Thursday, 7 March 2013

Me, Myself and I




“It is the constant thinking activity of Self 1, the ego mind, which causes interference with the natural doing process of Self 2. Harmony between the two selves exists when the mind itself is quiet. Only when the mind is still is one’s peak performance reached”    W T Gallwey “The Inner Game of Tennis”

This one’s taken a few weeks to write, an exorcism of thoughts that have been rattling around my consciousness, influenced and shaped by many observations, particularly over the last couple of months but, in fact, even over years.

In running terms, I’m drifting, unfocused, no targets on the horizon and no goals to achieve. And, perhaps because of that, the training has been sporadic (at best!) and I don’t have a set schedule I feel I should be following.

And the question that kept coming into my head was: “does it matter?”

In such times, I usually turn back to “The Inner Game of Tennis” as a source of inspiration and guidance. Its simple philosophy and principles make perfect sense to me. Life can sometimes seem to be a battle between consciously thinking and actually doing. It’s all to easy to judge yourself (both positively and negatively) rather than just being, observing and learning.

And it, invariably, comes back to ego. We all suffer from it: the thought that somehow what we do IS important, that there is some greater meaning.

“I wonder about the probability of surviving in the mountains and then I look at the stars, at an infinity of other worlds, and I realise that it doesn’t matter that much......We are unimaginably ignorant and, in the context of space and time, we are an utter irrelevance....We are no more than the blinking of an eye between two eternities”      Joe Simpson “The Beckoning Silence”

The truth is that nothing I do really matters. In the short term, my ego cares whether I run or not, and how well I do it, so my challenge is to strip back that ego, quieten Self 1 and see what happens. In the medium term, my name may remain in the records of races run and challenges undertaken, all games made up by people to amuse themselves, none of them having any significance or resonance in the history of this vast universe.

So I did the Bob Graham a few years back....what did it matter? Of course, to me, it meant everything and nothing. At the time, it boosted my ego greatly and I felt a huge amount of pride in having done it. Now, a few years on, I understand that what it taught me most of all was to allow myself to be in the moment, to quieten the doubts, to not fight against but to go with the flow and allow my inner self to perform to its potential. And, overall, I appreciate that it means nothing at all, of course. Just a list of names of people who’ve done something in their lives, but which doesn’t have any real relevance.

“But to anyone reasonable, my life will seem more or less normal-under-the-microscope, full of contingencies and incongruities none of us escapes and which do little harm in an existence that otherwise goes unnoticed.”    Richard Ford “Independence Day”

I’ve been agnostic for all of my adult life. I see no evidence for any greater being, any greater purpose to our lives and I’ve always believed that, when we die, we are just a piles of bones or ashes in the earth, marked only as a place of remembrance for our kin.

Some people seem to find that to be a negative, pessimistic view of life. I see it as the opposite, the older I get. It frees me to do whatever I want in the remaining years I have on this earth. I came into this earth via a natural process, I’ll leave via one and what I do inbetween is entirely my choice. It doesn’t mean I don’t have morals or ethics. I clearly do, and I do my best to live harmoniously on this earth (within the constraints of modern life), appreciating all the great beauty around us.

And, of course, I regard humans as no more important a species than any other. Why would anyone? To do so would only demonstrate massive ego. We’re all here to co-exist, we all have a place in the complicated balance of nature and, the only thing we can be sure of, is that, if we tip the scales too far in any direction, nature will wreak havoc.

“Does this sound very "green" to you? To me it sounds like a society fixated on growth and material progress going about its destructive business in much the same way as ever, only without the carbon. It sounds like a society whose answer to everything is more and bigger technology; a society so cut off from nature that it believes industrialising a mountain is a "sustainable" thing to do.”     Paul Kingsnorth  ”AWindfarm is Not the Answer”

As my thoughts have become concentrated and focused, and as I’ve contemplated the direction my life will head in from here, it just so happens that I’ve also hit upon some writers who have managed to encapsulate my thoughts and feelings.

In a modern world with which I increasingly feel at odds, it’s comforting to find that others feel the same and perhaps, just perhaps, that feeling is growing (and, yes, I appreciate that in finding that comfort, I am demonstrating some level of ego!).  

Although I don’t regard procreation as a “purpose”, it is a fact of life and the very least I can do is treat the earth properly and not join in with the wholesale destruction of it on which the human race seems hell-bent, for the sake of my children and my children’s children.

If I can live my life so that, at the end of it, I personally have had no detrimental effect, then I will be content with that. If I’ve used my time to do things I enjoy and, perhaps even to spread my enjoyment to others, then even better.

