And now for something completely different… my morning run.

A dear friend of mine recently told me that my sentences are like: noun, verb, end. So today I’m going to commit a petit tribute to my friend and her picturesque travel blog „Ania on the edge of the world”. Here’s my ‚middle ages’ take on my morning run today 😀

If anyone ventured outside this morning, they would witness a bizarre scene: a stocky figure was trotting uphill through the sunny streets of Strehlen, a small yet cozy town in the hills of Niederschlesien. But there was nobody there this morning , only a curious red squirrel on a tree branch lingered a moment in astonishment, for it had never seen a human that big move so fast. The man was visibly struggling, beads of sweat trickling down his pudgy face; it was the dog days already and the sun was mercilessly flexing its muscles over the town.
The man increased the pace as he finally reached the hill overlooking the nearby lands. It was a beautiful sight, with little thatched houses scattered across the hills. With most of the local citizens sleeping off the drunken feast that had taken place the night outside the city wall, the man was the only creature to break the silence of the Sunday morning. Beautiful though the scenery was, he did not pause to admire it. Quite the opposite, he seemed utterly unaware of his surroundings, now zigzagging carefully along the field towards the forests of Strehlen. He did not hesitate to enter the forest, much to the dismay of the rabbit family that strayed into the stranger’s path, for he knew every tree there. He had run this track every morning for the last 15 years. Sometimes he even thought that this forest was part of him, that he belonged in this forest more than he did inside the town walls, where he felt distracted by the din and bustle of the rather smelly crowd of Strehlen. It was eerie how the trees here seemed to have moved every time he was here. It was an absurd thought, yet this was no ordinary forest. Those were trees that had their roots in the beginnings of time, and all sorts of magical creatures sought refuge here from the ever growing civilisation of man.
Suddenly he startled. In the distance he could hear the faint sound of the church bells. It was unexpected this early in the morning. He caught himself thinking „long live the king” and this kneejerk reaction startled him even more. It annoyed him, even. Was he becoming a docile, tamed citizen now? He’d never felt any connection with any particular country, especially since Strehlen was often a subject (or rather a victim) of a bitter feud between Czechs, Poles and Germans. People here spoke a variety of languages and their allegiance changed according to whoever was ruling at that particular moment. He decided not to dwell on the unspoken questions for now (has the king died? Was an enemy army sighted from the townwalls?) and focused on his pulse instead. It was steady, yet a bit high, as the alcohol drunk in the last night’s festivities was still coursing through his veins. That’s not very good, he thought, I’m getting soft. To slow down the pulse he tried visualising something calm, a constant ebb and flow of the ocean that he had seen once in his youth. Finally, his mind started to drift away and his legs regained at least some of the strength he once had.
He ran…