Make sure you're wearing the right underpants when running!

                          Gary checks uses a rudimentary sundial to find the nearest toilet

HOME is where the heart is, and last weekend, with the sun beating down glazing the calm waters of the Solent, I couldn't have been happier than running along the clifftops by the sea.

For the past seven years, I've lived something of a Nomadic lifestyle. In fact, during that time I have moved no fewer than 10 times between various parts of Hampshire, Wiltshire and Dorset.

It's amazing how much crud you collect with those moves. How you trail around cack which has some sentimental value, which you don't want to throw away, but which you know will be tucked away in a darkened wardrobe never to see the light of day again – my collection of Michael Jackson LPs, torn football shirts, and 35-year-old newspaper scrapbooks charting the times when Notts Country were tosh.....and still are.

But finally, I've come back home to the south coast having moved into a new home in Titchfield, an historic village lying half way between Portsmouth and Southampton. It's close to my boys, I'm living there will my newly adopted family, and, quite crucially, I'm back running along the farm tracks, remote woodland, and coastal paths with decorate this beautiful part of Hampshire.

In terms of beauty and majesty, it probably can't compare with the serenity of running say in the Lake District, the Peak District and other remote outcrops of the UK, but for me there is a reassuring comfort and warmth about striding over this remote backyard that is home.

Memories flood back of some great runs, and also the horrendous sessions in driving rain and snow. Last weekend, my fiancee Alison joined me on her bike for a 10-mile run out from home, down a narrow winding road to the haven, and then across the cliff tops along the Solent and up the River Hamble – a mixture of grassy paths, road and beach shingle – before reaching Warsash and tacking back to Titchfield.

Then the following day I went out for a six-mile amble with long-time running partner Gary. We're been plodding around the south coast countryside for a decade now, our routes tempered by Gary's weak bowels and need to find a toilet along the way! On Sunday, his stomach was feeling decidely dodgy having grabbed a coffee before coming out to run, and discovered a mouldy biscuit plastered to the bottom of his mug.

We had to stop a couple of times as Gary felt queasy and began retching on route, but managed to make our way to the finish with a final assault up West Hill, an horrendous climb passed chocolate box cottages in the heart of Titchfield.

I've often thought when running alone about the implications of suffering a major injury or worse while running rurally. Not that the paths around the south coast are remote since they are well trodden by dog walkers, cyclists and horse riders.

However, it was interesting to read the story this week of acclaimed fell runner, Bill Smith who was found dead in a peat bog in Saddle Fell. Police believe his body may have been there for three weeks after the 75-year-old, who was a member of Clayton-le-Moors Harriers for nearly 40 years, became trapped.

Bill was a legendary character among the fell running community and became well known for his 1986 books called “Studmarks On The Summit – a history of amateur fell racing 1861-1983.” What a horrible end for Bill, who travelled by public transport to races and was known as a true gentleman of the sport.

For me, I wouldn't mind Old Father Time coming to collect me while out on a run – as long as it was quick and I'd remembered to wear the right underpants!