78 years young

The 'Western Isles'

My birthday fell on Polling day this year - May 6th - when all radio, TV and newspaper coverage was about the country electing a new head of the Westminster Mafia. To escape the election hype and literature - and 'discreet' Funeral Pre-payment Plans that sneak through my letterbox from people who seem to think I'm getting old - I got well away from it all among the hills of Knoydart, Mull and the beautiful little island of Ulva.

KNOYDART.
From Mallaig we took Bruce Watt's 'Western Isles' ferry to the isolated little village of Inverie which, according to the Guinness book of Records, boasts Britain's remotest pub - The Old Forge. We resisted it's temptation, ignored the comforts of the bunkhouse, and took the primrose lined path for seven miles/1,500ft to the head of Mam Barrisdale where we found a delectable spot for the tent facing Meall Buidhe (3,107ft), one of Knoydarts most impressive Munros. A Red Deer stag gave nervous little barks, resenting our intrusion into his territory. From far below, by the Loch an Dubh-Lochain, came the incessant call of the Cuckoo, a sound we'd have to get used to for the duration of our holiday.

Facing Meall Buidhe

We'd arrived in glorious sunshine but our ascent of Luinne Bheinn (3,083ft) found us scrambling around in clouds and rain on compass bearings that were not always reliable due to the presence of magnetic rock. After a quick photograph we left the summit cairn on a dodgy bearing but thankfully when the clouds briefly parted the compass was pointing in the exact direction of our tent. We returned to Inverie, scattering the deer down Mam Barrisdale, closing our ears to the insistent Cuckoos and howls of resident Inverie Peacocks, and caught the ferry back to Mallaig.

ISLE OF MULL.

At Loch na Keal

For many years we've kept returning to one of our favourite wild camping spots on the gorse scented shore of Loch na Keal where eagles fly. On this occasion some untidy louts had left unsightly litter all over the place and burnt brown rings in the grass where they'd thoughtlessly placed hot pans. After putting up the tent we spent a good couple of hours bagging up all the rubbish and burning whatever was combustible. A local farmer kindly took the rubbish away for us and order was restored.

Birthday treat

We went for a five mile run, as far as the Gribun Rocks, to work up an appetite for a gorgeous Italian meal at the 'Mediterranea' restaurant in Salen, a birthday treat courtesy of my wonderful partner. We opted for local seafood, Mussels in a wine and garlic sauce for starters, seared scallops with red peppers, strips of streaky bacon and Mediterranean salad for the main course, mixed berry pavlova for sweet, and all of this made more appetizing with a rich red Sicilian wine. My partner was also given a complementary dish of black and green olives. I don't ever recall a nicer birthday meal. We returned to camp, watched a blazing red sunset over the Western Isles and slept like babies.

On the A'Chioch Ridge

We arose early next morning to warm sunshine, filled ourselves with porridge and set off up Gleann na Beinne Fada to a col below the towering A'Chioch ridge. The adrenalin flowed thick and strong as we clambered upwards, making the height and exposure all the more pleasurable. From the summit cairn of A'Chioch (2,770ft) we descended 300ft to another col before the long airy ascent of Ben More (3,169ft). At an exposed section near the summit we were joined by a happy little Jack Russell terrier jumping from ledge to ledge on its way down. Then it's owner appeared accompanied by a rough coated Deerhound lurcher both of whom were equally adept in negotiating the steep, rough terrain. On the sun warmed summit there wasn't a breath of wind. We lingered a while, over a bite to eat and mouthful of juice, wallowing in nostalgia while chanting a litany of well loved names of all the beautiful islands and places we'd visited together in the past - the sacred Isle of Iona with its shining sands, Staffa with it's basalt pillars and famous Fingal's Cave that inspired Mendelssohn's 'Hebrides Overture', Bac Mor like a giant sombrero floating on the sea, Lunga with it's incredible population of nesting Puffins, Guillemots, Razorbills and Shag. Beyond the Treshnish Isles floated the white fringed island of Tiree and the more rugged island of Coll. We descended Ben More by its easy north west ridge and were back in camp by lunchtime. After a well earned brew and a bite to eat we packed the tent and drove west along the coast to catch the ferry to our 'secret camp' on the island of Ulva.

ISLE OF ULVA.

Welcome to Ulva

After days of running, walking, scrambling and Munro-bagging we went to Ulva for a weekend of relaxation. We've been to this island on many occasions before, always camping at the same spot, just yards from the sea and a large colony of seals that usually swim across to investigate our arrival with great interest. This time they didn't. There was a waning moon and tides were unusually low so that skerries, where the seals bask and rest, were always clear of the water. The seals hardly moved until our third and final day when, after a somewhat higher tide, the whole colony vanished. I suppose if they'd been human they'd have left a notice saying 'Gone Fishing'. On a grassy islet beyond the skerries wild geese were cropping the lush vegetation. Curlews were calling and a Grey Heron was stalking around the seaweed shore in quest of a seafood supper. Soon a delicious smell of cooking was wafting from the tent and a gradely bottle of Australian Shiraz made it all the more enjoyable. Well, half a bottle!

Note. I wish they didn't put screw tops on wine bottles. Hearing the 'Pop' of a cork was all part of the pleasure, arousing the senses to mouth watering anticipation of the gastronomic delights to follow.

Ben More from Isle of Ulva

In truth, not a lot was done on Ulva. We sauntered around the 'Livingstone Trail' and took photographs of the ruined house where the grandparents of the famous explorer, David Livingstone, once lived. It was tiny, making it hard to believe whole families lived and slept there in such a small dwelling. We found a huge cave, excavated recently by a group of archaeologists from Edinburgh University who found human infant remains that indicated people lived there as far back as 5650 BC. Farther along, monolithic basalt pillars rise from the shoreline and on the grassy top of one of these we stretched out to sunbathe among a myriad flowers.

