Just a Little Run Around the World: 5 Years, 3 Packs of Wolves and 53 Pairs of Shoes. Rosie Pope Swale
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Germany, November 2003
Something very alive, large, and struggling frantically, falls on top of me.
It’s crazy trying to get the zip open, as everything is being flung all over the place. The bivvi hits a tree, and I get a thud on the head. I drop the torch, and am squashed flat in the dark. Luckily the torch is within my grasp.
I manage to get the strained zip open at last, and almost drop dead from astonishment. I’m still frightened but can’t stop laughing either. Shaking almost as much as me and regarding me with little black short-sighted eyes, twitching his snout with fine whiskers and a pair of small tusks, is a wild boar. He seems quite young though large and appears to have collided with my home by accident. Probably out looking for truffles or something. He looks so sweet but I’ve heard that wild boars are dangerous. He’s got himself caught up with the trotters in the guy rope, which on the bivvi are very low and he’s twisting around until practically wearing the bivouac. We’re both too squashed to move. I’ve heard that when dealing with bears, which I’ve never done before, you have to talk to them, so I say, ‘It’s OK, Eric —’ (the first name that comes to mind) ‘— I don’t want any bacon for breakfast. Obelix might eat three wild boars for breakfast but not me!’
I’m so worried the bivvi will get wrecked, but he’s standing stock still now although wound in it so tightly and it’s all wedged around a tree root. I can hardly move either. It seems like hours have passed, though it’s only moments since it all began. I never ever thought I’d end up being joined at the hip with a wild boar. Finally I sacrifice one of the guy ropes, cutting it with my small knife. Eric shakes himself free as if to see if he’s really at liberty, then twists his little tail round and tears away with one last snort.
It’s well after dawn. Sunshine comes through the golden leaves on the oak trees. Everything is drenched from the rain which has stopped without my noticing.
My tent is a scene of chaos but has somehow held together, although my precious Marmite and lavender oil have blended together, putting me off both for quite some time.
I’ll never forget Eric the Wild Boar and the lesson he’s taught me. This is a multifaceted journey, not just a run. In future I put little white ties on the guy-ropes to warn any short-sighted creatures that I’m there. Wild animals don’t often attack you, but it doesn’t pay to startle them. I’m to learn that they’re not keen on a fight, as they don’t wish to become injured themselves. There’s not much joy in being an injured predator, because that way you don’t get to eat. But I have to avoid another confrontation even like the one with berry- and truffle-eating Eric, however much we’d got along OK in the end, because the kit won’t stand it.
I manage to gather my equipment together; it’s pretty muddy and needs patching. I don’t fancy sleeping in it before cleaning it up but I could do—it isn’t too bad. I pack everything and have a good 35km run to Leer, the first German town. Ahead of me is the most beautiful sight: a hotel with pretty flower-boxes, the warmth and smell of hot coffee and signs for home-made apple strudel and delicious German sausages and sauerkraut.
I reach for the emergency pack of euros my brother Nicolas gave me before I left. The manager, dressed in black jacket and pin-striped trousers, grabs my soggy, muddy backpack as if it were Gucci luggage—only 40 euros with breakfast, he says. He dances me up the carpeted staircase, showing me into a room with a four-poster bed, pointing to the spacious gleaming bathroom, plucking a rose from a vase on the way up and flinging it into the washbasin, then leaves me to it. I’m so glad he doesn’t reappear half an hour later. He’d never have recognised the place: my sleeping bags are hanging over plastic bags to catch the drops, with muddy leggings draped about the place. The great thing about hotel rooms is that the kit enjoys it as much as you do. I sink a small bottle of champagne that he’s thoughtfully left beside the bed and fall fast asleep.
CHAPTER 6 Need Makes the Naked Lady Spin
Germany, November 2003
These are the foothills of the epic adventures ahead. I am in a hidden Germany I’ve never known existed: white-tailed deer leaping and bounding so high you’d think they had wings; cottages out of Hansel and Gretel; more hogs (though none behave like Eric); foxes and owls hunting at night, falcons and kestrels and hundreds of songbirds by day. As I nibble at black bread and cheese, the smaller birds often hop along with me, jumping on the crumbs.
I arrive at the historical town of Oldenburg among pretty buildings and churches with tall spires. I’d like to stay in Oldenburg one day with someone I love. I put the idea in a little bag inside my head called ‘Later’. I hope it’s a strong bag, as it holds a lot.
I think how lucky I’ve been to sleep beneath the beautiful stars in forests at night; to hear the wind stirring after a calm forest night; and get the smells and taste almost of the new day; the wild herbs, berries and fresh wild air—and to be on my way. The mornings are frosty and clear and everything just feels great.
I love these forests and towns that give me a feeling of running through a storybook. ‘I’ll be back, I keep telling myself.’ On foot I am slow enough for the spell of my surroundings to catch and absorb me. They become part of me. Yet this is overshadowed by my emotions about the urgency of trying to keep going as well as I can. Russia lies ahead but it is at least 2,000 miles away.
I’m already on my third pair of shoes and they have looked after me really well, My legs feel fine. Top marathoners sometimes do 150 miles a week, just in training for a race, so the distance, even with the heavy pack, isn’t so extreme as my pace is about 30–35km a day. If I think like this, the running is easier.
Over the next few days I cross footbridges over the huge autobahns or go through dark little tunnels leading beneath them, following mostly farm tracks and cycle paths. I’m so slow people often stop me to find out what I’m doing and give me valuable local directions. I am getting on reasonably well in German with the help of a phrase book, and going slowly makes me feel part of the communities I am running through, which makes me less lonely, and everybody is good to me. Some of the byways aren’t on any map I’ve bought. I go north of Bremen after negotiating the bridge on the outskirts across the river, eventually reaching Buxthude and I’m 20km from Hamburg where I need to collect a parcel.
I’m given keys to a closed campsite so I can shower in the toilet block. The showers work but the lights are dim and while I’m showering I hear crunching beneath my feet and realise the floor’s full of broken glass, as one of the windows has been smashed by the winter storms. I spend a long time picking it out of my feet but think no more of it.
I arrive in Hamburg at last on 11 November, and find a policeman leaning against his motorcycle as I reach the city centre after hours of heading in from the outskirts. He signs my logbook with a flourish, directing me to the Allianz Cornhill building—a glittering skyscraper. One of the most difficult things on this run is getting an address where I can get my kit sent ahead. Geoff Hall who works for Allianz Cornhill in London has arranged for their office in Hamburg to kindly help and receive a box of equipment for me which has arrived. Myrto Reiger and her colleagues greet me cheerfully, dragging in what they call ‘the Rosie Parcel’.
I check out the website which is going so well. I’m inspired all the time by the way people have been helping non-stop; most of all, the heart-warming and exceptional support from my ‘A Team’ back at home who have been in on it from day one. This sustained assistance is so valuable. Ann has even sent a ‘Red Cross parcel’ she’s made up for me, containing fruitcake and home-made apple pie, that’s somehow survived. The items need to be packed into my rucksack. They all help, as the poor pack grows and grows. Cakes and coffee are served, and they produce a gift of a big box of chocolates, sharing my joy