Run to the beat

Givey sadly let me down with their hideous new layout – so I figured I would use this post to tell everyone about my 10k run in September, and the reason I’ve chosen to torture myself in this way.

Firstly it should be stated with clarity that I, Hollie Tye, am not a runner. I go through phases of wanting to increase my fitness, where I throw on my running shoes and hit the streets, or a treadmill, but it never lasts. I would much rather jump on a bike, a cross trainer, or partake in pretty much any other form of exercise. Running is mind-numbing, not to mention my weak joints never thank me for it.

So why run? Honestly, it seemed so achievable when I signed up. After a run with my brother however, I am now fully aware of the challenge I have ahead. The distance isn’t the problem; my speed however, is somewhat similar to my Nana’s walking pace. I’m so slow, it’s painful to watch, and often results in people staring at me in disbelief.

I want to run 10k in an hour – so this is where the challenge lies!

The run is in aid of an incredible charity, called Myeloma UK, who is currently the only UK based charity working towards treating and eventually curing the disease - which is a form of bone marrow cancer. Sadly we lost my Nana in January, after five years of living with the illness and this run is a great opportunity to raise some money in her name.

So if you’d like to support me on my journey of pain, torture and misery - please click the link below and donate. Any amount, no matter how small, would mean a lot.

https://www.givey.com/c/hollierunstothebeat

Sardinia

Arriving in Sardinia brought back vivid memories of a horror film called The Hills Have Eyes. The village was as a ‘ghost town’ and while wandering through to find our apartment, I was extremely grateful that Jake was alongside me. The ghost town went by the name of Teulada, not far from the coastline, in south-west Sardinia. 

When we found our apartment at the top of the hill, the lovely family that owned it informed us that shops were open between 5 and 8pm and restaurants from 8pm onwards. Two larger supermarkets (better resembling small corner shops) opened in the morning for an hour or so, but the general consensus was that from 11am until 5pm, there were no humans in the village. It was so quiet, Jake and I would almost whisper on our way to the beach in the middle of the day. Siesta was taken extremely seriously. 

At first this seemed so strange and surreal to me, but after a day or two, we got into a routine with the locals – plus nothing beats having an entire beach to yourself until the neighbourhood turns up at 5pm for an evening sunbathe. 

The village was quaint and traditional, with a large church just behind the centre, a couple of supermarkets and a few restaurants and pizzerias. Days were spent on the beach, exploring Teulada and Chia (the latter being a bus ride away), feeding Joey (the Sardinian horse we made friends with), bike riding up the extremely tough mountains that made Egham Hill look like a kiddies training hill, eating way too much Pizza and admiring the long windy roads that led to just about everywhere. 

My only complaint is that Sardinian food had nothing on Italy – more than likely because Teulada, as well as surrounding towns, was a fishing village and if there’s one thing I can’t stand, its fish! I had set my sights on the magic of Italian fresh fruit and pasta filling my tummy with joy for the entire week, which meant I had sadly set myself up for disappointment. I guess the only cure would be another trip to Italy for some good Italian cuisines (There’s always a silver lining). 

Unlike Italy, Sardinia - or at least Teulada - was light on tourists. Nobody spoke English, which always makes things a little more interesting as you feel miles away from home. The lack of familiarity was so much so, that when we bumped into an English couple on the last evening, we stared at them in shock. If I’m honest, it’s a lot lovelier to holiday in an environment that immerses you in another culture – forcing you to attempt to communicate and learn the ways of the locals. 

Overall it was a beautiful Island, one that would be much better visited with a car no doubt, as I am sure there is much more to see.

Next stop on the Italian checklist might have to be Naples or Sicily.

British Summer Time | Hyde Park

As my new best friend said goodnight, my two days of dancing came to an end and I was left in awe among a crowd of screaming teenage girls – I couldn’t blame them, Taylor certainly put on a show. She spent the night telling us a story and although the narrative was bordering the cheddar cheese variety, I can forgive her seeing as though she turned up EARLY (never in five concerts and four festivals have I witnessed such punctuality from live artists) and sang every song from her new album, including some old favourites. Her awkward dancing has made her billions, which tells the world that being cool is overrated - it’s so much better to be nice, and handy to be talented (that’s where the big bucks are). I’ve seen her before and I’ll certainly be seeing her again, as nothing beats a feel good concert when you dance in public the same way you do in your bedroom. Plus I had Churro’s in my hand, a t-swizzle t-shirt in my bag and my guy standing next to me, what more could a girl want?

On stage beforehand were John Newman and Ellie Goulding. Newman’s dancing was questionable, I mean I’m all for ‘shaking it off’ and jumping until my feet are sore, but those dance moves looked like they were from a universe I’ve never been to before. I guess I can’t fault the guy’s effort at entertaining the crowd, plus his sound is so quirky and unique, it definitely captivated the tiny minions in my ears that shiver to beautiful sounds. Ellie Goulding was the same cutie pie as always, her songs are so catchy they get stuck in my head for days and I can’t help but admire her consistence. I’ve seen her multiple times, and she never disappoints. 

The previous night was spent watching The Who rock Hyde Park, showing us all that having stamina at seventy isn’t just a myth. If I could age like them that would be great, thank you. Not once did they leave the stage for a breather, or a costume change, instead they stayed with us the whole evening – producing song after song, each one as beautiful and perfectly timed as all the one’s before. I’ve never previously been a fan, now did I know any of the words, but I found myself dancing along in blissful happiness nonetheless. 

Warming the audience up for them were the Kaiser Chiefs and Paul Weller, The Chiefs were on fire. Ricky Wilson is officially my spirit animal, his electric enthusiasm and perfectly structured dance moves that whizz across the stage like a tiger, made me wish I was up there dancing alongside him – though my dance moves are killer and there would have been a risk of upstaging him, so I can understand why he didn’t ask. Paul Weller, who I’m ashamed to admit I have previously never heard of before, was entertaining to watch and pleasant on the ears but I couldn’t help wishing that the Kaiser Chief would suddenly run back on stage and join him – now that would have been magical! 

Despite overpriced beer and insanely huge queues, the festival was an incredible way to spend the weekend – particularly considering I found out that I’ll be graduating with a 2:1 on Friday morning. The timing could not have been more perfect.