Tough Mudder and diabetes - first hand experience

On Saturday 17 November 2012 I took part in Tough Mudder North West held at Cholmondeley Castle in Cheshire, UK.  If you don't know what Tough Mudder is then google it, but basically it's a 10-12 mile assault course with 20-25 obstacles and lots of mud.  I'm a diabetic and in the months leading up to the event I struggled to find much information about how to cope with it.  As I've just done it and survived I thought I'd share my experiences in case they're of any use to other diabetics.

A bit of background about me.  I'm 37, I've been a Type 1 diabetic since 1981, and generally I've had OK control (HBA1C circa 7.5 for the last 10 years).  I'm 6'3" and weigh about 14st.  I never really exercised much, then on 1 September 2011 I went for a regular check up at the eye clinic at West Suffolk Hospital in Bury St Edmunds.  It was a total shock.  I'd had some minor laser treatment to my left eye in (I think) 2009 at Ipswich Hospital, but they'd said it was to be expected in someone who'd been diabetic as long as me and no need to worry.  I've always been terrified of losing my eyesight, so to be told that Thursday that I had proliferative diabetic retinopathy and that without extensive laser treatment I would be looking at 2-5 years before I went blind was a shocker.  Put simply, my life changed.

We (because this is a joint effort between me and Keeley, my wife) resolved there and then that I / we would do whatever it took to give me a fighting chance of keeping my eyesight for as long as possible, starting with looking after ourselves better.  That meant getting fit and healthy, so we set about building a gym at home in a barn we're very fortunate to have.  My Mum very kindly paid for it, and my mate Tim (www.extrafit.co.uk) advised me what to get and how to train.  I've got a Concept 2 rower, a squat rack with free weights and a bench, a static bike (£60 from the auction www.twgaze.co.uk) and a free running machine from a colleague.  Tim gave me a great workout programme combining cardio and weights, and I set about getting myself in shape three or four times a week.

Then in June 2012 my mate Ben of Watling Engineers (www.watling-towbars.co.uk) was entered into Tough Mudder North West by his brother - as a birthday present.  Ben appealed to his mates to help him, so four of us formed Team Extrafat and duly signed up for the event.  Shortly afterwards Kee told me that she'd mentioned it to a couple of the girls at the school gate (we've got two boys aged 5 and 7) and before I knew it they'd formed Team Tough Muvvers.  The gauntlet was thrown down and training began in earnest.

From the outset I was concerned what effect this endurance event would have on my blood sugar.  I researched as much as I could, and found some useful websites such as www.runsweet.com which is all about diabetes and sport.  I also started running as part of my training, something I'd never enjoyed and, frankly, got out of at school by playing the diabetic card.  So running and me were very uneasy bedfellows, but as I was going to be doing almost a half marathon I figured I'd better start learning.  I gradually built it up over a number of weeks, and in Sept/Oct I managed to get to running a 10k, then 8 miles, then 9 miles.  I actually went at it too hard (against Tim's advice) and, as he predicted, injured myself.  (A word of caution here - it costs £86.20 to enter Tough Mudder; budget at least three times that amount for physio treatment during training.)  One way or another though I learned how to run and - shock - even started to enjoy it.

Anyway, I started experimenting with blood sugar, carbohydrates and exercise.  My regime was to get up at 6am, test, drink a cup of tea, train (run or gym) at 6.20am until at least 7.30am, test, eat breakfast (three weetabix or two chunky slices of granary multigrain toast with two poached eggs), and at least a litre of water.  I'm on the pen, so I have Levermir before bed (22 units) and Humalog three times a day before meals.  Pre- 1 Sep 2011 I was on (roughly) 8 units at breakfast, 12 units at lunch and between 18 and 24 units supper.  I like food, and we eat a pretty healthy diet, and luckily I've never had a sweet tooth so if eight sausages, mash and peas doesn't fill me up (really) then I'd have some oats, sultanas, an orange and a yoghurt (natural or Activia fat free).  Like I say, I like my food.