Ulva is a botanist's paradise. We strode among millions of Primroses and Celandines with lesser numbers of Violets, Wood Sorrel, Wood Anemones, Sea Pinks, Bugle, Milkwort, Lousewort, Lady's Smock, Speedwell, Tormentil, Marsh Orchid, Wild Strawberry, Dandelions and Daisies, Herb Robert, Ramsons, Lady's Mantle and Birdsfoot Trefoil. As summer progresses, hundreds of other different varieties will burst into flower.
Deer peered warily from the safety of crested hill tops like bands of renegade Red Indians ready to descend at dusk. One hundred and twenty three different species of birds have been recorded on Ulva and some of these were hardly ever out of our sight. At times we could have done without the noisy Cuckoos that called non-stop until darkness fell, then began again as dawn faintly tinged the eastern horizon as early as 3.45 am. Fearless black-faced sheep leapt about the rocky heights with the agility of mountain goats, their tiny bleating lambs keeping close at heel.

'Secret camp' on Isle of Ulva

We visited two Standing Stones of seemingly unknown origin and an overgrown graveyard, Cille Mhic Eoghainn, with ancient weather-worn headstones recording the final resting places of MacQuarries, MacNeills, Blacks and MacArthurs, amongst others.
Since leaving the ferry, on arrival, we saw only two other people, gentleman walkers striding out purposefully on a circuit of the island. For the duration of our jaunt we'd no contact with the outside media world whatsoever, which is just what we'd planned. We returned happy and refreshed - not to mention a little sunburnt - went for a five mile run to loosen our mountaineering legs, then indulged in a fabulous pork casserole with a rich red Shiraz all the way from Namaqualand - wherever that is - to nicely round off my wonderful birthday gallivantings! Roll on my 79th!

A  Loch na Keal sunset

A good weekend

FRIDAY.

In a little under three weeks time my wonderful partner is scheduled to lead a group of U3A walkers over some exceedingly rough country along the Wharfedale/Nidderdale border. In order to acquaint herself with some of the more complex parts of this wild route there was a suggestion that we might just 'nip round it' last Friday afternoon. So, a little before 2 o'clock, we parked the car by Grimwith reservoir, stripped down to our running gear and set off at a gentle pace across the dam wall.

Poor Pheasant!

The weather was cool with a slight breeze, making it ideal for running. A welcoming call of wild geese drifted across the water whilst Plovers and Curlews filled adjacent pastures with their Springtime melodies. A crag high above us on the horizon, Great Wolfrey, was our first objective. We left the track and made our way uphill through tussocky terrain, bouldery in parts, squelchy in others. Considering the land around us was all part of a prime shooting estate we saw very little in the way of game birds - other than one unfortunate pheasant that had got it's head caught in an open trap. Had the pheasant not got there before me I might well be nursing a badly bruised foot!

At Great Wolfrey Crag

From Great Wolfrey, known locally as Wuffler, we headed roughly northwards, upstream, to eventually pick up a line of white topped posts which mark the Hebden Parish boundary. It was hard running over flattened reed beds, boulders and mainly dried up peat hags. Soon we reached the fence that marks the Nidderdale boundary where we turned west for around one mile to Henstone Band to pause for a drink and a bite to eat. From here on our route was mainly downhill all the way back to the reservoir though we'd to take care negotiating a couple of boggy sections.

Pause for rest, Henstone band

We crossed Blea Beck, picked up a sheep trod, then a farm track, and were soon re-crossing the dam wall over which we'd set off. My Garmin said 9.47 miles in 2 hours 24 minutes, but it tells lies. We'd actually been running for just over three hours and we both agreed it was easily 11 miles in distance. Trouble was, when we were floundering through some of the really rough stuff, my Garmin had stopped, failing to register anything because we weren't running fast enough. Ho Hmmm!

SATURDAY.

Start of 3 Peaks race

..was the day of my favourite race - The Three Peaks of Yorkshire. This 24 mile circuit starts and finishes at Horton-in-Ribblesdale taking in the summits of Penyghent (2,268ft), Whernside (2,406ft) and Ingleborough (2,373ft) through some of the most beautiful scenery in England. Long before I started racing I walked this route around 30 times, usually to get a measure of fitness into my body prior to some longer mountaineering or hill walking expedition, but it wasn't until 1991, when I was 59 years old, that I actually qualified to take part in this long established classic. Just prior to my first race Clayton-le-Moors Harriers had presented an elaborate Rosebowl trophy to be competed for annually by anyone over the age of sixty. In forthcoming years I went on to win it three times the most memorable of which was achieved only one week after winning the MV60 category in the London Marathon. On Saturday I was only spectating, but the passion and emotion felt by runners, mainly as they came within sight of the finishing line with the crowds clapping them on, inevitably got to me producing a lump in my throat and the odd tear in my eye. I cannot cheer or praise them enough. In truth, every one is a winner.

Anna Lupton, 1st lady.
Photo by 'Ady in Accy'

Conditions this year were perhaps more suited to spectators than runners for it was a little on the warm side. Some took precautions and lathered themselves with sun cream - only to be half blinded when it mingled with sweat running into their eyes. At 10 o'clock exactly shot guns were fired and the earth rumbled with the sound of pounding feet that took ages to cross the 'Start' line. An injured runner next to me, Andy Hauser, who'd previously run every Three Peaks race since 1980, remarked "They must be coming out of a hole in the ground". Soon the multi-coloured vests had disappeared into the hills and were streaming towards Penyghent. We set off in the opposite direction, to the summit of Ingleborough where we'd shout and encourage runners over their third and final peak.

