I’m standing in a thin vest and lycra shorts on a sodden hillside. Hordes of fit, athletic looking men are hurtling down the incline towards me. They smell of sweat and embrocation.

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Their muscles roll like rocks under flapping singlets. I hear breath exploding from their lungs and some of them make guttural animal noises.

The track is so narrow they have to run single file even though many are pushing for position. I, and the other tail-enders stand amongst the dripping bracken waiting for them to pass. There is something tribal about the glazed determination in their eyes. Some bear Celtic tattoos. Suddenly time seems to shift and I see the sons of Mercia flying down this hillside, foam flecked and battle crazed dogging the steps of Penda’s shadow to some unholy Winwaed leading to the gates of Valhalla.

Slipping and sliding the last of the front runners pass. I fancy I hear the bright ring of brave Naegling clashing against targe and hauberk and then the woods fall silent. Time slips back into gear and all is as if it had never been.