Borrowdale November 2025

Sunday 16th: Grasmere – Borrowdale 16.6km

£28 for a room at Borrowdale YHA was too good to resist so I got it booked and then, after a little deliberation, booked my trains.  The earliest Sunday train got me into Windermere at 10:50 so I had chosen a walking route I could do within the available daylight.  That time was even further reduced when the busy train emptied and I joined the queue for the busy 555 bus.  With traffic in Ambleside, we didn’t arrive at Grasmere until 11:45 but at least the journey gave me time to eat half my lunch.

Helm Crag

There were lots of people milling about in the village and it felt a little chilly, so I set off as quickly as I could.  There were quite a lot of people walking in Easedale too and it didn’t really get quiet until Stythwaite Steps, where I guess most people were walking down from Easedale Tarn.  I stayed straight on into the remote and rugged Far Easedale.

Far Easedale

Far Easedale

Far Easedale

The effort of the ascent meant I was just wearing a fleece over my new merino baselayer, which was generally ok except when the wind made its occasional appearance to send a chill through me.  I have been struggling a little on climbs recently and this one was no exception, especially with my bag weighing in at 10kg first thing (I don’t seem to be able to pack light).  I was blowing quite hard after the first steep section, so sat down to eat the rest of my lunch while admiring the view.  From this point I slowed my pace right down to make the work easier and it really did the trick, feeling much more comfortable.  All the same, the bloke who greeted me at Greenup Edge did seem to have a look of concern on his face as he said ‘hi’.  ‘Steep pull,’ I gasped.

Greenup Edge

It was a somewhat cloudy day and the wind was cutting across the top so I didn’t hang around and was soon starting the descent of Greenup Gill.  Last time I came this way it was raining and the rock steps were treacherous.  This time it was dry but it is still an awkward path, particularly around Lining Crag which is quite eroded.  The compensation was the wonderful views into the valley with Eagle Crag standing proudly to one side.

Eagle Crag over Greenup Gill

I passed one other person on the way down then swung left at Smithymire Island to follow the western bank of Stonethwaite Beck, partly because I don’t like the loose rocks on the eastern side and partly because I thought the eastern side might be more prone to inundation with lots of gills running off the fellsides (there had been flooding recently and there was a flood alert in place).  Whatever the case, the western side was pretty good.

Lower reaches of Greenup Gill

My legs were feeling the effort of both the up and the down and I contemplated my options.  I was too early to check into the hostel so I could go to the Langstrath Inn at Stonethwaite or the newly reopened Yew Tree Inn at Seatoller, which I was curious to visit.  Without looking at my watch I decided that if it was 15:45 I would stop at the Langstrath, otherwise I would push on to the Yew Tree.  I rather hoped for the former.  It was 15:42 so on I went.  That said, a glance through the Langstrath’s windows seemed to show no hand-pulled beer was available.  The Yew Tree was a lovely place, lots of slate decorating the bar (it is owned by the Honister Slate Mine family), decent beer, and toilets you have to cross a yard to visit.

Of course it had got dark now, so I got out my headtorch and hi viz vest to walk along the road to the hostel.  After a shower I headed to the bar for more refreshment and some food (a very good steak pie).  While lounging on a sofa with my book I half-recognised one of the other people round the table.  ‘Are you Richard?  Do you have a dog called Tess?’  It was indeed Richard from the Walking Forum, who was camping at the hostel, and we spent the rest of the evening having a good old chinwag.  An excellent way to finish the day.

Monday 17th: Borrowdale – Keswick: 14.8km

With another day of travelling ahead of me, I didn’t lie in too long (not as much as I might have done) and was in the dining room for breakfast at 7:30.  A number of people were self-catering so the meals were cooked to order.  The lad behind me, when asked how much he wanted, replied, ‘As much as you can do.’

Borrowdale

It was frosty outside, so I put on lots of layers before stepping out and bumping into Richard again.  He was heading low-level to Keswick, after a hard day, while I was heading to the tops.  We waved goodbye then I immediately delayered, feeling much warmer than expected.  I was delayering again by the time I arrived at Rosthwaite, with the stiff ascent of Puddingstone Bank ahead of me.

Watendlath

This time I chose a slow pace for the climb from the off, having learnt my lesson from the day before, and was pleased to reach to top without feeling I had taken too much out of myself.  The views back to Borrowdale in the slowly-rising sunlight were lovely but the views to Watendlath were rather hidden by trees.  It was quiet in the village, just ducks scattering, a dog barking, occasional banging from a yard somewhere.  It felt tranquil and idyllic.