Vicky's knees

There were some spectacular falls but no serious injuries. Victoria Wilkinson, a one time neighbour of ours, badly gashed both her knees and was streaming blood when she passed us, but battled on regardless to finish second lady in 33rd place overall in a time of 3.37.58. First lady was Anna Lupton in the yellow vest of Radcliffe A.C. in a time of 3.30.45. Of the 705 starters 602 made it to the finish line. Forty four of the non finishers were newcomers, perhaps having under estimated the severity of the course.Outright winner was the purple vested Morgan Donnelly of Borrowdale Fell Runners in a splendid 3.02.34.

Morgan Donnelly on Ingleborough

We jogged the 5 miles back to Horton with hundreds of runners streaming behind us and continued to clap them on their way to the 'Finish'. An old running friend of mine, Bill Wade who is well into his sixties completed his 40th running of the race in 5.46.41. One of my MV70 contemporaries, Mike Breslin of the Fell Runners Association, crossed the line in an incredible 4.57.50, one of only three MV70's ever to complete the race. Results here.

Passing through Settle we called at Booth's Supermarket on the way home for a little alcoholic beverage. We decided the blood, sweat and tears of all those wonderful competitors was worthy of a little celebration. Cheers!

Stan

Yesterday, the funeral took place of an old acquaintance of mine, one of my mentors whom I regard as something of a legend, one of those wonderful people you always feel better for having met. He was Stan Bradshaw, a name revered throughout the fell-running world and a highly respected life member of Clayton-le-Moors Harriers. He was 97 years old.

We weren't really close enough to be called friends, but we had many shared interests and experiences in our mountaineering and fell-running lives. I regularly came across him at the annual Three Peaks of Yorkshire race where he once shouted encouragement as I negotiated a swollen stream near God's bridge, where I turned to acknowledge him and slipped in up to my thighs.

In 1993 I recall him running in both the Northern Veterans and British Veterans X-Country Championships - taking the Men's Over 80's title in both.

He features in Bill Smith's much sort after book 'Stud Marks on the Summits' which is full of inspirational characters I tried my best to emulate when I first started fell-running, but failed miserably in the shadow of such legendary giants as Stan.

Rest in Peace Stan, we will treasure your memory.

A favourite run

Mossdale shooting hut

Last Saturday I re-acquainted myself with Mossdale, a wild and remote valley that lies in the shadow of Great Whernside in the Yorkshire Dales. Years ago when venturing around here I'd always inform my partner where I was going, or leave a note on the table describing my route. I'd stuff spare clothes into my bum-bag and, later, I was even persuaded to carry a mobile phone. Nowadays, A lightweight windproof and tiny camera are all I usually take. It feels so friendly and there is no longer a sense of danger.
It is a delectable place where Red Grouse feed and nest among the heather shoots. In the Springtime Curlews come skirling out of the sky in gentle descents to the grassy river banks while Plovers twist and whirl in joyous acrobatic displays. Ring Ouzels rear their young by the shooting hut and Wheatears bob and call from the old stone walls. Sometimes a Peregrine goes hurtling past and once, in September, a pair of Red Kites stopped me in my tracks as they rode a thermal high above in the boundless blue. But it is a place of tragedy too. Where the Mossdale beck disappears under the Scar a plaque is fixed to the wall commemorating six cavers who were trapped, drowned and entombed by a flash flood 43 years ago. There is also a memorial cairn high up on the moor above their exact resting place. I know it's illogical, but I always give them a wave as I run past. You can read more of the tragedy in this more recent newspaper report.
My route, measuring 10 miles with 1,144ft ascent, was the farthest I'd run since racing a half marathon in Spain last November. The pain caused by a whiplash injury acquired in a road accident in early 2009 had become progressively worse, cramping my style, and was much aggravated by running. Pain-killers, anti-inflammatories and short, slow runs became the order of the day. I'm not sure whether the pain is subsiding slightly, or whether I'm just getting used to it, but I can now run further without too much hassle. All I've got to do is re-train my old legs and cardio-vascular system to let them know I haven't quite finished with them yet. Who knows, there might even be more races to come!

A Happy Easter

EASTER SATURDAY was a 'go it alone day' when I set off for a gentle run round Grassington Moor, desperate to get my old legs working again and, hopefully, back into racing mode within the next few months. The problem with this run is that the first three miles are all steeply uphill, so I was huffing and puffing from the start. I stopped to investigate the frog pond up the long wall, not that I was interested in overrated froggy activities but more because I needed the rest.
Half a mile further along, I took the track that cuts across to Hebden Ghyll, where the crow trap used to be, and where I discovered an old unfenced mine shaft I thought might interest one of my speleological friends. Naturally, I stopped, rummaged in my bum-bag, took out the camera and assessed the best setting for a photograph, then switched on the GPS for a Grid Reference before fishing out my notebook and pen to record it. All of this took time, the more, the better, because my old bones jolly well needed REST.
After ten minutes or so I jogged merrily on, eyes peeled for some of the many snares set by our over-zealous gamekeeper. I climbed the wall into the ghyll, increasing my pace down the wonderful springy turf into Ring Ouzel country where I stopped, looked, and listened - and of course RESTED which was the main thing! But as yet, the Ouzels have not yet returned to their customary nesting sites.
From hereon it was all downhill. I'd had the whole moor to myself. The Curlews, Plovers and Skylarks had sung their wondrous songs for me alone. I was trotting happily back down the ghyll when a smiling girl came gliding towards me, moving easily at a good pace, her dark hair bouncing in the breeze, and full of that infectious vitality that made me intensely aware that SPRING is here.