When training proper started and I was running and interval training on the rower I was down to 3 units at breakfast, 6 to 8 at lunch, and 12 to 16 at supper.  I've also lost weight, but only going from 14st 2lb down to 13st 11lb - my body has changed shape a lot though, so much of the midriff fat I was carrying has slimmed down and I've put on some muscle.  I'm no Arnie but I'm a big lad and have always been reasonably strong.  My problem has been eating like I'm still 16 but not exercising.

The experimenting was interesting.  Even when I went for a 6 - 8 mile run having had no food beforehand my blood sugar would stay pretty much the same before and after.  So I knew that cardio on its own didn't make me go hypo over that period of time (just over an hour).  In the gym I was doing interval training on the rower (if you want a programme like mine look Tim up via his website www.extrafit.co.uk - through helping me has put together some excellent stuff about diabetes and fitness), folllowed by pairs of high-rep exercises to work on all-over strength and conditioning for maximum fat-burning.  I found that when I was exercising hard on the rower - some of the intervals were at 100% effort taking my heartrate close to max at 183 - and increasing the weights, my post-workout blood sugar was higher, and frequently stayed that way for the rest of the day.  This was perhaps to do with my exercises taking me to an anaerobic level and therefore dumping glycogen.  However what I did learn was that I could train hard and not go hypo, even having had no carbohydrate beforehand.  The big question was what would happen on the day when I combined stamina and endurance - 10 to 12 miles - with short, sharp bursts of resistance work, such as monkey bars, climbing over walls, or wading through knee-deep mud for extended periods.  I wasn't interested in recreating the event itself in training; instead I concentrated on getting myself as aerobically fit as possible and working on core strength while also learning to run.

By the week before the event I was in reasonable shape, knew that I could run 9 miles, that I could row 7,000m in 28 mins of interval training, and that my core was stronger than it ever had been. I was no athlete, but I was confident that I had better fitness than five months earlier and that I had done as much as reasonably possible while holding down a full-time job, having enough daylight hours to fit in the training required, and working round (or resting from) injuries.  This is a photo of me at that point, just to show that I'm a normal bloke with a spare tyre (albeit a smaller one than it had been) who's trying his best.

The week before the big day involved 'tapering' - very light training, lots of stretching and plenty of water.  I did one three mile run and two one mile runs, plus yoga with Kee and the Tough Muvvers (quite an experience, but we'll save that for another day).  Plenty of testing blood sugar - I've always tested at least four times a day anyway - and watching what I was eating.

My plan for the day was sketchy to say the least.  I had no idea how intense the obstacles were going to be, how long the effect of the adrenalin would last for (it makes your blood sugar rise - I've found this out as I'm an auctioneer as part of my job, and the adrenalin from that always makes me high afterwards), what effect three hours of exercise would have, nor what the cold and wet would do to my blood sugar.  My attitude was that it's only three hours so if I run high for that time then so be it, but I didn't want to be too high (ie 15.0+) as I would feel crap.  By the same token I've always been wary of exercising if my blood sugar is less than 5.0 as the 'margin for error' is too small for comfort.  On some mornings during training I'd woken up hypo at 3.0 or less, but with four or five gulps of Lucozade (orange flavour, the ordinary stuff not Lucozade Sport) I would be ready to train within 15 minutes and have no ill effects. So I planned to eat my normal breakfast of three weetabix at 6.15am, reduce my insulin to 3 units (usual dose of Levermir the night before) and eat a mansize banana at about 8.30am.  Tim also took sachets of SIS Go Gel (www.scienceinsport.com) with him, four for each of us to have round the course, and I had a bumbag with two Hypostop gels in it in case of a hypo.  We had friends spectating as well, but we didn't know if or when we would see them, but I loaded them up with chocolate bars and Lucozade in case I needed it and we happened to find them at the right time.

The nerves certainly kicked in from the night before, and I was worried that I was going to send myself sky high.  As it was I needn't have worried because although the event was physical, it wasn't as physically challenging as I'd imagined.  Don't get me wrong, it takes it out of you but the worst bit (and the reason why it's tough) is the cold and the wet.  Within half a mile of the start we'd had to jump in a large vat of ice and get fully submerged.  I can only assume that being cold and wet for three hours while exercising burns up energy.

