My love of running has been a little feeble since that recent ‘chance’ encounter with an ambulance. Although I have braved running shoes again, I did not watch the London Marathon from my sofa or download the tracking app for the Manchester Marathon to keep an eye on the trajectory of my running husband. Instead I found myself tiptoeing around my own pity party believing that I might albatross any running adventure if I came too close.

I have tested out a few short runs since Brighton but – quite out of character – I have started running with my phone in case I take another unscheduled swoon. I have no idea what greater good this phone will serve in such an event for I still run without my specs and I would be highly unlikely to navigate my mobile without them. Himself is secretly delighted that I have become more risk adverse for he seems to have ditched his Ocado account in favour of my limited shopping mule service. He pretends to check that I am enjoying my run/staying away from paramedics but his phone call often sounds like, ‘Can you pick up a loaf and we are running short of milk’.

The good news is that I can just about manage the camera function on my phone – should you find me lying beside the road, please do upload any of my photos onto my Strava account. We all know that my running ‘activities’ could use more colour.

However, just as I start to believe that my running days may be numbered, along comes the bluebell season and I do love a blue bell; I may not be fast – or steady – but my inner Dora the Explorer does know that you have to get off the beaten path to find the best bluebell glades, and running is the best way to do this.

Not for me the lazy path to bluebell spotting. None of your insta or AI intel, ‘are the bluebells out in Priory Wood/Cam Peak/Ashton Park? ‘(Get me with my insider bluebell knowledge) or, ‘are they even worth a visit?’ No. I am as humble and as constant as the standard bluebell itself and I decide that I need to find my own little glade somewhere away from the fair weather masses who are on a mission to get their blue bell socials trending. Being a blue bell lone ranger ensures that running and I are soon best friends again.

Blue bell spotting also ensures that I stop looking down on myself and start looking up from my feet to the horizon (the metaphor should work itself). Just a glimpse of cobalt between the trees and I am running up an unknown bridle path to find a fairy bluebell glade. In my down time I even find myself researching the symbolism of the bluebell flower – along with humility and constancy, apparently bluebells also represent honesty and gratitude. Too right.

I think my love of this humble flower stems back to my childhood. We were lucky enough to run wild in the grounds of a home with acres of woodland (these grounds did belong to us – there was no trespassing involved – but we were pretty feral children). We also had a set of double swings and it was an annual childhood pleasure to look out at our very own bluebell wood from this lofty vantage point. One year I was so caught up in my acrobatic prowess on the swings that I failed to note the absence of my older sister. It later came to light that she had been doing her own tiptoe through the bluebells and had used the afternoon for some entrepreneurial enterprise. Sis had filled my doll’s pram with tiny bouquets of bluebells picked from the woods, each bunch wrapped in its own little bandage of Baco Foil. Sis then disappeared with her/my mobile retail unit to set up a road side shop, punting her wares to any unsuspecting passing trade.

Sadly my sister’s enterprise was short-lived on account of a nosy neighbour who reported this bluebell emporium back to my mother under the guise of ‘trading standards’ and lack of a retail licence (It was an unforgiving neighbourhood and we were glad of our big garden). Far from being impressed by my sister’s retail acumen, my mother was mortified, believing that our neighbours would now believe us to be paupers. Mum demanded that Sis return all of the six pence pieces from whence they had been extracted; Sis was left with a doll’s pram full of wilting bluebells which she then tried to off-load on your’s truly at a discounted price, knowing that I had yet to spend my pocket money. Sis was unable to claim any profit from this venture for my mother nudged her into negative equity by charging for the family-sized roll of Bacofoil allegedly ‘borrowed’ from the kitchen.

Back from Memory Lane to bridle paths, Saturday finds my running shoes discovering the best glades for hidden bluebells. For once I am grateful to have my phone with me to record my sightings. I am so caught up running through this haze of blue that I return home without the aforementioned milk and bread and then feel so guilty that I Google, ‘nearby bluebell woods with cafes,’ in order to redeem my standing with Himself.

Fortune favours the brave and I can happily report that this little Google search sourced not only the best bluebell woods I have ever seen ( I will not be sharing the location) but also furnished our visit with an excellent cup of coffee and a blueberry confection that will require some ongoing running engagement if a muffin top is not to be the only memory from this visit. The cafe was so good that few fellow visitors could prise themselves away from the courtyard benches to make the climb up into the woods.

We had those bluebells all to ourselves. If I stay off my socials, I hope this will be the case again next year.

I am so excited by this new bluebell location that I find myself up at the crack of sparrow next morning, running shoes duly laced and ready to retrace my steps in and out of those dusty bluebells again. There is a cerulean mist in the air and not a medical blue light anywhere to be seen. I think I may have jogged myself through this running blip. When I return from the run I find myself wondering what time the London Marathon highlights will air, and I also check that my running husband has taken Manchester by storm (he has). Those bluebells seem to have worked some fairy magic; I intend to stay away from tarmac and keep things wild.