Helvellyn & the Dodds fell race 2018

“I live like my dogs now, got three cocker spaniels and I live in the moment like them. I’ve got work left in me like, but I want to be out here so I’ve been winding things down a bit”. His voice was thick and warm, a bit Cumbrian, a bit dales, and his skin was browner than late May would suggest. He was talking to a stranger in the car next to me, and I was sat in mine looking busy, pinning my race number on so he’d not see me listening in.

But fell races are fascinating for listening, stood on the start line the conversations were bustling like a swarm of midges, all positive and inclusive, conducted with a keen eye for pretence, that rather than shackling people, seems to free them up to say anything. Like what they’ve learnt from their dogs or how they’re skint this month so couldn’t afford to replace their old knackered Walsh’s. There is no judgement or jealousy here and as the marshall gets up to give us a few pre-race instructions she’s afforded silence after everyone helps her quiet the crowd down by shushing.

And we’re off, funnelled along the tarmac road at the foot of Clough head, bound for the long ridge that will take us away over Great Dodd, Raise and Helvellyn. Chatter continues along the lane but as we hit the fell, with the gradient bending us double into a slow climb all there is to hear are the bleating lambs. I keep checking behind me at Blencathra to get a fix on how much we’ve climbed and it looks great in this heat, stood shoulder to shoulder with Skiddaw against a hazy blue sky.

The real story of the race hits us as we crest onto the summit of Clough Head. The incessant wind that will turn us into tacking ships all the way to Helvellyn presents itself immediately and violently. It takes a while to adjust but people seem to and I’m just grateful it isn’t blowing my glasses off. Someone asks me to hold his bottle whilst he sorts his bag out on the final climb to Helvellyn and he offers me some food as we walk together a while.The view west from here is fantastic with the whole park on show, I could sit for hours watching. Maybe its the thought of sitting or just the lack of training in my legs, but after Helvellyn I find it hard and start to wilt, people go past me in a steady stream but always say hello.

Its bloody awful descending Clough head on knackered legs, almost three hours after climbing it, and when I stop to say bastard, a woman in pursuit stops too and says “I know”. We run back to the tarmac swapping places a few times and exchanging some words of encouragement. At the finish a guy sits down in the verge next to me and says he was done with the wind after an hour, I agree but can’t summon the energy to add anything else. I need some food and hobble back to the car thinking about the man living as a dog, on the way I see the woman who’d descended alongside me and she puffs her cheeks out. Everyone is spent, but we’re all here together in the endless summer making a go of things whilst we can.

Kestrel

I wrote this in January at a time that Ali was particularly ill, she'd just been discharged from hospital after complications with her lung disease. Whilst in the hospital I read Reality is not what it seems by Carlos Ravelli, a book about a potential theory to unify quantum and classical physics. I feel that  understanding nature in your heart and mind are the same thing, and that the separations we impose are arbitrary. I'd like to explore this more, but here is my first go...

Kestrel

As the wind lashed handfuls of rain along the valley and yesterday’s storm debris lay awkwardly in the mud something made us turn right into the rotten ferns and up along the side of a wall. We’ve never gone this way before, it all seems a bit private, but cloaked in the dusk of a stormy January afternoon we snook on. 

Rabbit had a lot of work to do, frantically joining the dots on a new field of scents, I upped my pace in keeping with her and then caught a hint of something fighting the wind. A kestrel fell and then rose, and by the time it began to hover I had it in the binoculars, focusing past the bare winter sapling that separated us. My heart began to beat faster, and now it was me joining the dots, guided by the fine brushstrokes that the kestrel sketched across the gloaming.

Its thin shape changed continuously and was as sharp as a crack in the sky, the occasional flash of colour from the top of its wing marked a dive, always to rise again effortlessly against a wind that swayed the trees like huge reeds. I felt safe here, in the reed bed, taking cover from the fretful grey sky. I kept my eyes on him and imagined what he saw in the field, the countless ultra-violet urine trails, a hint of some movement before a tilt into dive.