Tim sensibly suggested that every time we got to a water stop (every three or four miles) we have an SIS Go Gel.  The course marshalls also handed out half bananas on a few occasions and I had these as well as the gels.  In all I had one and a half bananas and four gels during the 2hrs 45mins it took us to do the course.

By the end I was physically done, left knee hurting, right shoulder bashed, cold to the core and cramping, but we did it and got the coveted orange headband.  I tested my bloodsugar and I was 7.9.  I'm almost as proud of that as I am of completing Tough Mudder, so I made Ben take a photo.

Conclusions?  I can only go on my own experience, but as I'm a diabetic and I've done Tough Mudder hopefully this might help someone:

1. You can do Tough Mudder if you're diabetic.
2. If it's cold and wet it will probably drain your energy so keep topped up and if needs be run higher than normal, but don't underestimate how cold it is.
3. I did Tough Mudder in Cheshire in November.  There are other Tough Mudders held in different parts of the country and at different times of the year.  Had this been Kettering in May I think my bloodsugar might not have taken such a hit as I might not have been so cold.
4. Tough Mudder is physically demanding, but it's no Royal Marines selection assault course (Tim should know; he's done it).
5. It sounds daft, but listen to your body and in training get to know the difference between feeling knackered from training hard and being hypo - it's not always obvious.
6. If in doubt, test.
7. Make a plan, however simple, and talk it through with your teammates beforehand (thankfully I've known mine for 20+ years so they're reasonably familiar with diabetes, to the extent that they were visibly disappointed not to have the chance to stab me with a needle in the event of a hypo)
8. Research UK websites - most of those to do with Tough Mudder are from the USA as the event started there, and the yankees speak a different medical language.
9. Talk to your diabetes support team at hospital or the local surgery if you like - mine are excellent, but I'd also say that this is a potentially specialist area of diabetes treatment and they may only be able to give you general advice.
10. Prepare for the worst (ie have Hypostop with you) but plan to succeed.

I hope that a diabetic might find this while searching the internet about Tough Mudder, as I tried to do, and that it might give them confidence to take on a challenge like Tough Mudder.

Above all, if you're going to do it train hard and enjoy.

Retrospective

I'm craving the arrival of spring and longer evenings.  Today ended up as another corker of a day, and tonight we all congretated outside to watch the International Space Station.  I couldn't see it for love nor money, but Kee did.  Shame we missed Discovery the other night.

So having posted twice in two days I'm getting bolder and looking back at previous efforts.  Tempting as it is to search the summer photos and reminisce about long warm evenings, I've started by going over this last winter.

Wow.

Having moved in during the heatwave that was June 2010, winter was quite something.  Bless her, the house held up superbly and kept us (mostly) warm, while outside the waterbutt froze and swelled to such an extent that it almost keeled over.  It seems funny now looking at my bags of rock salt in the open fronted shed, yet it wasn't all that long ago.

When the sun shone and the snow glistened, this place came into its own.  The trees around the Fen particularly, on the days when the frost covered the branches in a delicate, perfect sprinkling of white.  I love this photo just because it does what it says on the tin (apologies Ronseal).  Our house will never win an architectural prize nor a beauty parade, but she wears her heart on her sleeve and is as honest a building as you'll find.

The boys made a snowman in the meadow with Grandad one Friday, and it proved a popular fixture for a few weeks.  I walked through the yard one morning and saw our little owl sat on its head.  You never have your camera with you when you need it.

Iinstead we used it as the focal point for a feeding station for the local wildlife.  The summer's Bramleys were well wrapped and stored in the piggery, but we spared a good wheelbarrow-full for the fieldfares, redwings and mistle thrushes.

Others seemed to appreciate the apples as well.  This young buck Roe deer became a regular visitor, and kept coming back loing after the snow had melted (even though the snowman survived the thaw).

