Glasgow: a very Glasgow run...

It’s a Sunday evening in September and I return home after a weekend away.  Tired and fed up of public transport I pull on my trainers and head out into the Autumnal dusk.   

My usual loop begins by heading East along Dumbarton road.  As I wearily dodge my way through crowds a scruffy middle-aged man, obviously on his way between pubs, catches site of me. ‘Get those knees up’, he instructs, with the bark of an officer and a twinkle in his eye.  I smile. Outspoken strangers usually annoy but this guy spurs me on. It’s his cheeky delivery: contented in his drunkenness he wasn’t taking himself, or anyone else, at all seriously.   If only this attitude applied to football.

A bit further along the road I hear a cackle of sheer delight.  A Chinese family are crossing the road and a young boy, safe in his dad’s arms, is pointing at the fast approaching double decker and laughing as if dodging traffic is his favourite game.  It’s a quick glimpse of the noisy everyday day life that keeps this part of town buzzing.   It’s the life here, lived out between the football pubs, Greggs, the butchers and poundland, which distracts me from the dilapidated buildings and dog mess I frequently dodge.

Kelvingrove park is cast in long shadows.  Only a few people linger: a few children on scooters, the odd fellow jogger and the ever-present dog walkers.  Two stylish men, in smart trench coats and heavy rimmed glasses, walk purposely as if en route to a design meeting, yet surrounded by five dogs of different breeds.  

I run along the straight brick path bordered by meticulously neat rosebeds : a nod to the Victorian days when ladies with parasols admired them as they strolled.  At the end of the path the fountain stands tall; silhouetted against the bright indigo sky it appears strong and empowering - a fitting tribute to Lord Stewart, the man who changed the fate of the city by establishing the first permanent fresh water supply.

As night falls the darkness creeps under Kelvinbridge and I shudder as I run under it.   Glasgow’s edgy reputation tempts me to believe that danger is never far away (even though I’ve never experienced it).   The real risk is the steep path leading out of the bridge- I’ve had several near collisions with cyclists descending at speed around the blind corner.

Reaching the river it feels like I’m suddenly in the countryside: damp leaves conceal the concrete path and the air smells like a forest.  It is only the teenager I pass, donned in skinny jeans and a leather jacket, which give the inner city setting away.  By now, the shadows have reached every corner on the ground but the sky is still a vivid blue, streaked with wispy clouds.  It’s an electric, moody night; the wind is determined and the river flows strong and fast.

I glance up at Kelvin church spire, just visible through the trees. The dramatic gothic architecture still makes my hairs stand on end, as it did when I first arrived in Glasgow.  Just before I leave the river the moon emerges from behind a cloud to cast a striking, eerie reflection of the grand bridge. I return to street level to rejoin civilisation and head along Queen Margaret drive.  The glasshouses in the botanical gardens glow a soft yellow in the moonlight.

And now for the long stretch of Great Western road.  I love to run in the shadow of the tall town houses and peer through the grand front windows. With steps to the front door they are the type of building that command respect.  Interesting events must have taken place within their walls, the bricks will have stories to tell.  Some front rooms are reminiscent of stately homes with spectacular chandeliers lighting impressive collections of historical portraits.  Others use  sixties style stand-alone lamps to illuminate abstract paintings mounted on bold paint. 

In one of the front rooms I spy a group of people all sat around in a circle. I can just make out a man in his late thirties with a shaved head and stubble, holding a magazine.  A gathering on a Sunday night- they were either having an AA meeting, editing a niche magazine (probably to do with the arts), or planning a revolution.  Or maybe all three.  This is Glasgow after all.