Approaching Wastwater along the single track road brings to
mind so many happy memories which gather into a feeling of deep calm. Hidden by
the woods until the last possible minute, it’s the occasional glimpse of the
screes flashing between the trees that sets the heart racing. Over the cattle
grid and out of the woods and the full brilliance of Wasdale appears like a
sudden advert. Its stillness seems odd
for a second as you adjust to the scene, trying to take in sky, lake and
mountain all at once.
This morning was different. It was just before dawn and I
was weaving down the dark lane alone, dreamily following my headlights, jaded
and tired from last night’s beers in the Bridge Inn. I had to stop on the
cattle grid to move some sleeping sheep guarding the valley. The air was cold
and my eyes rolled heavily along the dark outlines of Wasdale’s famous peaks. The
lake was obvious, but only as an absence of texture, nothing shone on it yet.
I set out jogging along the grassy approach to Middle Fell,
following the artificially-bright green created by my headtorch. I got onto the
steeper slopes and allowed myself to break rhythm into a walk earlier than
usual. The sun was softening the black sky into a navy blue above the Scafells who
quickly disappeared as I contoured north of the bulk of Middle Fell’s crags. I
remembered again too late that I must start doing dawn outings on eastern
flanks, my pace quickened in eagerness to summit Middle Fell in time for a
sunrise.
A warm wind was blowing softly across the fellside; I
wondered if the heat had been trapped in the bracken overnight but soon
realised that the rocks were radiating yesterday’s heat out into the icy cold
morning. It made me feel a bit sick, so I slowed again.
I finally reached the summit, and had out-run (misjudged)
the sunrise, leaving me a good 30 minutes to sit and wait at the foot of the
cairn. I was looking directly across at the Scafells with a view of Wastwater
below. I’d had the headtorch off for about ten minutes and the day was shifting
through its shades of grey. I noticed the pippets wake up, all bursting into
life and song around the same time. The Coniston fells to the west started to
glow, a sun patch broke on top of Seatallen, clouds became pink.
Sunrise behind the Scafells, Coniston fells in the distance on the right
I didn’t have time to wait for the sun to get over the Scafell
range and bathe Middle Fell; I was due back for breakfast by 8 so set off
allowing 15 minutes descent to Wasdale and a 10 minute drive back to the Bridge
Inn. I felt some regret but a smile started to break out as I warmed into a
quick rhythm down the easy grassy paths off the summit.
The gradient steepened and my senses came to life, quick
steps and wide eyes as the freedom and joy embraced me descending over the more
technical terrain. The ground was just moist enough to take a stud, but not so
wet to render them useless, trusting in this I moved confidently and could take
the odd glance over at the screes, still grey with sleep, protected from the
rising sun by Scafell.
I became aware with one glance of a car parked near mine,
the second glance identified three figures stood by it, the third confirmed
they were watching me. I wondered if I’d maybe parked on their land, having
thought I was up early enough to just pull onto the well grazed grass at the side
of the road. I got a little nervous and rehearsed a disarming apology in my mind.
People often watch you when running in the fells and comment that they are
impressed. I quickened my step, thinking I might impress them more. Or at least
show some urgency to the farmers.
I was soon back on the grassy approach and I pushed on,
needing to use my legs again to increase speed, not slow it. As I approached
the Hilux two collies circled me and I stroked them as they weaved. I looked
up, conscious I was again greeting dogs in advance of their owners. I couldn’t
really tell you what the other two men looked like, the unmistakable leant
frame of the tallest of them had shocked me into exclamation: “Bloody hell,
Joss!”.
I’m not sure what he said in return, but it was friendly and
un-assuming and I felt straight away at ease and slightly embarrassed by my
greeting. He is an unbelievable person. Joss Naylor's achievements in the fells are
overwhelming, yet - as with many in the fell running community - secondary, a
by-product of a deep passion and love for the hills themselves.
Straight away we talked about the beauty of where we were.
Joss told me, with a child-like enthusiasm, about a sunrise he once saw on
Scafell and then went on to imagine the way the Coniston fells must have looked
this morning from my seat on Middle Fell.
His distinctive lean from the waist made me think of trees
that have spent lifetimes leaning into the wind, his hand shook slightly on his
stick. As you grow up you realise that passion doesn’t age and Joss inspired
me, standing there in his valley, taking the time out to watch a runner descend
one of his most familiar fells. He was genuinely interested in my run, “How
long’d it tek you to get up and down there then?”. My answer was garbled and embarrassed.
His questioning wasn’t boastful, he wasn’t seeking the return question, like so
many with a great marathon PB do, burning to get it off their chest. He wanted
to know my time to complete the picture, the scene he had stopped to watch.
A few weeks before, I’d read his account of running all 214 Wainwrights
in 7 days, whilst spending a week in Eskdale. It was a beautifully worded and
honest account of a week that saw him overcome a heat-wave, which anybody who’s walked in the lakes during high summer
will sympathise with. The heat sits, building all day in the humid valleys, and the sun is inescapable on the top
and ridges. He finished the book with the following words, which I think sum up
the character of a man that is deeply entrenched in his athletic endeavours:
‘We had to drag from ourselves
not only accumulated fitness and basic strength…we had to reach even deeper
into ourselves when natural physical abilities had been drained, deeper than I
had ever had to reach even in the most serious mountain conditions. I just do
not have the words to describe the
discomfort, the physical pain, the frustration, and worry we all had to
suffer…I’m not a great one for words, it’s been difficult to get this down on
paper. To find the words to express my gratitude to those who took part is
beyond me. Those who know me well will sense what I want to say; I don’t show
my feelings but I do feel things deep inside me; I’m a man for doing, not
saying. Others might one day put polish on this story, but one thing I can say
with certainty is it will be a lucky man who is able to make the bonds of friendship
that have been my good luck…Happy days.’
In Richard Askwith’s book Feet in the Clouds, I think he sums Joss’s achievements up
completely when he says that nobody in the history of sport has conquered
themselves so completely. When you read about his life st
Joss offered Richard the following advice in an interview: ‘You’ve
got to be able to switch off, if you thought about it you’d lie down’. This
understatement is what makes him such a compelling character, I’d just huffed
and puffed up and down Middle Fell, yet during our conversation he managed to
say “Aye, it’s easy on the legs is Middle Fell, a nice one to do”. In a world
of social media fuelled Tough Mudder events, and city marathon hysterics, Joss
stands tall, a man who prefers to do, rather than say.