FIRST KISS

Silently

The world sleeps

Deep in winter hills

Stealthily

Vernal youth

Folds back her blanket

Suddenly

Earth pants, and

Ah love, Spring has come.

EASTER SUNDAY was the day we intended to park the car at Starbotton, run over Buckden Pike, down into Buckden, steeply up onto Old Cote Moor, along its boggy top, then back down into Starbotton. But it didn't quite work out like that.
In spite of a coolish breeze it was otherwise a beautiful day but we were struggling from the start. Initially the track was steep and stony, then gave way to parts that had been mashed into a muddy morass by the passage of modern day giant tractors with their wide chevron tyres. There is a Fox staring from a memorial on Buckden Pike to commemorate one of it's kind that reputedly saved the life of a Polish airman whose plane crashed in a snowstorm during the 2nd world war. Nothing to do with Old Runningfox, you understand! The summit of Buckden Pike was a veritable swamp churned by the boots of a million walkers - and runners - but, joy of joys, a Skylark was pouring out his heart over the cairn.
We trod gingerly past a bank of snow down the man-made steps, then squelched down the Pike's flooded flanks to the more hospitable path that led us gently down to Buckden. After jogging/running/walking through such a hostile environment we were both totally knackered! As we sat on a stone in the car park for a quick bite to eat and a swig of juice we unanimously agreed that High Cote Moor would have to wait until another day, or perhaps another year! So, ignoring the track that climbed into the clouds, we jogged along the more gentle path that meandered beside the River Wharfe, along the Dales Way, back to the welcome sight of our car, and blessed rest, at Starbotton. According to my Garmin we'd run 7.61 miles with 2,102 ft ascent in a time I'm too embarrassed to record. Back in 2004 I think (and no doubt someone will correct me if I'm wrong) I set an MV70 course record when I ran up and down Buckden Pike in 53.02 on my way to winning the inaugural English MV70 Fell Running Championship for that year. How the mighty are fallen!

EASTER MONDAY was the feeding of the five thousand, give or take a few, in the Village Institute. Every year on this day villagers rally round to donate soup, sandwiches, cakes, buns, pies, tea, coffee, etc.. to feed hungry tourists and visitors to raise funds in support of our local Chapel. Folk arrive from far and wide on what has become, for many, an annual pilgrimage, the same faces, year after year, chattering away and queueing for tables at this Dales Mecca. And their generosity is overwhelming. I'm told that catering alone this Easter Monday raised £800 whilst another £600 was given in donations.
But the sad thing is that in a village surrounded by so much beauty so few people venture through our Chapel doors to express their praise or gratitude for God's wonderful and boundless creation. We have so much to be thankful for, so many blessings to count, but in this modern age people take it all for granted. Spiritual values have become lost in cyber space. On many Sundays a minister who has spent hours preparing his/her sermon, and having arrived from many miles away, will find themselves preaching to a congregation of just six people - most of whom are sat at the back! It's very embarrassing having to regularly apologize to preachers about low attendances.
We left the packed village with its scores of cars parked at jaunty angles and drove to the more secluded area of Grimwith for a 4 mile run round the reservoir. It was cloudy and there was a chill wind driving white horses across the water. It urged us to run faster to generate heat and warmth. The usual masses of Mallard, Teal and Canada Geese were conspicuous by their absense. The only birdsong, if we could call it that, came from a noisy flock of Oystercatchers that crossed our path along the dam wall. Kestrels have long since deserted their nest site in the old thatched cottage and in a section of land at the bottom of Blea Gill, where Partridge and Pheasant are bred in their thousands, there was no sign of life. Perhaps many were sat on eggs, deeply hidden in cover. Or perhaps they were sheltering from the fierce wind that rattled the trees. But the place seemed utterly deserted, strangely reminiscent of Rachel Carson's 'Silent Spring'.
We enjoyed our run, finishing happy and refreshed, unlike after yesterday's battle with the underfoot miseries.

TUESDAY was another 'go it alone' day, running up the ghyll whilst my wonderful partner was in Linton auditioning for another part in the great play that is called 'Life'.
Again, it was one of those stop/start days when, ostensibly, I was looking for Ring Ouzels, but with plenty opportunities to stand and stare and listen, breaking up the running into enjoyable little stints. Normally, the Ouzels are here before the end of March, and I've done my duty by reporting their arrival to the BTO. Not this year. Another gentleman was lurking around their potential breeding grounds too, equipped with both camera and sound recording equipment. He too was disappointed, having heard of their arrival in Britain some time ago and certain they should have been in the Dale by early April. Perhaps they've reverted to Dales timing! Whatever, they're grossly overdue.
I ran farther up the ghyll, serenaded by resident upland birds, climbed up onto the moor (where I noted Great Whernside still had patches of snow lingering on its flanks), then turned and ran gently back home where I silently proclaimed to no-one other than myself that Easter was officially over. Funnily enough, I'd intended finalising matters in the evening with a couple of pints of Timothy Taylor's excellent beer in the Clarendon, but finished up too tired to celebrate!