After a while, my meditations and studies began to bear fruit. It really started late in January, one frosty night in the woods in the dead silence it seemed I almost heard the words said: “Everything is all right forever and forever and forever”. I let out a big HOO, one o’clock in the morning, the dogs leaped up and exulted. I felt like yelling it to the stars. I clasped my hands and prayed,”O wise and serene spirit of Awakenhood, everything’s alright forever, and forever and forever and thank you thank you thank you amen.” What’d I care about the tower of ghouls and sperms and bones and dust. I felt free and therefore I was free.”    Jack Kerouac “The Dharma Bums”

So where does all this leave me? Feeling more calm and serene than I ever have before, not chasing dreams, not setting targets out of some requirement to be seen to be doing so, just enjoying living in the moment, in the here and now. I’m enjoying loch-side walks, where we see ducks, heron, otters, seagulls, seals, cormorants, and all manner of other creatures. I’m enjoying nice, slow explorations of unseen glens, where huge slopes tower above us on both sides. I’m enjoying my imagination running wild at the thoughts of lives lived in these glens in times past and the certain knowledge that lives will be lived for equally as long in the future.

And what of my running? I’ll be out there when I want to be, and when time allows. Sometimes I’ll go out and push myself, because I’ll feel like it. Sometimes I’ll just go out and plod, enjoy being out in the wilds and taking in all around me. I’m not going to put any pressure on myself and not going to have any expectations. Races? I’ve entered a couple, not with any great plans or hopes, just because they’re in beautiful places and provide me with an excuse to go there.

I’ve got a wee route planned in the area as well. Straight from the house. It clocks in at around 50 miles and 20,000 feet, almost all pathless, never touching a road. I might give it a go around midsummer. And then again, I might not. If nothing else, I’ll enjoy getting out there and checking some of the lines between hills, using slopes and gullies rarely visited by humans these days, although a few of the wiley old characters around these parts will be able to teach my knowledge of these places from their years tending to their flocks on this inhospitable terrain.

Jon Gay’s fantastic winter Ramsay quite inspired me as well. Maybe I will have a look at the route. I think the truth is that I probably won’t though. Why spend all my time getting to know mountains 20+ miles drive away when I’ve got all these hills in my back garden and I could spend a lifetime getting to know them?

Whatever I decide, I’ll enjoy myself and know that it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things.....

The wind will still blow, the world is still turning,
Somewhere exotic, the sun is still burning,
But here the night's fallen and so must we rest,
Your head by my heart, gently pressed to my breast.
The whispering ocean with tall tales to tell
Is done for the day as he settles his swell,
The flickering stars so impossibly high
Are yawning and waving from far in the sky,
And old Mother Moon, with her pale, peaceful light,
Keeps watch from above as she sings us goodnight:
'Goodnight, goodnight, oh my children, goodnight,
Sleep deeply, sleep safely. My children, sleep tight'

Aidan Moffat and Bill Wells   “And So We Must Rest”

Monday, 21 January 2013

We Could Be Heroes, Just For One Day......


A week of contrasting events has provoked some thought, clarified my own stance on matters and left me pondering why people always seem to be looking to others for their lead and their inspiration.

A week of fairly cold, wintery weather has left a nice covering of snow on the hills, backed up with an icy under-surface just to make the conditions more testing. Myself and Sam had a couple of trips out and Friday’s in particular gave us a clear insight into the differences in weather between sea level and the higher tops and ridges.

We climbed up from Blaich on the old track, initially on a decent surface, albeit with a few slippy patches of hard ice. However, as we headed out above the deer fence, the surface and the air conditions rapidly changed. Underfoot, there was a thick carpet of ice with a shallow covering of snow over the top. Much time was spent trying to weave a way along the edge of the track and up through the heather. As we got higher, the wind started whipping up, blasting the snow across the path and, whilst the air temperature as probably only just below freezing, it felt at least 10 degrees less than that in the icy blast.

We climbed up to the cairn on the ridge, but with snow blasting across the plateau and searching out every and any route to chill my skin under several layers, we did a quick about turn and headed down. This time we left the slippy path and plunged straight down snowy, heathery slopes....always great fun!

On Saturday, we had to pop over to town and so Kirsten suggested bundling Sam in the car and heading out for a run from the North Face Car Park up to the CIC Hut, something we’d done together a couple of years ago, as we contemplated the idea of moving to Scotland (who'd thought we'd be here now!).

Once again, the path heading through the trees was initially fine, but as we gained height and headed out onto open slopes, the path took on an icy sheen and the running gait changed to accommodate this.

We met people coming back the other way, who all advised that it was very slippy further up and, before long, we decided it was time to don the kathoola spikes. And what a difference! Once they were on, we were skipping along with confidence, enjoying the incredible scenery and the privilege of being in such a special place.

There was a fierce wind though, whipping the snow up in swirls and eddies from the ground, mini twisters veering off into the nearby slopes. Two years ago, there had been a lot more snow than this, but make no mistake, this was a proper winter day on the Ben.

