A run from Swinside to Buttermere

Approaching Hopegill head from the Whiteside, fresh snow kicks up and sails north off the ridge. The wind is smooth and is pouring over Grassmoor like champagne foam. My legs begin to tire but I resolve not to break stride until the summit but then instantly do. Marching now, looking around more readily and the triangle of Grisedale Pike feels for a moment implausible.

Before I finish that thought I’m descending, choosing light snow on scree over tussocks and drifts. The col was lower than I recall and colder than the tops. Quickly onwards, easing through the flattened v that separates Crag Hill from Grassmoor. It’s a wind tunnel this morning and my eyes water as I bend forward into a slow jog across compacted snow.

Wandhope can be avoided so I do, staying low and close to the craggy southern face of Grassmoor. Thoughts drift back to warmer days here, to the Buttermere Horseshoe race and an afternoon amongst migrating butterflies. I stop dreaming once I hit the short climb to the summit of Whiteless Pike. Suddenly the Alps appear and startle me in a way that only mountains can, surely we need a word for this? Buttermere and Crummock water glint below, the Scafells, Gable and Pillar tower over a black Haystacks. High stile cowers in their presence, cloud glues to Gable like moss and, as always, Mellbreak sits still, untouched by drama, squat and silent like a camel at rest.  

The descent to Buttermere is fast and grassy, thoughts bounce like road chippings behind.   

Great Whernside

Great Whernside stands tall in the endless mid-winter sky. Not far from the orange glow of Kettlewell at its base, a concentration of white head torches flicker and bounce off neon running tops and throw light into great clouds of rising breath.

Its 7pm and there are twenty-three names on a sheet of paper, in a few minutes they’ll set off into frosted fields towards the perma-bog of Upper-Wharfedale. The day has been peppered with a thousand exchanges about the startling blue January morning. The low sun catching on a frozen canal brought the world to the towpath at lunchtime, disturbed gulls circled above, their cries baying for the return of their deserted, muted-grey home.

Any heat that had built during the afternoon has since been lost to the dark and puddles are rings of frozen white along the lane towards registration. A small beck hurries by and kitchens glow out from converted barns, one man is changing behind his car, another two are shuffling into a jog ahead. In the field where the race begins people are gathered and conversations follow the upbeat tempo of jiggling legs and rubbed hands.

The race begins with a few words “Know where you’re going? OK go”.

The talking turns to heavy breathing as field gives way to fell. Frost crunches and the grass glistens under white beams, we all find our pace and stick to it with few change in position. I’m pleased not to wilt tonight and the summit soon appears as we advance well across frozen bogs. The top is tended by a lady clasping a flask and she congratulates us individually as we turn back for the descent.

I’m in a group of four now, and one of them follows me as I confidently veer off in the wrong direction into tussocks and panicked grouse. He catches up when I stop to admit I’m lost, he regrets following me but between us we find our way back to the path and resume racing each other down the fast grassy paths to the finish. My name is written on a clipboard and an email will arrive over the following days with a result, the winner being the person who most accurately predicted their race time.  

Kettlewell was quiet as I jogged back towards the car, a runner threw a holdall into his van and gestured good night. We were all turned towards home now, pleased to be keeping pace against the long winter.