Voices of Spring

Because of dire predictions of forthcoming inclement weather - heavy rain, sleet and snow - I ran up the ghyll early this morning before the gentle precipitation turned far heavier. It was a delectable run when all the local bird population was of the same mind as me, to enjoy to the full what was apparently the best part of the day. By 8.30am the air was vibrant with their full blooded music.
Near the early flowering primroses a Blackbird was playing his boxwood flute in a garden by the bridge, a master musician. From its hidden shelter by the streamside a Mallard was quacking ever so softly as if talking in its sleep. A flashing white rump landed on a wall close by and materialized into a handsome Wheatear, one of the first of many summer visitors to grace our upland pastures. Loudest of all were the Curlews whose haunting call notes almost drowned those of the many acrobatic Lapwings and soaring Skylarks. Such a heavenly choir.
On the higher moor towards Yarnbury Grouse were calling their usual "Go back, Go back" but soon beat a hasty retreat when they realised I wasn't going to. Snipe were chipping away in a clump of smashed up reeds by the wall where I turned to take the middle path through sodden fields back towards the village. A pair of Partridge leap-frogged over the wall while Pheasant, poaching seeds around the farm buildings, briefly sported their gaudily painted plumage before clattering away to cover.
I jogged contentedly back down the ghyll with its primrose banks and chattering beck, past fields of new-born lambs, into the gathering gloom that was slowly enveloping the village. I'd 'run the gauntlet of eternity' and been a living part of all the sounds and movement and rhythms of the on-rushing Spring. Vixi, for one hour I had lived - abundantly.

Spring has sprung

I'm not sure what the official temperature was yesterday. All I know is that for the first time this year I reckoned it was warm enough to run in shorts, and I did. After a poorly attended, yet inspiring service in our local Chapel, I decided to further top up my spiritual batteries with a little jog round Grassington Moor.
Around Hebden lambing time officially begins on the first day of Spring - March 21st - but I reckon one or two crafty tups must obviously have thought this is perhaps a bit late. Some of their ewes have already produced fluffy bundles a little before that specified date!
The pond at the bottom of Yarnbury zig-zags was heaving with frogs on their annual migration to their mating area. Two days earlier scores of the little green jumping creatures were trying to fit into a wee splash of water barely a foot in circumference but overnight rain had turned it into a swamp. The frogs ecstatically croaked their approval! Farther up the ghyll is another pond with an even larger population that entirely covered the surface, all croaking away happily as they went about their courtship rituals. Until I stuck my head over the wall. They promptly submerged, as if feeling a bit embarrassed about being caught in the act!
Heather burning had recently taken place and the acrid smell still lingered in the warm air. Grouse called "go-back, go-back, go-back". Cheeky blighters! I took no notice and ran on, my legs feeling stronger than they had for some months.
Approaching Gill House the air pulsed with the sound of Lapwings as they tumbled and wheeled and dived over their potential nesting sites. Curlews were calling too, that welcome harbinger of Spring whose beautiful bubbling notes cascade from the air like liquid music, what Ted Hughes referred to as 'A wobbling water-call, A wet-footed god of the horizons'. Wish I could write like that!
After about 700' of climbing I reached the high point. Turning for home there was a new spring in my step, an urge to run faster, something I haven't felt all winter. Sweeping downhill towards Hebden I felt to be almost floating. There's no doubt about it. Spring has most definitely sprung - and that's official!

P.S. A week after writing this I discovered that in my absence, whilst I'd been galivanting round the Dales, Longwood Harriers A.C. had presented me with the Bob Mathieson memorial trophy for the best performance by a veteran athlete throughout 2009. It was in recognition of my performances in the following races:

Meltham 10K road: 1st MV75
Grizedale 10 mile trail: 1st MV70
Wharfedale ½ marathon trail: 1st MV70
Burn Valley ½ marathon road: 1st MV70
Harrogate 10K road: 1st MV70 (48.04 gave me 2nd place in the 2009 British MV75 10K Rankings)
Lowther 13 mile fell run: 1st MV70
Burnsall 10 mile road: 1st local (1.21.36 gave me 1st place in the 2009 British MV75 10 mile Rankings)
Richmond 10K road: 1st MV70
Benidorm ½ marathon: Unofficially 1st MV75 (1.49.52 gave me 3rd place in the 2009 British MV75 ½ marathon Rankings)

THE BOB MATHIESON TROPHY

A good weekend in the Lake District

SATURDAY.
It was freezing cold when we arrived at Ullswater on Friday afternoon but we awoke to a warmer and more habitable environment on Saturday morning. After a hasty breakfast we drove to Pooley Bridge and parked by the Information Centre in the Square where we stripped down to our running gear for the start of one of our regular routes.
Ignoring red traffic lights we ran across the bridge and turned north along a path through the wood bordering the River Eamont. Beyond, in the fields around the man-made pond, it was a bit squidgy underfoot, but nothing Mudclaws and Sealskinz couldn't cope with. Startled Mallard sought sanctuary farther into the river and wild geese bugled across the benign sky. The Iona Community regard the wild goose as a symbol of the Holy Spirit and, strangely, I always feel uplifted by the sight and sound of these wandering birds.
We crossed the A592 Penrith road and took the grassy track over Flusco Hill towards Dalemain, a large and imposing red sandstone house recently featured on Radio 4's food programme promoting marmalade. They called it 'bottled sunshine'. In the lambing fields we've seen hares that had come to share mangolds put out to sustain pregnant ewes. In March the Dalemain gardens are smothered with shiny white Snowdrops and yellow Aconites, a brilliant sight to behold. A strutting grey cockerel was rounding up his wide-eyed hens, full of the joys of Spring. A field of Fallow Deer have become quite tame over the years and will readily pose for camera shots. This year they look drabber and less colourful than previously. Red squirrels regularly feed around a large tree in the courtyard but were missing on this occasion.
As we ran along the track towards Dacre a buzzard mewed in the distance. The old castle stood in bold relief, lit with warm sunshine, when we approached, but as I fumbled for the camera in my bumbag a car drove up and parked immediately in front of it. Typical! The driver did apologize when I mentioned it but we were running and couldn't hang around while he decided to move the offending object.
Dacre's roadside banks were smothered with snowdrops, nodding in the gentle breeze. We turned south, crossed the bridge over Dacre Beck and set off up the long hill towards Souland Gate. Bantam cocks crowed lustily from a garden near the summit where we turned right towards Soulby before taking a footpath through the fields for the final kilometre back to Pooley bridge. We re-crossed the A592, jogged steeply upwards into Dunmallard Wood before sweeping joyously downhill to finish our run in the Square. A very pleasant 5 miles in balmy Lakeland weather that effectively answers the question - "Why do I run?"