We eventually arrived up at the hut, where the driving wind had caused snow to pile up high against the windows and doors. It wasn’t a place to linger. We spent a few minutes taking photos and looking for climbers up on the North East buttress, or heading up Tower Ridge. Either we were too late to see them or the wild conditions had encouraged most people to head for lower slopes. Without further ado, we headed back down, skipping past people who were spike-less, until we were back at the car and on our way home from another lovely trip out.

It was once we were down, and popping into Fort William for a bit of food shopping, that Kirsten mentioned the helicopter. It’s never a good sign around here, especially when the weather is so foul and the darkness starting to close in.

And sure enough, as the hours went by, the tragedy in Glencoe unfolded. A party of six experienced winter climbers had been avalanched off Bidean nam Bian, the rescue services were out and there was already talk of casualties.

In due course, it emerged that one of them had survived with no injuries by flinging himself out of the way and he had raised the alarm. Another climber had been taken to the hospital with serious injuries but, with no news of the other four, you feared the worst. And indeed, that’s how it proved to be. Four adventurous young people swept to their deaths, in the wrong place at the wrong time, but doing what they loved.

And then, over the weekend, I also found out that a friend of mine from the Midlands had broken her leg whilst out running in the Brecon Beacons and had had to be rescued by Mountain Rescue in far from ideal conditions. They shipped her off to hospital where I understand she’s now waiting for an op on a broken tibia and fibula....ouch!

Both of these events demonstrate the fine line we tread when we pursue the activities we do. In both cases, everyone was adequately equipped and suitably experienced. In both cases, through no “fault” of their own, they’ve ended up in dangerous situations. And the fact is, as fellrunners and mountaineers, it could be any one of us at any time. Does that mean we don’t do it anymore and we find more sedate activities? No, of course it doesn’t since, as well as being an ever-present danger, it’s also one of the attractions to what we do.

And that lead me on to thinking “how far would you go?”. Just how far would you push yourself to achieve something important to you? What level of danger would you put yourself in? What level of assistance would you accept? And how single-minded would you be?

I think the truth is that we would all, for the “right” goal, push ourselves a long way. Hopefully we’d know when to stop, but I suspect most of us have tales of days when we’ve pushed ourselves beyond our limits and have been “lucky” to emerge unscathed at the other end. That may be days when the conditions were bad, days when we weren’t up to it, days when we weren’t quite ready for the route we chose. But the fact remains, we’ve all been there and lived to tell the tale.

Certainly, those are all relevant questions when it comes to a Bob Graham round. Just how far would you push yourself? The answer is to the limit and beyond. Truthfully, way beyond what the body should have to physically endure. What level of danger would you put yourself in? I’ve seen rounds where the contender has been taken off the hills with near-hypothermia. I’ve seen runners (and their support) inadequately dressed or equipped for the hills. What level of assistance would you accept? Well, there’s a question! Much debate goes on about how much assistance you should have, how many people should accompany you, whether an unsupported round isn’t much more pure, what exactly is an unsupported round. The fact of the matter is that, for many, it becomes such an obsession to complete the round that, I venture to suggest, they’d take every last piece of assistance that was offered. And single-minded? Week after week of constant training, every session with a purpose as part of the bigger goal. Every weekend spent in the hills, evenings spent trying to get some ascent in, a training plan that must be adhered to, schedules to tweak and test, support to muster and organise, the big day to prepare for. It’s very single-minded.

And why is this all relevant? 

The past week has seen a lot of pontificating, lecturing, posturing, analysing and dissection of the Lance Armstrong situation. Mostly, it’s fair to say, from people who like the sound of their own voices and can’t wait to condemn the individual rather than look at the overall picture.

The stakes are so high in top-class sport, the rewards so enormous, the pressure from team managers, sponsors, funders etc so huge that I find it unlikely that any modern-day top class sport is not blighted by some kind of artificial assistance that could be classed as “cheating”, whether that be the use of banned substances or the use of foul tactics.

The fact of the matter is that the use of drugs in cycling has been going on for many, many years and, in some cases, riders who clearly took drugs are regarded as heroes, whereas others are regarded as pariahs.

For sure, during Armstrong’s time at the top, pretty much everyone was doping. In such circumstances, the bottom line is that you wouldn't be unable to compete without following that course of action. What you can’t take away is the fact that, at a time when every rider was using artificial assistance, Armstrong was still the best of them. You still have to work phenomenally hard and be incredibly dedicated to ride at the level he did. To deny this is akin to the divorcee who tries to remove every trace of their ex from the history of their lives. Like it or not, Armstrong was a “valid” champion. He was single-minded, he did what had to be done to be a champion and he was prepared to push every inch of the way to get there.