Watendlath

The climb back out of the village had looked fearsome from the other side.  Once more I engaged my low gear and plodded on up, and once more it did the trick.  I might have been slow but I got to the top without over-stressing.  My reward was superb views around the whole of the National Park, though the bright sun in the clear sky made it had to look south.  From High Tove I took the flagged path over the Pewitts to High Seat.  The ground was partially frozen and in some places verglas covered the flags, meaning I had to risk the bog to avoid slipping over.

View west from High Tove

At High Seat I saw the first people since I had said goodbye to Richard two hours earlier.  It wasn’t a place for hanging around as the wind blew coldly across the top.  The good path had finished so the route to Bleaberry Fell involved a lot of bog hopping and trusting in the frozen ground to keep me from sinking.  I stopped to eat at Bleaberry, staring over the Helvellyn range and remembering my two visits this year.  My onward progress was further slowed by a chatty bloke from Lancaster and another from Glasgow.

High Seat

The paths improved on the way to Walla Crag, guided on by excellent clear views of Skiddaw and Blencathra, though I managed my only fall of the day – on frozen turf while fiddling getting my water bottle back into its pocket and not paying attention.  After a quick admiring glance from the top of the crag to Derwent Water and Keswick, I turned my feet downhill again.  Many more people were now out, I suppose walking up from the town, while I passed them in the opposite direction, feeling in a good mood, knowing the hard work was over and just enjoying the beautiful weather.

Derwent Water from Bleaberry Fell

Derwent Water and Keswick from Walla Crag

There was plenty of time for a couple of pints at the Crooked River Tap, a bus to Grasmere for a necessary stop (blame the pints), a beer in Tweedie’s then another bus (open top 599!) to Windermere, where I had a rather too heavily topped pizza and some so-so beer in the Crafty Baa.  The train home was quiet, so I read and listened to music and mused on my trip.  It felt emotional somehow, having had worries about my health and ability, but receiving generous gifts in return from the landscape and from the company of the people I encountered.  It had been a superb couple of days and was everything I hope to continue doing for as long as I can.

Kendal October 2025

Monday: Coniston Old Man: 17.5km

The weather forecast was too enticing to let me stick to my planned walk.  Originally I was going to climb some of the outlying fells around Finsthwaite but the promise of no rain and of summits over 700m being above the clouds pushed me to switch to Coniston Old Man.  Despite not really being in the mood for high tops, pictures on social media the previous day gulled me into going that bit further.

It was drizzling as I drove into Cumbria and while I queued at the roadworks outside Windermere.  At least it had stopped raining by the time I arrived in Coniston, where thick clouds and mist wreathed the fells down to a low level.  Off I went into the murk.  Coppermines was ‘atmospheric’ with old machinery looming out of the fog and the higher ground completely obscured.  Similarly, Levers Water disappeared into whiteness beyond the half-submerged rocks.

Coppermines

Levers Water

I puffed my way up to Swirl Hause, not really feeling full of energy or enthusiasm, and turned left up Prison Band.  A bloke was coming down and we commiserated each other about the weather.  Slowly I grovelled up the path, taking care on the wet and slippery rocks.  It wasn’t actually raining but everything was wet in the moisture-heavy air.  It was a funny sensation, climbing into nothingness, not being able to judge height or distance.  In the past I have almost enjoyed the foggy feeling in weather like this where walking is reduced to nothing but itself.  Today it just seemed to be pointless.

The summit finally appeared.  A fellrunner was putting on an extra layer by the top.  He felt certain it was going to clear up, he said – indeed there was a hint of bluer cloud to the north – and was sitting down on the cairn to wait.  I had a snack and fiddled with my bag but it was getting chilly so I set off again, checking the compass so I didn’t march off in the wrong direction (I have done that on a summit before).

Brim Fell was more of a climb than I had remembered – with the thick fog all over, you can’t anticipate what terrain you are walking into.  A few sheep stared silently out of the murk.  Occasionally walkers came past.  In the distance a dog yapped.  After the nothing climb to the Old Man, I discovered the source of the yapping.  A little terrier continued to shout out, ignoring the useless chastisement of its owner.  ‘Millie!  Millie!’  I sat for a sandwich, staring up at the unremitting whiteness, but the dog was doing my head in so I didn’t hang around for long.

