No wolf left behind

"This is going to be a good run for comedy," said Sarah as we set off from Hollingbourne Rail Station car park. "I can feel it."

Was it because we'd later be celebrating our 8 mile victory at a pub called The Dirty Habit or was there something else awaiting us along the trail?

It was my annual run - one year on from my very first outing with the wolf ladies. I wasn't quite sure how I'd let 12 opportunities to get out in the countryside, get sweaty and get muddy pass me by. These thoughts trotted through my head as we set off through Hollingbourne village and joined the North Downs Way.

Sarah had warned there would be a steep climb to get us up to the ridge and she certainly wasn't joking about that.

The slope started gently but quickly became more and more vertical. I kept my eyes on the ground, feeling my toes flex with the incline and my lungs hungrily sucking in the crisp air.

It was almost a surprise to reach the ridge - the hill kept going beyond it at an impossibly steep incline so it was a relief to stop and wait for the last of us to make it. No wolf left behind.

Sweeping views
Feigning anything other than exhaustion after the first stretch, we pretended to look at the view. The climb had been worth it. The North Downs appeared as if scooped out from under our feet, the sun glinted between the clouds and we could make out a few of Kent's famous oast houses (more on them later) and scattered farm buildings.

The ridge run followed a sheep trail across the hill, rewarding us with a continuous view of the landscape, before dipping into woodland. Suddenly, spiky creepers grabbed at our arms, fallen branches forced us to duck and the odd hole pushed us left and right, testing our nimbleness. Running, it turns out, is faster than walking (even at the pace we do it) so natural obstructions pose more of a challenge.

Beware of bull

There was some trepidation as we entered a gate marked: Beware of bull. Would our speed and agility be tested to the limit or was this referring to the ongoing chatter we still managed to keep up despite our heighted cardiovascular activity?

Either way, we passed through the field unchallenged and reached the point of our final climb. The North Downs Way people had cut some rudimentary stairs into the hill and I took each in a generous stride, feeling a little bit like the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk.

Wolves that go up, must come down
All that height had to be evened up somehow and at this point the trail descended. We followed a gully, snaking down as quickly as we dared and trying not to let our legs get away from the rest of us.

At the bottom we paused - we had made it halfway - and practised feeling powerful with Wonderwoman poses inspired by Amy Cuddy's TED talk on body language.

From here, we kept the pace sociable, allowing the conversation to jog along with us.

Drying the hops

Cutting through a furrowed field, we came out at one of the very oast houses I'd mentioned earlier. These are buildings for drying hops (used to make beer). We stopped to photograph the distinctive conical-shaped roof and lop-sided cowl (a sort-of chimney that also keeps the weather out).

At this point the trail took us through the grounds of a grand farmhouse, past a pony and around a riding arena. We cleverly navigated electric fences and several stiles before we were back in open farmland.

Mud sticks
The next stretch proved the toughest. I felt my feet getting heavier and heavier. At first I put this down to weariness (and the fact that I'd only managed one of these runs in 12 months) but soon clumps of mud began to fly. My feet had grown about two inches on the sole and another inch either side, made up of sticky, leafy, grassy mud. The peculiar consistency of this mud made it not only stick to our shoes, but then stick to the mud on our shoes, rendering us with giant, clumsy feet.

It was with a deep gladness that we left the clingy mud to cross the railway line that separated us from the pub. A train went past just before we reached the crossing and once we were all across (there were only five of us but we were spread out) another train tooted and sped through. It wasn't exactly close but it left no doubt that walkers needed to be careful.

We tumbled over the final gate and into the car park and spent some time attempting to persuade the mud to let go of our boots, without much success.

Comedy club?
At last we reached The Dirty Habit (which has been feeding and watering weary pilgrims since the 11th century) and tucked into a victory lunch, but not before the landlord had placed a tiny chair at the tallest table for us. Vowing to make this a more regular event in 2014, I reflected on the significance of the pub's name. The day had certainly developed my desire to get sweaty and muddy on a regular basis.