There’s not many hills in London to run up, certainly no proper hills. Box Hill in the Surrey Hills is about as good as it gets. Four months in London and my mountain legs have already deserted me. In their place are the puny, road-running limbs of a southern softie unacquainted to a steep slope. I had forgotten that once familiar lactic acid burn that arrives in the calves when the gradient steepens. Still, it was a useful 11-mile run and Box Hill is a fine place from which to survey the world.