My mind drifts. What if we could see all of the electromagnetic spectrum? Radio waves lolloping by unhindered by the furious wind, the infra-red glow of a sheltering fox ten feet away, and always the distant hum of the big bang in the background. I looked again and saw the kestrel hanging in the great known, framed now by the science that had flooded my thoughts. More beautiful, I whispered.

Rabbit remained seated, her bulky back legs splayed awkwardly to allow her long spine to touch the floor, pink belly radiant against the fermented browns of  last year's ferns. She wanted to know what all the fuss was about. Not interested in birds. Taught frame, wide eyes, patient for a mammal to appear from the lichen-moss folds of the wood below. The kestrel took its final dive and disappeared below the horizon. I watched the empty stage for a while and saw the mills of Connonley crouched below the rushing gales, the Aire valley was going about its relentless business and I felt tired. Lights twinkled on and our fire needed stoking, I no longer felt fractured or confused.

Rabbit kept seeing ghosts in the trees as we walked home and etched on my retina was the perfect curve of a kestrel wing.

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. 

A case for leaving the camera at home

I had 30 minutes spare and my trainers in the boot so I pulled in to a layby near Hardknott fort. Jogging out over the freshly wet ground I tried to pick out rocks to run on as they had already dried in the late summer air. Ten minutes ago I’d driven over Wrynose pass through torrential rain which only eased as I approached the bulk of Harknott.

 

I climbed quickly above the fort and tried to follow a line that would take me around some immediate crags to what I hoped might be the summit of Hardnkott. A small amount of scrambling and some careful route choices got me to a grassy path above the crags, and I could open up my stride once more. I jogged along glancing over towards the dark Scafell massif, which was engulfed in trouble-brown cloud.

 

I reached a natural prominence in the ground and stopped. The absence of wind screamed silence. I became aware of my heart pounding as I took in the panorama. My eyes rested on the Scafells again, then out into the Irish sea where a golden light was hinting of a sunset far too early in the day. Rain was visible in bands across the water, shaped into curves by wind. I looked the other way towards Harter and the Coniston fells who were also engaged in battle, the scene was still but suggestive of movement in the way an artist might draw drama. Everywhere I looked I could see storms. Every view fizzed with theatre, yet it was so silent and peaceful here in this moment. I stood for a good ten minutes, rotating, and looking deeply into each scene. I didn’t have a camera, or phone and I cant ever remember connecting so deeply with a mountains scene.

 

Perhaps we are not alone if we have a camera, sharing the experience with a lens, and all the future interactions we might have with that image. It roots the memory in a snapshot, focussed in on only one of the senses. The act of taking the picture also removes you from the experience, engaging with something else, frustrated by the limitations. Not being in the moment.

 

I am writing this on Christmas eve, four months since I had the experience. I can remember the view perfectly. What is more, I can recall the clothes I was wearing, the colour of the rock I was standing on, the sensation of my heart pounding in my chest and the build up of emotion in my throat. I can remember the silence and the scratching of my shoe on rock as I slowly turned around. I remember disturbing a falcon on the descent and watching it fly away, back towards the safety of the crags. I remember the smell of wet tarmac in summer heat as I reached the road again.

 

I’m not sure I’d even think about this experience again if I had taken a photo, after all, I’d have no need to, it’d be stored in the memory on my phone. In years I might look at it and try to recall the fell it was taken from. When I did remember I’d be pleased and maybe think we should go a walk there sometime. I doubt I’d recall the emotions I’m recalling today though, and perhaps I wouldn’t have even experienced them in the first place.

 

Sorry for the lack of photos on this post ;-)

Middle Fell

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

ory, one of constant physical pain and discomfort, and hold his achievements up against it, you can’t help but feel inspired and humbled.

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.

 

Update

Its been a while since I last wrote about the fells, during this gap we've spent more time than ever in them and grown to rely on them in ways we never imagined we might. last year, we dealt with Ali's cancer, and the hills were our only real constant. I remember us climbing Ingleborough deep into Ali's chemotherapy treatment, icy cold with winter. Ali's resolve that day was nothing short of heroic. After treatment we enjoyed a wonderful summer of countless trips over to the Lakes as I worked reduced hours.

I hope to keep this blog going now, particularly during these winter months in exile, with work looming again full time.