SUNDAY.
We parked by the old Church at Martindale, with its ancient yew tree, and set off behind Winter Crag farm to climb Beda Fell. But first we'd to rescue a sheep that had tried to jump a wall but got its horns fast in the wire netting at the top and was just hanging there helpless. It's friends must have assumed I was a shepherd and that the green KIMM sack I was carrying was full of nourishing nuts. They followed us in a long line up the fell bleating appealingly. As we crested the ridge we were struck by a fierce wind that almost bowled us off our feet. The sheep very sensibly turned back!
We struggled onwards and upwards, hoods up protecting our faces, occasionally blown off the path by an extra strong gust. Two watery eyed fell runners passed us, hardly able to maintain momentum against the viscious blast - and they were going DOWN hill! At least, we were being blown mainly upwards. A parcel of hinds, maybe a dozen or so, grazing a sheltered part of the hillside below us hardly raised their heads as we passed them by.
Mercifully, as we approached Angle Tarn down the lee side of Beda Fell Knot, we were sheltered from the wind and life became more pleasant. For the only time we can remember Angle Tarn was completely frozen over and made a wonderful foreground to the snow-capped mountain tops beyond. A pair of ravens cronked across the grey sky, the only signs of life in an otherwise deserted landscape.
We took the stalker's path below Heck Crag and descended into Bannerdale. Badgers had excavated a tidy hole under the long wall leading to Dale Head, but the wall remained perfectly intact. Now, if I tried that, I've no doubt the stones would collapsed on top of me and this Blog would come to an abrupt end.
As we strolled back down the road towards Winter Crag, where our car was parked, groups of walkers were setting off up the hill totally unaware of the horrors that would be unleashed upon them when they reached the top. Our day was finished and half an hour later were back at Ravencragg enjoying the first of many refreshing cups of reviving tea.

MONDAY.
Before returning home we couldn't resist one of our favourite runs we always do when visiting this particular location. It starts along the road between Pooley Bridge and Howtown before turning up the track to Swarthbeck farm and following the path beneath Swarth Fell and Bonscale Pike to Mellguards at the back of Howtown. We crossed the bridge over Fusedale Beck and ran the path leading gently upwards, parallel to the zig-zag road, that brings us to the Church of St Peter at Martindale. We took photographs of the churchyard heavily dotted with snowdrops.
There was no way I could run all the way up Hallin Fell, as I have in the past, but was tempted upwards by the thought of the wonderful flowing run back down. So off we went, arriving at the obelisk to be greeted by the same terrible wind that struck us yesterday on Beda Fell. We didn't linger, running easily back down the fell's leeward side, to the ferry landing stage at Howtown where we hit the road. From thence it was an easy jog back to Ravencragg - and sustenance.
All in all, a very pleasant weekend without one drop of rain.

Lounging around La Palma

During the last two weeks of February, while Britain shivered under yet more snow, my wonderful partner and I were savouring the heady delights of the colourful island of La Palma. We like a bit of excitement but getting there was not without incident and, at times, a little frightening. A violent blast of wind as we descended to land knocked the Boeing 737 a bit off course so we were no longer pointing down at the runway but at the foot of a ruddy great mountain. With all the breakfast paraphernalia crashing around in the galley behind us we managed to ascend and clear the tops before setting a course for Tenerife south. Seven hours later we were herded onto Fred Olsen's capacious boat for a 3½ sail to La Palma. - via La Gomera. We arrived at the tail end of some strange carnival where thousands of lads and lassies, all clad in white clothes with matching white hats, were singing and kicking up a heck of a noise while sprinkling everyone in sight with talcum powder!

It was well after midnight when we reached Las Olas Aparthotel at Los Cancajos where, instead of devoting all her time to us weary wanderers, the receptionist in charge was 'helping police with their enquiries'. A man was lying on the floor amidst splashes of runny red stuff that looked suspiciously like blood while emitting some rather painful noises and being comforted by a woman. Word went round he'd been stabbed. Being true Brits with stiff upper lips and all that, the incident left us totally unmoved. We stood in a quiet, orderly queue contemplating our surroundings, the all-glass doors, polished marble floor, plush leather seating, ornate chandelier, smugly patting ourselves on the back for having chosen such a wonderful place to stay. Soon, the moaning man was stretchered away, the receptionist returned to her duties and life went on, albeit a bit behind schedule!