He came back at the weekend, and I even saw him this morning, looking scruffy as his winter coat moults, but his velvety antlers are growing and he seems to have more of a strut about him. Unlike Red deer, Roes rut in the summer but breed in late winter (I think), so he's got about four months to get himself in shape for the summer.  I know how you feel old chap.

What I thought were weeds at the front of the house also turned out to be a valuable food source.  Sat in the dining room one day I heard twittering from under the window, and in my best SAS-style crawl managed to get to the window without showing my head until the last moment.  This goldfinch certainly seemed surprised to see me.

But the enduring memory of the winter was the regular visitor to our meadow, Athene noctua, known to most people as a little owl.  A right character, we first noticed him sat on molehills pre-dawn when we came down for breakfast and peered through the scope into the gloom.  Regular as clockwork he would disappear as soon as the night started to fade.  At the end of the short winter days you would hear him screeching from next door's oak tree, or even from the wires in the field at the back.  He seemed to take up residence in the dilapidated shed in next door's field, and would hop across the hedge and sit in the bottom of our apple tree.

Here is a bird who exudes attitude, who can out-stare you in a game of poker.  Grumpy, boisterous, flighty, motionless.  Everything wrapped up in one little package of feathery charisma.

We haven't seen him for weeks, not even heard him.  Maybe he's off looking for the ladies.  Let's hope he's back in the summer with a new family of littl'uns, sat on the fence post, hopping down for some worms then flitting back.

Farewell winter.

Welcome spring.

Learning to fly

One of the motivations for going for a walk is to try and be there at the moment when nature surprises you and you're least expecting it.  I've never yet been for a walk at the Fen and not been surprised by something, however small or seemingly inconsequential.

One of the challenges is trying to photograph that moment when you give yourself only about three quarters of an hour.  As the season unfurls I can push the alarm back - yes I know I'm a bit odd - but I can't wait till I can get up at 5am and take my time.

One of the surprising parts is downloading photos.  I never expect to have captured the photo I saw in my mind's eye, and the vast majority of the time reality matches expectation.  But as the title of this post suggests, my version of learning to fly is about what to do with those hundreds - thousands? - of images, both jpeg and RAW, that I download and leave.  Quite apart from the memory they consume, I need to look at them afresh to learn how I can do it better next time.

In the field it's all about seeing and shooting - images, not rounds - I'll save those for the grey squirrels (sorry chaps).  I know what I want to photograph, and I think I know how, but with the best will in the world I simply don't have time to plan much.

So tonight I've sat down and looked again at an image I took yesterday.  The barn owl had turned in front of the wood and came back towards me.  Without the benefit of spot metering I was using centre-weighted, and with a white object on a dark background at ISO 800 it didn't strike me as an image worth playing with.  Still, I'd deleted the other ten or so on the card and saved this RAW and the one I posted yesterday - the one that could have been. 

I've got Adobe Photoshop Elements, and I bought the idiot's guide to using it, but somehow it just doesn't float my boat.  I'm just not that into post-processing.  Yet.  Instead I'm playing with Picasa 3 as it lets you download RAW and preview them.

So I pulled up the flying barn owl, tweaked a few sliders, and saved the jpeg.  And you know what?  It sort of works.  Sort of. (click to enlarge)

I'm still not sure about the blurred wings, and it's a noisy image having been taken at a high ISO, but there's just enough detail in the white to make out the fawn colour surrounding the heart-shaped face.

I saw him again this morning, this time in the field by the sluice.  I tried getting into position in the undergrowth at the edge to get a better shot, but 15 stone and size twelves on frosty reeds tend to create rather a lot of noise.  I let him go this morning.

The geese are becoming more active each day.  Three of them honked their way down to the water just before sunrise.  The photo's wrong in so many ways, yet the feeling of cold, morning light seems to come across.  The pink hue in the sky, the still reeds with jack frost, and the sun just about to break cover.

It makes me feel cold just looking at it.  Lovely.

