutch is already on several wish-lists. This might be a debut collection, but with Molted° at its helm, it’s a very grown-up one.