Brim Fell

Because I hadn’t been feeling hill-fit, I had thought I would just descend by the ‘tourist’ path but some kind of desperate optimism took over and I decided to push on to Dow Crag, staying up high just a little bit longer.  It was only a short climb but, as there was no sign of a view, I skipped the actual summit.  On the far side, there was a slight hint of a brighter sky, so I stood a few minutes, wondering whether to turn back for the top.  Then, with a grumpy, ‘bollocks’, I just headed down.  I was almost at Torver Bridge before I dropped below the cloud.  While I sat there for another snack, finally I saw some blue sky up over the slopes of the Old Man.  ‘Could just pop back up there,’ I joked with myself.  The blue sky lasted bare minutes.

Torver Bridge

Below the clouds, the scenery was lovely, with the ginger-biscuit-coloured Yewdale Fells providing a backdrop for the village.  I had a quick pint in the Black Bull before heading off to my hotel in Kendal.  A couple of beers in the New Union, a meal and an early night.

Yewdale Fells

Tuesday: Windermere - Kendal: 25.3km

The forecast was similar to the previous day’s but, having had my fingers burnt (or rather, my ardour dampened) by my climb on the Old Man, I stuck to my original plan.  After picking up breakfast at Gregg’s I headed to the railway station.  There was no ticket office so I started to buy a ticket on my phone, only to see that the train was now cancelled.  I’m sure it wasn’t when I walked onto the platform, and it certainly wasn’t an hour ago when I got up.  Plan B: go to the bus station.

A number 508, which would take me to Windermere, soon turned up.  A girl ahead of me, who had been at the railway station, tried to persuade the driver that his route went via Burneside (she was wearing a James Cropper lanyard, so must have been on her way to work).  The driver explained that it didn’t and so I was the only passenger on the bus.  We whizzed our way across country, making me think I should have planned the bus in the first place, and were soon in Windermere.

A while of walking though backstreets (‘the part of town where the money ain’t’) took me to Bowness and then open country, first to a deserted Brant Fell.  The view along the lake was lovely with the autumn colours all around.  From there I joined the Dales Way for a while before turning off towards School Knott.  I had missed all these tops when I was walking the Dales Way a couple of years ago, feeling tired and unenthusiastic at the time.  A bloke was stood at the top, admiring the view on his ‘usual’ walk.  Next was Grandsire, across undulating, scrubby ground.  I was halfway there when I realised I was supposed to visit the unnamed top nearby first, for efficiency’s sake.  Oh well, just a bit extra faffing around.

On Brant Fell

On Grandsire

From there I was back on the Dales Way briefly before I turned onto a ‘shortcut’.  ‘Are you looking for the Dales Way?’ a bloke at the Outrun Nook asked.  I probably should have stuck to it as my alternative route was boggy, overgrown and clearly little used.  Then I ended up with a long section of road which, while easy, was somewhat dull.

The Dales Way and I parted company after another brief reunion and I headed up the lane towards Rather Heath.  There is a large campsite here, rather isolated, I thought, though it did have a pub, the Whistling Pig, run by the Northern Monkey brewery, so that caught my attention.  The woodlands on the far side were gorgeous.  Golden trees, oaks hung with lichen, a carpet of leaves and thousands of acorns below.

Near Borwick Fold

Rather Heath

By Rather Heath

Some farmland took me up to Cunswick Scar and the day started to feel a little long after my previous day’s efforts.  The views of the trees from the escarpment were nice though.  There were a few people around as I made my way along the rolling top and then climbed up to Scout Scar, again with pleasant views over the Lyth Valley.  The ‘mushroom’ shelter was unoccupied so I sat a while for a snack before moving on again.  The limestone ridge was covered in stunted, leafless trees, including some tiny blackthorns covered in sloes.

Lyth Valley

Scout Scar

A long descent between gorse bushes and over the old racecourse took me to the road back into Kendal, which was a bit of a trudge, unrewarded by a poor choice of pub (special offers on John Smith’s should have turned me away at the door).  This was remedied by an evening meal in the Old Fleece and a couple of pints at the busy Factory Tap, which was full of people eating pizza, practising watercolour painting, and planning a fellrunning club’s season.

Wednesday: Finsthwaite - Bigland Barrow: 16.1km

After a small lie-in and breakfast at the hotel, I returned to Plan A: Finsthwaite.  There was a small car park with an honesty box and a weekend-only snack shed, and I learned later that the official car park was actually slightly further up the lane.  Oh well, it was probably more expensive.