Things got even more exciting two nights later when some monsoon weather lurking in the Atlantic decided it would be a good idea to pay us a visit. Maybe it was just paying homage to my Rain Goddess partner but the hotel staff were totally unprepared for it. All night long it roared and raged, blowing fuses at the electricity sub station, picking up pool side furniture and smashing it to pieces, tearing tiles from rooftops and scattering them on the road, smashing hotel doors into smithereens of glittering glass, lifting man-hole covers, tearing branches from trees and flooding the stairway down to the bar and restaurant areas. But of course, being true Brits, we picked our way through the wreckage next morning to enjoy a hearty breakfast as though nothing untoward had happened. After all, we were on holiday and we were jolly well going to enjoy ourselvers!

And enjoy ourselves we jolly well did. La Palma easily outshines the three other Canary islands we've visited - Gran Canaria, Lanzarote and Fuerteventura. It's green and lush with banana plantations encroaching into towns and villages. Lime, laurel, myrrtle and giant ferns form a huge rain forest area at the north end of the island. There are no straight roads. There are no signs proclaiming 'Full English All-day Breakfasts'. Very little English is spoken in bars, shops or on public transport, so a smattering of Spanish can be helpful. If there's any night-life on La Palma we never experienced it, so those who want all night rave-ups must go elsewhere.

Everything is so colourful and the quality of lighting enhances it all. None of your monotonous dull houses, but bright pastel shades bordering streets and dotting the verdant hill sides. All are enveloped in a mass of palm trees, blazing flowers, cacti and tropical shrubs. Lizards are everywhere; there must be millions of them on La Palma. A gentleman by the pool rested his coffee on the wall only to find a lizard in his saucer when he turned to it. They like coffee.

We walked some of the many trails drinking in the incredible views from lofty viewpoints and marvelling at some amazing engineering feats. They have this wonderful ability to bore a ruddy great long hole through a mountain, lay a bit of tarmac and drive buses through it! A 353m long bridge spanning a deep gorge at Los Sauces is one of the most mind-boggling structures I've ever seen. Old Isambard would have been proud of it.

Being a Runningfox, with a running partner, we pretty soon worked out a suitable route to run off the excesses of our exceedingly high calory diet. I'm afraid our pre-planned exercise programme went by the board though it's possible our regular splashes up and down the swimming pool partially compensated for this.

In spite of the weird welcomings at the beginning of our holiday we can't wait to get back. But next time we'll be more prepared, taking a more detailed map and suitable guide book to walk or run some of the hundreds of kilometres of marked trails we failed to find or appreciate on this, our initial visit.

WILDRUNNERS

There are days
On paths that zig-zag
High into the hills
We pass beyond the pain,
Catch that tingling in the scalp
That tells us soon
We'll treadmill out of time,
Out of self.


To rufflings of raven's wings
We'll rise above the stones,
Sail in the eye of the wind
To worlds beyond the womb.
In that transmigratory state
That's neither flesh nor blood,
Male or female, warm or cold,
We'll run, like disembodied joys,
The gauntlet of eternity.

Running for Fun

At 77 years old there are increasingly more times when I want to forget I'm a racing animal. When, for a few days at least, I can disregard the fact each run should have a specific purpose with a mix of tempos, intervals, hill reps, etc., and simply run for the sheer joy of it. I was able to do just that over the New Year period in the delightful surroundings of Balcary Bay on the Scottish side of the Solway Firth.
Unlike in the Cairngorms, where friends of mine were wallowing in deep drifts, there was very little snow in the south west but a severe frost had turned the landscape iron hard. Grasses and plants were a uniform rime grey, brittle and crunchy. Nearby Loch Mackie was a veritable skating rink so its resident swans had abandoned it in favour of sea water shallows.
My morning runs began along a path that started immediately opposite our cottage door. A notice proclaimed 'Dangerous cliffs' so, of course, that's where I ran. In Spring they're adorned with a myriad flowers and resound to cries of nesting sea birds. In winter they're stark and wind blasted and the rutted earth of the zig-zag path teetering along the edge of the cliffs will do its best to trip unwary travellers and toss them into the sea. I galloped on whilst a family of intimidated walkers squeezed through the fence to the safety of an adjacent field, well away from vertical drops and crashing waves below.
As is well known, fell runners delight in such an environment, with its slight tinge of danger, especially when the early morning sun is gilding the eastern horizon and huge skeins of geese are filling the sharp air with wild bugling en route to their feeding grounds. Curlews were calling too, a coastal bird in winter but one that heralds the arrival of Spring when we welcome it to our Dales pastures in early March. Gorse was beginning to flower and among it in a sheltered hollow was a soft murmuring of Skylarks, not a full blown soaring song but a softer jerky rendering, probably moaning to each other about how cold it was!
Twelve shaggy coated horses galloped off and formed a staring group some distance away on the first occasion I trotted through their field. On the second day they came and nuzzled me as I tried to photograph them. I was amazed how rapidly I'd changed from being a threat to an object with entertainment value! On another day two wee terriers were having the time of their lives chasing sticks, thrown by their master, across the frozen surface of the loch - until they saw me and unanimously decided upon a different game! But I like dogs and, with few exceptions, most of them sense this and soon become waggy tailed friends.
Such was my New Year activity, re-charging my spiritual batteries in such a beautiful landscape while gently running off the festive excesses.

