Striding across the meadow looking as if he’s stepped out of Hardy’s fictional Wessex landscape, Steven McCulloch is wearing a wide-brimmed white hat, a billowing
‘As an adult I’ve always likened running to ironing – it’s just showing off. I’ve looked at runners and thought, but what are they actually running away from?’
“For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love.”
As the light changes I begin to think about the big stuff and Carl Sagan’s wisdoms come to mind.