First on the agenda was Great Knott Wood, run by the Woodland Trust who had put signs up about how they were restoring native trees after Storm Arwen felled a lot of the spruce.  Excellent paths led up to Finsthwaite Tower, built to commemorate various 18th century naval battles, whose details were carved on tall stones (stelae?).  Keeping up the theme for the week, the woods were lovely, full of colourful birch trees.  Three people were puffing up the steep, partially stepped southern path to the tower as I descended.  ‘You’ve come the hard way,’ I said and, when I explained that I had parked at the top, was told, ‘That’s cheating!’  Fair enough.

Finsthwaite Tower

After the busy road through Newby Bridge, I joined a bridleway heading south to Bigland Barrow.  I hadn’t been too sure what route might be available, with tall, well-made walls everywhere, so cut upwards a little way.  ‘We don’t see many people here,’ said a woman descending the track, and I wasn’t surprised.  The walls near the top looked impassable so I descended a little and carried on the clear path.  Frustratingly I could find no path taking me back up the hill again through the thin woods full of berry-laden holly.  I lost height and travelled further than I had wished to before I finally found a narrow, faint path, which didn’t tally with either of the two (invisible) paths on the map.  The top of the path finished at a wall with no stile to cross it, so I followed it along.  There was no stile where the first right of way supposedly crosses it, but there was at the second.  Here the only path seemed to head the wrong direction, so I followed it for a while before angrily turning the direction I wanted to go, stumbling over rough ground of heather, tussocks and low trees.  Eventually I found a path of sorts and made it to the unnamed northern summit of the fell.  I felt there should be a sign at the cairn saying, ‘What are you playing at, you idiot?’

On Bigland Allotment

Retracing my steps along the faint path took me back to the stile, so I could have gone left there and made my life easier, it turned out.  The path I had briefly taken earlier led me comfortably up to the summit of Bigland Barrow, where there is a shaky concrete lookout post (dangerous to climb).  The grey sky sat low over the surrounding country, hiding all the fells and casting only a pale light over the lower ground.

Bigland Barrow

A quick descent took me to Backbarrow and then under the A590 and over the River Leven.  There was a long section of road walking past what seemed to be holiday villages as well as hotels.  A steam train on the Haverthwaite railway passed overhead as I turned under the line and up the hill.

 

River Leven

Low Dam

I had identified a track from the road up to Finsthwaite Heights but a sign at the start warned of private property.  It wasn’t clear whether it meant the track or the woodland either side, so I carried on anyway, glancing around for angry farmers.  It was steep and had me blowing (I was probably rushing in case I got told off) until it opened out into rough pasture.  A gate through the top wall took me into open access land and through sparse woods to the top.  From there a messy path led to the very good paths around High and Low Dams, both of which I visited and enjoyed the calmness and the trees’ reflections in the water.

All that was left was a steep and occasionally rough descent back to the car park, feeling relief that the hard work was all over.  All except for the terrible traffic around Manchester.

Bakewell - Hartington - Buxton

Bakewell - Hartington

The day didn’t start perfectly as the rail replacement bus, if that’s what it was, drove off from the stop five minutes ahead of schedule, just as I was crossing the road. I waited 15 minutes before getting the regular 192 service to Hazel Grove, where the actual train was departing from, and arrived in plenty of time all the same. At Buxton I changed to the Transpeak bus service to Bakewell after a short mooch around for a coffee. The bus was fairly busy: mostly walkers, and a couple of Canadians who were heading to Matlock for a train south.

It was nearly 11 o’clock now, so the town was busy and the day had grown warm. I quickly hit the backstreets and climbed away from the bustle, feeling more comfortable once I had found myself surrounded by fields. Given the long period of dry weather, it was no surprise to see the fields looking rather brown. For a brief moment I intersected with the route I had walked on my ultra challenge a couple of months ago, remembering how it had been drizzling that morning and how different the outlook was now.

So far the paths had been deserted but, as expected, it grew busier from Alport, along the River Bradford and past Youlgreave. There were lots of people sunbathing on the river meadow, lads in the river with little nets and other kids just splashing around. The designated swimming area was empty of both people and water, just a muddy puddle remaining.

River Bradford at Youlgreave

Past the turn for Middleton, it was quiet again and I stopped for something to eat on a broken wall. After that was a long, gentle climb past Kenslow Wood and on to Long Dale. It is one of my favourite spots and the combination of feeling strong and energetic, together with a beautiful scene of blue sky, red hawthorn berries and yellow gorse flowers, put me in a great mood. There were fewer flowers in Long Dale than expected, vetch and harebells already past their best, and few butterflies, unlike in the past when there used to be clouds of them.