And then, even though I had to get home, the sun started to break through the trees.  A 420mm telephoto doesn't really lend itself to landscapes, so I tried to think of a different way of capturing it.  All I wanted was one of the reed buntings to hop up to the top of a stem rather than hide away lower down, and I'd have given Niall Benvie a run for his money.  Or not as the case may be.

Instead I settled for a sunrise, one of those spritual, life-affirming moments where you feel that the day is yours to shape as you wish.

Learning to fly.

At first you fall to the ground.

With trial and error you take off, however ungracefully.

Eventually you get the hang of it.

One day.

Maybe.

Changing the Guard

Littlebitofbreadnocheese.

Teacher-teacher-teacher.

Even a skylark on the edge of Harleston last Tuesday.

The signs are there: spring is creeping in and winter is sliding out.

Nature is amazing in the way that it permeates every aspect of your life.  A site meeting today turned to stone curlews, followed by a farm tour and the strange savannah-esque spectacle of starlings riding the back of great mud-wading sows.

This morning was a cracker.  Pearlescent clear sky and the sun trying to force its way above the horizon.  Freezing cold and a frost underfoot, still only March remember.  The farmer was out ploughing at 6am, following yesterday's muck-spreading.  Everyone's getting ready.  Yet it's not an event that happens on a particular day or at a set time.  It just happens, it's like many things that you only notice when you look back.  And looking back now I can see how time has played out and the changes have quietly happened without any fanfare.

The fieldfares roost at the base of the reeds by the viewing platform.  Each morning I put them up, unintentionally, and they burst to the sky making their peculiar call, clearly annoyed.

The peeow of reed buntings, I always find myself double-checking it's not the ping of bearded tits.

Jenny wren and her feisty tik tik tik, always on the front foot.  Canada geese lifting off in pairs, everywhere pairs.  Roe deer.  Great tits.  Swans.  The collared doves on the bricks at home, tendng to each other like doting lovers.

Big sky, backlit reedbeds, frosted molehills underfoot.  Is he there?  Another morning drawing a blank.

There.  Far end of middle fen.  White, slightly bouncing flight.  Quartering.  Turn.  Drop.

Right to the spider pools or straight on.  Decisions, decisions.  Spider pools.

He's coming back my way.  Find a bush and try and use it as cover while still affording as wide a view as possible.  Tracking with autofocus now but still ISO800 and a slowish shutter speed.  Autofocus struggling to keep up.  Pan left and half press.  Hold.  Hold.  Here he comes, he hasn't seen me, bloody hell he's faster than I thought.  Straight towards me, then he looks up and veres away to his left.  Did I get it? (Nope.)

I follow him towards the wood and take position against the trees at the side of the path.  He's hunting in front of me.  A roe deer puts up and flashes his white rump as he bounds away.  The owl passes right over him.  Perfect harmony but playing in different keys.  Two worlds, same view.  Wow.

More shots then it's back as the sun is coming up.  Absolutely beautiful day.

Spring.  Welcome.

Silent White

The mornings are getting lighter now.  Half six doesn't even buy you the early day performance of the jack-dawn chorus.  They're done and dusted by the time you can see your hand in front of your face.

The trees sing though.  Alarm.  Boots on.  Open back door and after a few seconds your ears start registering the voices.  Robin.  Always the robin first.  A bubbling melody, never the same.  Turn the corner to the road and one jenny wren is inevitably shouting from the hedgerow to another not too far away.  A beautiful song, but so loud for such a small chap.  Then the tchik tchik as he gets annoyed that you're walking past his part of the hedge.

Into the car park and the tall trees are alive with song.  Not a lot of variety, teacher-teacher, blue tit, robin and wren, but still the branches seem to bend and pour sound over you.

The drill of a woodpecker echoes in the distance.  And again.  Then the mournful cackling laugh of a green woodpecker over to the right.  When will he find our meadow.

The jays are at it again, swooping in small groups from tree to tree, shreiking at each other in mock annoyance.  A pheasant puts up in the distance.

Nothing spectacular, yet it all heralds the arrival of spring, and all of it is wonderfully reassuring.  The snowdrops, the crocus, the mornings not quite so dark.

