Peak District Ultra Challenge - July 2024

My 5:45am alarm failed to go off but somehow the noise of Jill moving about the flat penetrated my sleeping brain and I woke at 5:50am.  Despite the roads being quiet, every traffic light was against us, just turning the ratchet up a little on my nerves.  Three out of four forecasts said it was going to rain all morning, the other said it would rain all afternoon, so I put on my big boots and packed a bag full of waterproofs.  On the plus side there was no need to carry much in the way of food and drink as it would be provided en route.

On the start line in Bakewell

We had called into Bakewell the day before in order to beat the queues to registration and to gain an extra half hour in bed (or 35 minutes, in my case).  I had felt slightly intimidated by the scale of the event then and this morning it was even busier.  I entered the participants area and grabbed a coffee, which I didn’t finish as we were very quickly called into the starting pen.  There were around 300 of us, a mix of runners, 100km-ers and all distances on offer.  The runners soon made their way past the steady walkers and the crowd started to thin somewhat.  After about 15 minutes, almost as soon as we hit gravel, I had to stop to get a stone out of my boot.  I wasn’t going to risk leaving it in there for even a minute.

Descending towards Edensor

It was dry and mild so I had started in just a fleece.  The pace slowed down on the climb up to Calton Pastures but I was then warm enough to go down to a tee shirt as we entered the fields where the views opened up to Chatsworth and the gritstone edges on the far side of the River Derwent.  There were a few groups of people and a few pairs, plus the odd solo walker like me, feeling slightly self-conscious about shuffling quietly along in the buzz of the crowd.  I concentrated instead on minding my own pace and taking it steadily.

Chatsworth House

We dropped down to Chatsworth Park, past the honeyed glow of the house, and along the river to Baslow.  The blue sky had been replaced by clouds and a light shower fell.  I was content to fend it off with nothing more than my windshirt.  The groups had spread out on the walk along the valley and we were now being passed by runners who had set off in later waves.  I did my best to get out of the way of them, though some others seemed oblivious.

River Derwent at Baslow

The first stop was the far side of Calver.  Inside gazebos were tempting displays of pastry, sweets, fruit and hot drinks.  I took the time to have a snack, a sit down and a catch-up on the messages of support that had been coming in.  Ten minutes was quite enough and I set off up the path, 14km in.  Having seen a lot of the same people so far, the stop shuffled the pack around and I found myself with a new set of people to pass and be passed by on the way up Coombs Dale.  I had thought this might drag as it’s a long, steady climb with some rough stuff under foot, but it seemed to pass relatively quickly.  Being sheltered I warmed up and took a layer off, only to put it back on at the top as a stiff breeze blew in, taking the edge of the returned sunshine.

Road-walking to Wardlow

After some road walking to Wardlow we descended into Cressbrook Dale.  It was clear there were people who weren’t used to this type of terrain.  There was a queue for the stone step stile, one woman practically crawling over it as she was helped by her friends, and people were very slow on the, admittedly eroded, path down.  It was as if they hadn’t walked on rocky ground before.  I skipped round a few of them, giving myself just a little moment to appreciate the lovely views of the valley.

Queuing to get into Cressbrook Dale

The climb up Tansley Dale was no trial, though a few folk were stopping for breathers, and a woman was walking the wrong way asking if anyone had seen her headphones.  The Red Lion in Litton, where crowds in wedding finery were thronging, was a tempting thought but we were close to lunch now.  I was looking forward to taking the weight off my feet.  The road walking wasn’t doing much good for my joints and I could do with a rest.

The three magic words

I found Jill under a gazebo, a little chilly being exposed to the wind, and popped myself into a camping chair.  She had brought my change of boots and socks which I eagerly switched to.  The forecast wasn’t actually going to amount to much in the way of rain so I could put light boots on and ditch my waterproof over-trousers, amongst other things.  Lunch of sandwiches and snacks was provided in a large marquee.  As I was picking this up, rain started falling so I dragged a chair indoors to shelter.  While I was eating the rain properly came down, leaving me feeling rather smug that I had got my timing just right.  By the time I left, it was hardly raining at all.  The 25km marker was just outside.