Long Dale

As I turned up Gratton Dale I started to get the feeling that I had miscalculated the distances. It surely wasn’t going to be the 25km I had expected. I would have a re-plan in a bit. For some reason I didn’t do that at Pikehall when I stopped for more food. Instead I just stared up at the chirping house martins swooping above the road. Again I briefly touched on the ultra route when I used a short section of the High Peak Trail. It took me back to the pain of trotting along the old railway line for hours and looking forward to stopping for lunch at Pikehall. I was feeling much less tired than that time and marched off up Aleck Low before heading down towards Biggin.

Over a pint of Stancill Stainless in the Waterloo, served by the usual old girl in a tie (‘Ere y’are, ducky’), I consulted the map, concluded I was a little early (check-in at the hostel was 5pm) and cobbled together a slightly longer route. I celebrated this change of plan with another pint.

Biggin Dale was looking rather lovely, with stumpy trees, scattered boulders and jutting limestone outcrops. I was in an almost euphoric mood (blame the Stainless), loving the walking and chatting to sheep and friendly cows. My route took me up to Reynards Lane and then along the path that leads right to the hostel entrance. Having had a quiet time for the last hour, I was pulled up short by the numbers of people sitting on the picnic benches in the sunshine outside. I had to get used to company again.

Near Hartington

There had been a deal on at the hostel so my one-bed room was only £28 for the night and it turned out to be en-suite too. Result! I had a shower and spent a bit of time fettling with my bag and gear before going downstairs for a drink (Wincle Hen Cloud on cask) out in the garden. My plan for dinner was in the village itself, at the Charles Cotton Hotel which has recently been taken over by a family of Indian origin and now hosts Hartington Spice. I wasn’t sure how the beer was so I stuck to a lager as I tucked into my delicious lamb sagwala (spinach).

The beer selection at the Devonshire Arms over the road is better but I discovered that, although it was only a little after 7pm, they had shut for the night. Rather early, even for a Sunday. So instead I walked back up to the hostel for a drink and to sit in the quiet library reading my book. There was a mixed crowd there and in the other cafe/bar areas, young kids on phones, middled aged people on phones, occasional conversations. It was all very chilled out and, like most people, I headed upstairs for an early night.

Hartington - Buxton

I slept well and woke before my alarm, giving me a chance to start sorting my bag out before going down for breakfast, which was a fairly standard affair for a YHA, decent enough to set you up for the day. I was out of the hostel before 8:30am and walked into the village to pick up a freshly-made sandwich at the excellent Village Stores. The day was cloudier than Sunday and felt a little chilly to start with. I warmed up by climbing, unhurriedly, up towards Carder Low.

Friendly cow

There was a brown lamb lying in the gateway I wanted to use and, as I approached, it tried uselessly to pull its head back out from between the laths, unable to work out, in however long it had been there, that all it needed to do was lower its head into the big gap below the gate. I grabbed the gate, grabbed the back of the lamb’s head and pushed it down until it was finally free, running off immediately up the field and calling for its mother.

'Stuck' lamb

The views above Pilsbury Castle were slightly misty out towards Chrome and Parkhouse Hills but the Dove Valley still looked lovely, another one of my favourite Peak District scenes. I chatted with a southern couple who were camping at Crowdicote and who didn’t seem to know the area, the first people I had seen that day and the last I would see for a while, then hauled myself up above Earl Sterndale to the edge of Hindlow Quarry. The sound of clanking machinery announced the quarry’s presence and would accompany me for the next three quarters of an hour. The quarry itself is a gigantic scar in the ground where they are scooping out more and more limestone.

Pilsbury Castle

Parkhouse and Chrome Hills

Hindlow Quarry

With that, and the A515, behind me, I dropped into Horseshoe Dale, another pretty spot where I perched on a rock for early lunch. A couple of lads on mountain bikes stopped to ask if they could get to Buxton this way. ‘You can by walking,’ I said. They turned around but I checked the map and actually the path was a bridleway here and would have led them to a road and then to the A6, if they had wanted to risk that way. Oh well, too late.

Horseshoe Dale

Again it was clear that it was going to be a shorter day than expected. I must have been misreading the map measurer. Oh well, early train beckons. I have walked the last section from King Sterndale to Buxton a number of times before and it is always a bit of a slog, not helped by the rain falling, albeit lightly. In fact it was that warm, a waterproof coat would have just soaked you from the inside, so I just walked in a fleece. I had a short chat with a woman coming the other way at Cow Dale who told me she was walking my route in the opposite direction, from Buxton to Hartington where she would stay in the hostel. The day after she would walk home to Leek with her daughter.

