I’d like the record to show there was a moment at the Ennerdale Horseshoe when I overtook Brennan Townshend. Unfortunately it was before the race started—he was jogging his warm up, I was legging it from the car park to try and register and go to the loo. Suffice to say once the race started I never saw him again. The Ennerdale is one of the Lake District Classics, a 37km/23 mile circuit of the fells surrounding one of the most beautiful valleys in the Lakes. It’s been ran for over fifty years and is steeped in the mythos of the sport. The list of winners reads like a who’s who of fell running greats; Joss Naylor, Kenny Stuart, Billy Bland. I was excited to be pulling on the purple and green of Northumberland Fell Runners for the first time, and after so many cancellations in the past eighteen months... View Article
It was wet. I remember that much. Rain thumping on the canvas like a regiment of drummers beating a heady tattoo. North of the tent lay the brooding mass of Liathach. I sat, crouched over my phone, watching YouTube videos of the traverse. It’s hard to know where to start describing Liathach. It’s the kind of mountain legends are made from and, from the road it towers over, it looks impregnable. It rises at what seems an impossible angle, more fortress than hill. Songs have been written about her and the An Fasarinen pinnacles are infamous in their own right. I never did get to climb her that first trip to Torridon. I’d ran Beinn Alligin on arrival. It’s a steep monster in its own right, home to the wonderfully named Eag Dhubh nah-Eigheachd – ‘the black gash of the wailing’. After that the weather closed in. Liathach’s pinnacles look... View Article
October 18, 2020,
by Pete
It was about lunchtime, wandering along the Silent Valley, when Bearnagh first caught my eye. I’d crossed the dam, enjoying the views, when the sunlight poked through and danced across the summit tor. I turned and ran back to my viewpoint to get a photo. Slieve Bearnagh. I knew I’d be climbing her twice the next morning and was enraptured. Reinhold Messner once said: “The most beautiful mountain in the world is not the highest, or the most difficult. It is personal. It is always the one I am currently dreaming about.” By that standard, she was the most beautiful mountain in the world that day. I was in Northern Ireland for the Mourne Skyline race but the trip wasn’t exactly going to plan. I’d flown out on Wednesday only for Stormont to vote on a new lockdown and the race to get cancelled. It was the right decision, but... View Article
September 16, 2020,
by Pete
The first thing I noticed, parked up at Wooler war memorial, was the three OMM stickers on the car in front. Whoever was in there was obviously the real deal. People who do the OMM are a different breed. Nothing like starting a big day with a slice of humble pie. I was there because the ever changing landscape of quarantine and corona has seen me miss out on two ultras this year; I’d decided to make use of my training. The Cheviots are my local hills. They’re home to the Chevy Chase, possibly my favourite race, and the High Fells of Hedgehope, which featured the most hostile weather I’ve ran in. They’re also home to The McWilliams Round, which comes in three flavours. The short, clocking in at 32 miles (yes, that’s the short one!), the long, at 43 miles, and the ultra which is both of them back... View Article
It’s 5:40am and I’ve already been awake for some time. I give up on waiting for the alarm and pick up my phone to check the MWIS forecast. Rain with a side order of cloudy summits. Quelle surprise. The question is; go or no go? The answer was never in doubt. I tumble out of bed and get ready, making a bowl of porridge and chatting to my housemate about the route. He wants to know if I don’t come home which hill I’ll have fallen off. He also wants to know where my life insurance forms are. Unrelated, I assume. A couple of hours later and I’m standing outside the doors of George Fisher, ready to go. After a disastrous day in the fells last July, I have some business to finish with the Abraham’s Tea Round today. The conditions are perfect running out of Keswick, through Portinscale, to Cat Bells. It doesn’t... View Article
“The earth teaches us more about ourselves than all the books in the world, because it is resistant to us. Self-discovery comes when man measures himself against an obstacle.” -Antoine de Saint-Exupéry One of the things I love most about fell and trail running is the fact that we’re running against challenges bigger than ourselves. On the road there’s a constant drive to make every second count, to push the pace and compare against past efforts and goals. In the hills, you never run the same run twice. Terrain changes with the seasons, weather can be a benevolent ally or a hostile adversary, and an easy ascent on fresh legs can be an Everest on tired ones. A couple of weeks ago I had a wonderful first day back in the hills since lockdown. Twenty miles, pinging along the border ridge from Cheviot to Windy Gyle, back over Auchope Cairn... View Article
One of the things I miss most about lockdown is getting out onto trails and mountains. As an introvert I’m wired pretty well to cope with the lack of socialising but lack of mountains? That’s cruel and unusual punishment. I crave the sense of wonder found driving along winding roads, carved like glaciers through the majesty of tree lined slopes. The first sight of Sharp Edge, hovering over the shoulder of Blencathra on the drive to Keswick. The anticipation you get looking at the way the arête sweeps upwards, beckoning you to attempt it. I miss the first few hurried paces up a fell, before settling into a slower and more sustainable rhythm. The moment you spot the cairn and surge towards it with a sense of achievement. The feeling when the rays of the sun break through the cloud to bathe some corner of a valley in their light.... View Article
December 4, 2019,
by Pete
They were definitely naked. Sin ropa. Starkers. I couldn’t say for certain whether they were doing yoga or tai-chi but it involved stretching. A surprising start to the morning, but apparently La Caleta is a hippy commune as well as a beach. I’d arrived at just the wrong moment. I was staying in the village of Maro, lured by the towering Pico del Cielo rising 1,508 metre above the white washed Andalusian houses. I could well have started at my apartment, but there’s a special attraction to going from sea to summit. Plus, where better to calibrate an altimeter than with your feet in the waves? So I headed the kilometre down to the beach in the morning sun. It was obvious I was out of place. I wasn’t the only one in clothes, but I suspect I was the only one who didn’t live there and the residents looked... View Article
