A favourite training run. A staccato peppering of endorphins, history and urban exploration.
Cross the river, suspended above. Past Tudor windows, staring. Over a railway path. A flight of steps. At speed.
Path beckons, framed by foliage. Trail darkens. A carpet of leaves calling forward. Disused Victoriana. No more steam bellows beneath these arches. The trail is Crumbling, breaking, always changing.
The disused store house with its burnt out remains. Quarry rumbles out of sight. The hill’s churning belly.
Drop down. Spot the city in the distance. Peaceful against the waters. Sweep through the meadow. Momentum gathers. A disused plough. Now an employed fencepost. Tomorrow’s archaeology.
Up the hill. Through the village. Past the station.
Drop below. Dank drips under a bridge, that needs sodium all day. Toward the bank. Witness to industry. Now home to kingfishers. Cross the river, suspended above.
Physically; somewhere North of Cardiff.