The young boy and I set out late today. Like Spain it was rolling and even more so in that it was many short inclines and declines. Many of them sharp enough to leave us breathless.
The views were of vineyards, quaint homes and tiny lanes – a quintessential feel of a run in a French village. Or so I liked to imagine. Was this quintessential?
It was the conversations, the encouragement, the run in itself with the young boy that was all that was pure and needed.
Writing about Running 