Drying off somewhat, I wound my way through allotments and backstreets into the busy town centre before taking refuge in the Buxton Brewery taproom to wait for my train (and rail replacement bus) home. It had been a thoroughly satisfying two days with gorgeous scenery and some jolly fine ales, if only I had planned the distances properly.

Peak District Ultra Challenge 2025

28th June: 54km 12hrs 10mins

My 7am alarm was pre-empted by a battle between AC/DC and a chiffchaff at 6am.  I think the chiffchaff won.  Either way, with the music blasting out from the start zone and the announcer giving a pep talk for the earlier starters, I couldn’t really get much more sleep and so I wandered over to the food marquee for breakfast.  There had been a steady buzz from people getting ready in their tents and campervans around me, matched by the low hum of a generator, at the Bakewell ‘basecamp’, with a feeling of energy being held back, ready to be released.

Anticipation building

My time to warm up came just before 8:30 and I had a brief chat in the starting pen with a girl called Becky who was also on the two day, 100km course.  It was warm enough to only need a tee shirt and was forecast to get warmer so I set off at a gentle pace, letting others come past me as they wished.  A few of the heavier-set walkers were soon blowing hard on the steep climb up to Calton Pastures until we reached the open spaces above Chatsworth House and we could catch a little of the breeze.  I had chosen the ‘solo challenger’ option but there were plenty of couples and groups all around me, so I’m not sure it made much of a difference – except it meant us soloists set off later than most two-dayers.  I did get to chat to a bloke who had been camping along the way from me.  He was doing it as a corporate event – they even had a beer tent at the end – but he didn’t know any of the others, so was just walking on his own.  Down near Calver a young couple, who were jog-walking the route, came past.  She was the only one with a backpack so when the lad needed a drink he bent down to her chest and suckled from her supply in an eyebrow-raising spectacle.

Crossing Calton Pastures

Chatsworth House

There was a rest stop at Calver where I ate some of the food and packed some more snacks into my bag, also filling a bottle with electrolyte drink.  Given the sweatiness of the day, I expected I would need it.  The next section, climbing slowly up Combs Dale, was certainly sweaty, being out of the breeze.  I passed some people and a chatty group of lads in Christie’s Hospital tee shirts passed me.  It was a relief to emerge from the trees as the valley opened out and to feel the wind again as it stirred up the dust of the path.  Near the highest section we passed a field of llamas.  Well, the announcer had said to avoid any livestock with young, whether they were ‘cows, sheep, llamas or dolphins.’  The walk was cetacean-free.

Llama

Just outside Wardlow, Becky was greeted by some of her family with a good luck banner, which was sweet.  We then dropped into Cressbrook Dale, with the usual struggles of people unused to rough, steep descents.  Tansley Dale didn’t feel too hard a climb, despite the heat.  I took it steadily but hurried a little near the top as there was a glut of people ahead and a tricky stile to negotiate, which I wanted to be over before them.  There were a lot of folk supping outside the Red Lion in Litton, including the Christie’s lads (doing the half distance).  Fair play to them.  It was Tideswell Wakes weekend so music was echoing out from the village as we got closer to the village and a carnival float passed by as I walked up the main street to our lunch stop at 25km.

Cressbrook Dale

Litton well-dressing

It was a relief to get the boots off while I was stopped, keeping out of the sun in the tent, and to put some fresh socks on for the second half.  Nevertheless, it took a little while to get back into my stride again, walking up roads between fields of hay being mown or gathered in.  As the paths tilted downwards I found my pace and settled down to ‘ride the rhythm’.  We crossed the sun-dappled River Wye just by the Angler’s Rest, towards which I gazed longingly (one of the best pubs in the park), then marched up to the Monsal Trail for a brief period.  We dropped back to the river again by Chee Dale before facing the toughest climb: a short, sharp pull directly out of the valley.  Many people were taking breaks, or plodding slowly, taking their time.  I made sure I held myself back, not wanting to charge up and burn myself out.