And then, and then.  Blimey.  White. Over the reedbed?  White.  Flapping with a seeming urgency yet head poised motionless.  Always moving, quartering, turning. Dropping.

I haven't seen a barn owl near the fen since late 2008 over the meadows on the far side of the Waveney.  Never seen one out here.

He pops up again, doesn't seem to mind me.  Something says he's a juvenile but I don't know why.  He heads off, seemingly not sure of me, then turns back and flies a wide arc.  By this time I'm moving on, and as I track the river and look back over the reedbed he's still there, a yellowy white shape floating over the tops of the reeds.

That's the cue.  Time to dust down the Canon and start the mornings properly.

That was Wednesday,  Yesterday I took the camera and sure enough he was there again.  I even walked the reverse route so I would end up at the spider pools when it was a bit lighter.  It was, but not a lot.  The morning mist merged with grey cloud.  Remember, your brain is a much more powerful microprocesser than a camera, and what you can imagine looks reasonable to your eyes never quite makes it through a camera lens.  So it was with this chap.  He quartered, hunted, dropped, stayed down, lifted and was straight onto it again.  Bollocks.  Gloves off, push hat up head, IS is on, who used my camera, ggrrrrr, ISO's wrong, secondary wheel's turned off, can't get focussing point.  Bollocksbollocksbollocks.  No light to get a flight shot.  He settles on a post.  Autofocus hunts, in, out, in, out.  Come on.  Please.  Snap focus, click.  Off he goes, wheeling away yet that head is perfectly still, his flight is surprisingly ungraceful for so shapely a bird, a bit like he's always got a tailwind and flies with slightly more urgency than needed.  Back. Down.  Wait.  Up and off, then back to the post.  Click click click.

Check watch.  Kee'll want to see this, so pack up and watch over my shoulder as he sets off again.  Brisk walk all the way back to let her get out and have a chance of seeing him,  Oh.  Curtains drawn, all asleep.  Ah well.

No joy today, but three in a row would have been too much.  Still, he's there, Andrew's put up some more boxes and it's still early in the year.  But he's not too far from our meadow.  It's only a short hop as the owl flies.

A walk and no camera

Half six.  Burns night.  Well morning actually.  Time to sort this out.  I've bought the house opposite the Fen so I need to make the most of it.  I haven't properly enjoyed spring for two years, and if I l stay in bed I'll miss it.

Boots, camera, reaction.  Ouch.  Shoulder aches after a few strides, not comfy, I'm really out of practice.  Anyway why did I bring the camera when it's still bloody dark.  Can't see much, not even a hint of light in the sky yet.  Just dark, shapes, some moving, a tawny owl calling, pigeons put up from their tree top roosts.  Should have left the camera, what a stupid idea.

Tarmac is hard on the feet, up through the car park, past the visitor centre, through the gate and out onto the reserve proper.  Still no light.  Where does the path turn left to the spider pool?  Come on man, you've walked this enough times.

Opposite the water trough turn left and squelch through mud.  What the.... I'm surrounded by a pack of Konik ponies.  It's so dark I couldn't even see them.  They don't seem fussed.  I play it cool.  I didn't freak.  Honest.

Onwards.  Past the sign board.  Funny that in the summer this place was scorching hot, we sheltered under a gazebo while looking for Fen Raft Spiders.  Last Winter it was iced over.  And now it's just dark.  Dark, dark, dark.  Nothing to hear, nothing to see. Nothing.  Is the natural world really this benign?

Following the Waveney to the sluice, wow the water's high.  No wonder we've got drainage issues at home.  The fall's all of about six inches, normally a good few feet.  I can only make it out because of the white sheen from the bubbles.  Onwards.

Turn left along the top of Great Fen.  All of a sudden I can see.  Trees.  Shrubs.  That wonderful twisted statue of a mangled tree stump with raw wounds from the chainsaw.

On to the kissing gate by the wood, and jack jack jack jack....and more.  And more.  And more.  They keep coming, the world has woken up, the trees spew black flies from their tops, the sky is filled with tumbling, swirling, jack-jack-jack-jack-jack.  Hundreds, no thousands of them, streaming out towards the visitor centre, still they come.