The Poseidon Adventure

We left home with umbrellas up on a dark, cold rainy morning en route for Leeds/Bradford airport for a flight to Alicante. For reasons best known perhaps to inmates of a local asylum we were bound for Benidorm to run in their annual International half marathon. At 9am with visibility down to around 40m we'd visions of our flight being cancelled but by 10.30 it had cleared a little and we took off at 11am, just 15 minutes behind schedule. All was well. Well, almost. Although we'd booked our flights together Jet2 had split us up so we spent the next 2½ hours in silence.
A representative (called Kipper) of 'Running Crazy' met us, as arranged, under the green flashing cross at Alicante airport and fairly soon we were whisked into Benidorm and dumped at the door of the exceedingly plush Poseidon Palace Hotel. Initially we were given a south facing room on the twelfth floor but for the last three nights we were moved to a similar room at the very top adjacent to the honeymoon suite. It afforded spectacular views towards the sea, of hills glowing red at sunrise and a kaleidoscope of multi-coloured lights as night fell. We reckoned it was the best room in Benidorm.
The race took place on the morning after our arrival when I was pretty well at my lowest ebb. In a strange bed I'd not slept very well. After strange food the previous night I woke up with tummy ache and diarrhoea (embarrassingly so). Also, my neck was playing up so I couldn't turn my head in any direction without considerable pain. I'd taken 600mg of Ibuprofen before breakfast but needed more. Four minutes before the start of the race I was still perched in the portaloo.
I charged out and joined the tail end of over 2,000 runners just as the gun went off accompanied by a noisy fireworks display. We all had timing chips so it didn't really matter how long it took to cross the 'Start' line, but I was going to have to do an awful lot of bobbing and weaving to make up time before I could settle into my race pace. I passed hordes of people in the first mile or so before drafting behind a tall fellow who was able to slow me down to a more reasonable pace. After about two miles, when I'd recovered somewhat, I left him in pursuit of a slightly faster runner wearing a buff, pirate fashion, on his head (behind me in the picture) who I managed to hang on to until the last mile or so when he sneaked away. Somehow I managed to smile and raise my arms in triumph as I crossed the 'Finish' line in 1.49.52.
It had been a very hard race but enjoyable (sort of) on an almost dead flat course in ideal racing weather. My only gripe is that veteran prizes only extended to 1st male and female Vet 60's. If a small race like our local Meltham 10K, which attracts around 250 runners, can award prizes in all the 5 year veteran categories, why can't a larger International race of 2,500 runners do the same? My wonderful partner just missed out on an LV60 prize and I was officially 45th MV60. Unofficially, in spite of my terrible time, I was 1st MV75! Results here:

Richmond Castle 10K

We did it again. The intrepid duo of Longwood Super Vets ventured into the rolling hills of Swaledale yesterday and scored another impressive double in the Richmond Castle 10k. The weather was fantastic, the autumn tints at their glorious best and the field, limited to 500 runners, just big enough for camaraderie and comfort. The organisation, marshalling, prize-giving, etc. were all top class. And there was even a beer festival going on in the same hall as registration - for those who indulge in such things!
But quite honestly it was the hilliest 10K I've ever run (well, it was sponsored by the Hilly Clothing Company!). Even sixty years ago I'd have found those hills hard. But the crowd support and encouragement kept us running in places where many might otherwise have walked, particularly the last ¼ mile with 150ft of ascent from the river bridge, up tarmac, then cobbles, then grass to the finish in the grounds of Richmond Castle.
However, in the MV70 category I hung on to beat last year's winner, David Whitmore of South Shields Harriers, by around 2 mins to finish 220th from 461 finishers in a time of 50.43. And to make it an even more memorable day my wonderful partner romped home first lady in the LV60 category with a time of 1.01.59. Another good day for the Longwood Harrier Super Vets.
Needless to say, we'd a suitable celebration in the evening!
Full results here

Gone.......but not forgotten

It's nice to see a church full to capacity with standing room only for late-comers, and that happened in our little village of Hebden last Monday (Oct 5th). But it's a shame it's mainly weddings and funerals that attract so many people. Yesterday's occasion was for the funeral of an old running friend of mine, Peter Wilson, of whom I have many fond memories. It was Peter who first introduced me to all the wonderful wild running routes around Hebden some 18 years ago when I became known as 'the new runner in the village'.

I say 'around Hebden' but in fact we ran far and wide, over Great Whernside, Simon's Seat, over the border into Nidderdale - anything up to 18 miles - for Peter was a long distance specialist. He'd run the Dales Way, 81 miles of rolling countryside from Ilkley to Windermere pacing his good friend Frank Milner and supported by Guy Goodair. He ran the Three Peaks of Yorkshire (24 miles/4,500ft ascent) on several occasions finishing well up in the field. He squelched his way round the 32 miles of the Haworth Hobble. But his most oft-recounted story was of friendly rivalry with another local runner, John Ely, in the classic Borrowdale Fell race, a favourite route over 17 miles and 6,500ft of beautiful Lakeland terrain.
In training, for important races like the London marathon or Three Peaks, I ran hundreds of miles with Peter in all seasons and all weathers. He was a jocular giant whose wry humour and 6' 4" frame made the going so much easier as I trotted behind him through Mossdale monsoons and Barden blizzards. And towards the end of a run, when he thought I was tiring, he'd say "C'mon you bugger" and set off like a bat out of hell, careering down some long slope with me trailing in his wake. "By 'eck, I enjoyed that" he'd say as he mopped copious sweat from his brow.
After his funeral, his burial in the churchyard, and after a delectable funeral tea in a packed Clarendon, I went for a run in his memory. "This one's for you Peter" I silently intoned as I ran up the cutting in Hebden Ghyll. Strangely, for the words were still in my mind, there came a weird response. Lying in the road was a £5 note. It was as if he were saying "And this is for you, have a drink on me". He was with me in spirit for the rest of the run, through Yarnbury and on past Bare House. And as I ran down the wonderful springy turf towards Grassington at full speed ahead I shouted "C'mon you bugger". And I'm sure he did.
Rest in Peace Peter. You were a great guy.