Haymaking at Tideswell

River Wye and the Angler's Rest

Steep climb out of Chee Dale

The climb didn’t really let up after that, rising through Blackwell and a little more steeply again to Five Wells.  More and more people were stopping by the wayside to get their breath back but I was trotting along very comfortably.  At the top I said to a woman sitting by the gate, ‘It’s relentless.’  She said, ‘You look fresh as a daisy.’  The endorphins were really kicking in as I started to feel I was enjoying myself, thinking how glad I was to have booked the full 100km and not chickened out at 50km.  The long, punishing tarmac trek to Taddington soon kicked this jolly mood out of me.  It’s only 3km but it feels like forever.

Arriving at Taddington

After last year’s experience, I knew I would need plenty of fuel for the final, longest section, so I forced down a Pot Noodle for the first time in about 25 years.  It won’t become a regular thing.  Again it was a struggle to get going again afterwards, perhaps more so than at lunchtime.  Slowly, passing the 42km mark, I got back into it again and felt good down Deep Dale and along Monsal Dale, positively flying up the very quiet climb to Monsal Head.  My mood was helped through Little and Great Longstone, knowing that all the difficulties of the day were behind me, just one more gentle rise to go.  It was evening and the shadows were lengthening, making me think of Eliot’s ‘third who walks beside me’.  There were a lot of tired-looking people but the mood was positive as we were so close to Bakewell.

The town appeared over the hill, glowing golden in the low sun.  There was just a short walk along the river to return to the showground.  It was an odd feeling approaching the finish line to applause but then turning off down a narrow, nondescript side-channel for those who still had more to do.  It was 20:40, the result of that late start, so I made myself eat some veg chilli before searching for a shower (adequate).  There was still time for a beer from the wagon, oddly parked in the supporters’ area not the participants’, before thinking of bed and my 5am alarm.  Not that going to bed helped a lot as the music blasted out right up to midnight, while walkers and runner drifted in.

Evening approach to Bakewell

29th June: 48km 11hrs 20mins

My alarm woke me, bleary-eyed, this morning.  I wasn’t particularly hungry but knew I should get some food down me at the dining tent.  People were still drifting in from the 100km continuous trek, as they had been at 2:45am when I got up to use the portaloo, a few smatterings of applause to acknowledge their effort.  There was no time to hang around as I needed to get my tent down before I set off for the day – a matter of bundling my gear into the back of the car rather than packing neatly.  Andy next door, also in the two-day cohort but jog-walking it, was just about ready to go.  He had gone much slower than he had hoped, completing the first half in 10 hours, and had considered not bothering with the second day, like his neighbour the other side.  Of the 40 or so people to drop out of the two-day event (out of around 150), half of them did so at the mid-point.  If you’re going to drop out, it’s the sensible place to do it as you are back where you started.

The starting area, when I got there at 6:15, was much quieter than the previous day.  There was a mix of us two-dayers, some doing the second half only, and a few who seemed to have switched from continuous to two days.  Just after 6:30 we were released from the pen and set off up the road.  The first climb came quite soon.  Becky, who I had bumped into again, complained, ‘My blisters haven’t even gone numb yet.’  On the walk over fields to Over Haddon and down the length of Lathkill Dale I walked in a loose grouping with her, a couple of bantering lads (‘I had a blister in my groin and thought I’d grown a third bollock’) and a bloke who turned out to be from Boroughbridge in North Yorkshire.  ‘You probably won’t have heard of it.’  Actually, my mother has lived there for the last 30 years, so we had plenty to chat about.

Misty morning above Bakewell

Out of the valley and around Monyash I found I had left the others behind.  The light smirr of mizzle of the morning started to turn to heavier rain as I neared the morning rest stop outside the village.  My back, which had been complaining the previous day, really started to give me gip, especially behind my right shoulder blade.  I was looking forward to getting under cover and getting my bag off.  The rain was still falling after I had eaten my fill of fruit and pastries, but it was so warm a coat would have only made you sweat.  If I had brought a coat, that was.  I had taken most things out of my bag, leaving not much more than a windproof and some water bottles.

Over Haddon well-dressing, part collapsed in the hot weather

The next section was going to involve 14km along the High Peak Trail, the old Cromford to Whaley Bridge railway line, albeit with a lunch stop along the way.  I hadn’t been looking forward to it at all, knowing I would find it dreary to walk a straight, level, unvarying track for the best part of three hours.  Because of this, I had brought earbuds so I could listen to music while I marched, something I very rarely do when out walking – I prefer to hear the natural sounds of the countryside.  Head down, music on, off I went.  The scenery, outside the cuttings, was beautiful, a burgeoning, lush green explosion, lit by intermittent sun now the rain had stopped.  But the trail was as punishing as expected.  My knees groaned at the pounding and my back was screaming, almost to the point where I thought I wouldn’t be able to carry on – a strange reason for retirement perhaps.  As I walked I stretched, twisted, fiddled with straps, concentrated on my posture, anything to relieve the ache.  The lunch stop at Pikehall (21km) could hardly come soon enough.  As I checked in, a girl who I had noticed behind me when I was passing through gates, came up and enthusiastically thanked me for pacing her over that section.  Like me, she had found it boring though she had originally thought it was going to be a doddle.  It was my pleasure to help someone through it (my time per kilometre varied by 30 seconds at the most over the first 8km to the rest stop, which was pleasingly consistent).