Nature has awoken.

Two weeks on and this morning the sky is all oiled glass, that purity that comes before sunrise, no trails, no clouds, yet everything in that big sky speaks to the day that is coming.  The jackdaws are now a regular in the trees between the fen and Low Common Road.  Earlier by a few minutes each day, hell I'm going to have to start pushing the alarm clock back to get this.  Extraordinary sight, just a maelstrom of birds crazily chasing each other in and out of the trees, a convulsing body.  And the noise, the sound, the cacophony.  You can only stop, watch, listen and wonder.

Frost underfoot, crunchy mud.  First reed buntings in their natural environment, a stilled reed bed betrayed by the occasional fluttering head, look down the stem and there's a pair.  Beautifully ordinary, just glimpsing round the corner of winter and tasting spring.

No camera for now.  A walk is all that's needed.  Learn, my boy, learn.  Naturalist first, then photographer.  Your rewards will come.

Barren times

It's been a hard week so far.  The weather started out wettish and has gradually turned colder.  There was a Fiat Uno in the ditch by the fen this morning, abandoned in a slow motion nose dive but irretrievably stuck hard.  I can sympathise.

Legs still ache from Friday evening, so the prospect of walking is not an enticing one.  It's also been cold, wet, snowy and really devoid of anything out of the ordinary on the wildlife front.  I know I must rejoice in nature in all its forms, but just a few moments with something that isn't a rook or crow, a blue tit or a great tit, or even the maniacal scraping cackle of the jays, just something to make you get a perspective on it. But so far nothing apart from the briefiest of views of the rear end of a kingfisher (I think, anyway), a grey heron lifting off from the river bank, and the fact that I can now positively id the call of a willow tit.  Or maybe it's a marsh tit. I don't know.

Even the hares aren't playing ball.  I went out at lunch on the way back from Harleston and found a field of 7 or 8, all hunkered down, none of them looking like they had the slightest inclination to move let alone box.

However there've been two significant developments this week.  Firstly (and thanks to Jenny Holmes for posting this link on Facebook) there was an article in The Times from Simon Barnes, one of my heroes, about Suffolk.  I read it and sent a text to Kee: "we've got to move house to the countryside".  Wow, how to put down a sentiment in words that chimes so clearly with me.  I hope this works but all being well there's a link to it here:

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/simon_barnes/article7007729.ece

So the second thing is that we've decided to move house. Scary.  The house goes on the market next week.  Even writing this I feel unsure about whether we're doing the right thing, but if we don't get on with it we'll never move to our forever house.  I suppose it's because there's no need to change, only an aspiration, so it's us taking the initiative.  But then that's what 2010 has been all about so far - changing habits.  Walking, eating, drinking, writing, photographing, dare I say saving money as well.  So why not make a big change as well?

I spoke to Charlie about moving house.  He's OK with it as long as he can bring his bed and his toy monster truck.  Bless.

So looking for hares at lunch I ended up where I'd seen a buzzard the other week, and sure enough there was a pair circling over the wood.  I pulled over, wound down the window, grabbed the camera and bean bag and lined up one of the pair that was flapping towards me.  Superb, light lovely, coming in close, crane neck to see it, lift camera to eye and (blow what a dashed nuisance) I've left the lens cap on.  hmph.

Further on I saw this pair of deer at the egde of same wood.  Not a great photo but interesting how the (I presume) male has one antler smaller than the other.  Immature or a fighting injury? (click for full size)

Nothing else to see today.  This morning I'd seen a barn owl from the A140 being mobbed by a crow over a snowy field, and the day before I'd seen a barn own at New Buckenham common, but missed the photo op.  Still no barn owl at the fen though.  I keep hoping.

Cold tonight, hopefully the light will be good in the morning.  I'll try the far end of the fen and the woodland back, the legs are going to hurt but all being well that will complete 6 weeks' worth of walking.  Just another 46 to go.....