Above Monk's Dale

There were more lovely views as we approached Miller’s Dale, the worrying whinging in my hip taking the edge off just a little.  A tear formed in my eye as we passed the Angler’s Rest without stopping and climbed up to the Monsal Trail instead.  I thought it was a good idea to follow this to Chee Dale, having seen the online route suggesting we would walk down the pavement-less road round a blind bend.  On the debit side, it did mean that we had to do some extra ascent.  The climb out of Chee Dale was to be the first test.  A short, sharp stomp coming 30km into the walk.  Thankfully the rain that had been splashing down into the River Wye had abated, again nothing more than a brief shower, as we headed into open country.  I paced myself carefully, passed a few strugglers, and was passed by fit lads, to get to the top of the steep bit feeling pretty good.

Chee Dale

Climbing out of Chee Dale

The climb put big gaps between groups but as ever these quiet and busy sections came and went as we carried on ascending, rather more sedately, through Blackwell, where some people clapped us on, and up towards Chelmorton.  Normally I would walk across the fields from here to Taddington but I guess the number of people crossing farmland wouldn’t be welcomed by the farmer, and there are a lot of step stiles along that way.  Instead we walked lots and lots of foot-numbing tarmac.

Heading to Taddington

Taddington was where our afternoon snack stop was located.  This time there were Pot Noodles and pick ‘n’ mix.  I think I last had a Pot Noodle was about 25 years ago and it was vile, so I passed on those.  I filled up on peanuts, sugar and energy drink, with another little sit down.  38km in I was starting to feel the effort with the longest section of the day now to face.  For fear of seizing up, I levered myself upright again and set off.  There was more tarmac and another reshuffle of folk around me, this time a few I would see right up to the end.

Pick 'n' Mix time

I’m sure when I’ve walked this way before it wasn’t so far to Deep Dale but it seemed to go on for ever.  We passed the 40km mark just before dropping down and we were entering uncharted territory distance-wise – I hadn’t walked further than 40km since I was a teenager taking on another charity walk (the White Rose Walk).  That was back when I was a Scout and my late dad was one of the leaders.  Maybe it was that or the tiredness that got me thinking of all the people around me, near and far, who have been affected by cancer, and I started feeling rather emotional about it.  Raising money for Cancer Research means this walk was more than just being about me, it was for all those people in my thoughts.

With a deep breath I headed down the valley.  Towards the bottom the path coincides with the stream so it is drier or wetter depending on the season.  This time it was a little wet over the slippery limestone, which seemed to be causing a deal of consternation amongst a group of walkers, confused about how to proceed.  I walked round them, skipping carefully over the boulders, concentrating on avoiding a hubris-puncturing fall.  At the White Lodge car park I wondered if I was confusing them more when I swung off the path to use the (unsignposted) public toilets.

The start of the event had been quite regularly marshalled.  Their numbers tailed off during the day but there were still a pair by the A6, helping walkers across and doing stretches, having been in position for a long time.  Monsal Dale was very quiet until I arrived at the foot of the next, and last, testing climb out of the valley.  It came at 45km and I had worried how much of a strain it would be.  In the end, at the back of the ‘peloton’, it actually felt pretty stress-free.  We emerged into sunlight at the top to gaze over the Headstone Viaduct and, in a number of people’s cases, buy ice creams.

Headstone Viaduct at Monsal Head

I almost broke my no-beer pledge passing by the Pack Horse Inn, probably my favourite pub in the National Park, but I managed to stay strong.  The end was so close now, I knew there was almost no way I wouldn’t finish.  Emotion again welled up, a mixture of joy and pride at having – just about – overcome the challenge.  The day was warm and pleasant, as were the people on the trail, and the paths were easy going.  Down through the unripe barley we passed and across the Monsal Trail for the final climb.  There was no rush now and I was passed by a couple of people, who I passed again on the way down – don’t people know how to go downhill? – with Bakewell coming into view.

Approaching Bakewell

It was the weekend of the Carnival so there was a lot of noise coming from town as we turned up the river.  Across the other side we passed the raucous noise of a funfair before entering the finish area of the event.  Jill was waiting to greet me, as were the marshalls with a medal, a small glass of fizz and some commemorative photos.  Just as I passed under the finish arch there was a lot of cheering.  It turned out to be because England had just qualified for the Euros semi.  And I thought it was all for me!

Still smiling!

What a day it had been.  53km and 1200m of ascent, according to my GPS.  I had felt pretty good, my gippy hip and Achilles deciding to stop complaining after a while, though I seized up somewhat while eating the post-event meal in the marquee.  On the way to the start the radio had been playing Edwin Starr’s 25 Miles and it had become an earworm later in the day.  ‘I’ve got to keep on walking, I’ve got to walk on.’  On the way home it played Haircut 100’s Fantastic Day.  That seemed appropriate too.