View from the High Peak Trail

After a decent pulled pork toastie and a good deal of stretching, I waved goodbye to one of the bantering blokes from that morning (the other had pulled out at Monyash) and to Becky (checking later I saw she finished two hours behind me, so must have had a bit of a mare), and hit the trail again.  The stretches seemed to have done the job for my back but nevertheless I was glad to turn off the track at Longcliffe and get onto some decent, undulating paths again.  There was more haymaking taking place and we were diverted all the way round the boundary of one field as it was being actively mown (I waved at the farmer and got a thumbs up).  This was to be the longest section of the day at 17km so I had planned a stop along the way for a bit of food and time off my feet.  There was a handy bank alongside the dusty track of Blakemere Lane where I plonked myself down for five minutes amongst a lovely display of wildflowers – kidney vetch, bird’s-foot trefoil, yellow rattle, wild thyme, small scabious and lady’s bedstraw.

As there were fewer people on the trail, it felt like there was more camaraderie between us.  Everyone was very supportive and encouraging whenever you passed or were passed by someone.  A random bloke in the little village of Wensley even applauded me, as did some people outside a pub in Darley Bridge.  The steep descent through those villages was hard work and my knees were really getting secondhand.  Pounding pavements from the bridge to Darley Dale and our afternoon rest stop (38km) was very draining, and I felt myself flagging for the first time.  It was going to take an effort to get to the end.  The rest area was relatively minimal with a few leftover bits of food.  I didn’t fancy another Pot Noodle, so nibbled at what I could.  The tent was like a battlefield hospital with bodies strewn around, groaning and limping, bandaged and strapped up.

Moorhen and chick at Darley Dale

Just 9km to go, starting with another 4km of dull trudging beside the Peak Railway heritage line.  More aches in the knees and pain in my back.  A woman I had seen at the rest stop, nursing one of her calves, was sat down.  ‘A treat stop before the climb,’ she said.  ‘It’s a mental game now.’  And indeed what came next was 100m of vertical ascent out of Rowsley.  The sky was overcast but it was still very warm and very humid, so I was pouring with sweat, and plodding at a crawl.  It’s not a track I am very familiar with and I found myself slightly disorientated at the top.  What village was that I could see down that unknown valley (probably Baslow)?  It started to feel slightly unreal.  I was walking along, shaking my head, hardly able to believe that I had almost walked 100km over the last two days.  It seemed such a ridiculously large number, far beyond my usual distances.

Rowsley well-dressing

Just before dropping back to Bakewell

The route wound its way along, Bakewell taking forever to arrive, and I found time to get introspective and emotional thinking about what I had done and what it meant to me.  Not just taking part in a big event, which I love doing, and raising an amazing amount of money for the BHF, but the personal motivation too.  It could just be an act of defiance, less than three years after my heart attack; it could be proving something to myself about not letting that limit what I can achieve.  Partly it’s not wanting to let that define me – I’m not the kind of bloke who has heart attacks, I’m the kind of bloke who does tough physical challenges.  As much as anything it was a roar of anger against whatever led me to have my heart attack, a roar almost saying, ‘how dare you do that to me?’

Thanks to the 'Walking with Dinosaurs' fellas for this picture

Eventually I heard the familiar hum of the generator and re-entered the showground.  Dry-eyed, I crossed the line to applause and punched the air before receiving my medal and the rest of the bits and bobs to celebrate my achievement.  I was overjoyed, delighted to have made it, and very thankful to be able to sit down and not walk any further.  As I ate my post-event fish and chips, I saw the woman with the dodgy calf cross the line and burst into tears as her husband greeted her.  I went for a back massage (both painful and relieving) then headed to my car for the drive home.  The event was being packed away and at the far end of the showground, a funfair was waiting to take over for next weekend’s carnival.  Things were moving on but the experience will stay with me for a long time.

Made it!