What can’t be condoned or swept under the carpet is the terrible disservice that Armstrong has done to innocent people along the way, whose names and reputations have been sullied, whose lives have potentially been destroyed by his actions and his words. It’s a terrible character flaw and some have suggested that the recent interview shows he has no remorse for what he did. I’d suggest otherwise. He’s been living a lie for so long, it must have become normality to him. He must have regarded himself as invincible in the same way that a lot of modern, overpaid footballers do – above the law, indeed a law unto themselves.

In those circumstances, with the breakdown and unravelling of all he knew over the last few months, this must be a very confusing time and one which I imagine he is struggling to make sense of. A man who has made a living out of denial is not going to suddenly be able to “come clean” and feel (and demonstrate) all the right emotions. It will be interesting to see what happens over time and how he adapts. What it clearly does demonstrate is that, whilst he may be an incredible, elite athlete, he’s a man with problems and deep flaws in his character. And why wouldn’t he have? He is, after all, only a human being like the rest of us.

And this is where my train of thought guided me in the end – why is it that people expect their “heroes” to be perfect human beings? How did people get to their 30s, 40s and older without realising the undeniable truth that, to get to the top in a given profession, there’s a fair chance you’re not the most likeable person in all situations. But, beyond that, why should that matter when assessing their achievements?

I’m not sure at what stage I worked it out. To be honest, there was never one clear, revelatory moment. The truth emerged over the years, from being told to “fuck off” by two prominent England cricketers when I asked for their autographs in 1978, through tales of drunken irresponsible behaviour by footballers, athletes who would trample on the careers of others to reach the top, climbers who walk past dying colleagues in order to summit, to a footballer who came to my team as a hero and left having dismantled the club over the course of two years of drinking, gambling and addiction.  I admire the sporting ability that these people have shown but that doesn’t lead me to think of them as great people.

And, perhaps, there lies the truth about why people do try to put them on a pedestal, worship their every move, copy their behaviour and then be disgusted when they meet their all-too-familiar downfall: in a world where so much of society and community has broken down, people are looking hard for heroes, role models whose lives they can aspire to and whose actions they can imitate, thereby making them better people. But they’re looking in the wrong places.

I look closer to home and beneath the headlines for my “heroes. I find much to admire in them but also accept the flaws that they (we all!) have in their characters.

My heroes are the men and women who headed out into the bleak mountains on a darkening Saturday afternoon (for no motive other than the wish to help others), to recover bodies from the snow, or to rescue a stricken fellrunner who might otherwise have succumbed to the conditions.

My heroes are the men and women who take to the hills week in, week out for no glory other than the glory of being out there in wonderful places which teach us much about the human condition and how tiny we are in the grand scheme of things.

My heroes are the folk who turn up to fell races every week, give it their all and exchange banter, smiles and enthusiasm even though they’ll never feature even in the top half of the results.

My heroes are the ones who do finish at the front end of the field, and yet still have time for the likes of me, keen to impart their skill, knowledge and passion for what they do but just as happy to hear about my race.

My heroes are the people I know I can turn to when the chips are down, who support and love me through thick and thin and who provide that unconditionally.

And my hero is the person who introduced me to the hills at a young age, who taught me about enjoyment of the wild places, who exposed me to the “danger” and “risk” that we face each day in the mountains and who guided me into a lifetime of thrilling adventures.

Look in the right places for your heroes and you’ll surely find them.


Tuesday, 15 January 2013

Foot & Mouth

No need to worry, this is not related to farm animals and the countryside isn't about to be shut down all over the UK, No, this is about an unerring ability I seem to have for saying the wrong thing to someone, when I have no idea of who they are.

Back in the days when I was starting out in "proper" fellrunning, I headed up to the Lakes one day to recce the Old County Tops route off Helvellyn. If you've ever done the race, you'll know it's possibly the best descent in any race...1500ft of steep, fairly even, pathless grass and heather, designed to be done in just minutes but to trash the legs for the rest of the race.

I descended through the trees and trotted into Wythburn car park, stopped and, hands on knees, recovered my breath amidst the exhilaration of having flown down off a 3000ft peak.

A young Asian lad chose this moment to approach me and asked if I'd just come down off Helvellyn, and what was it like up there? We chatted some more and he asked about the pathless route down, and how long did I think it would take him, because he fancied going up there himself.

Now, in this moment, I made one of those awful assumptions (and to be fair, fellrunning is not a sport greatly frequented by the Asian community) and told him he needed to be careful, Helvellyn was a big mountain, there was a wee bit of clag on the top and the descent was rough if you didn't know where you were going.

After chatting for a couple more minutes, he started to tell me a few of his race times (17 minutes for 5k!), the fact that he was 19 years old and, as we went our separate ways, he told me his name.

A few hours later, having travelled back down the M6 to Shropshire, I googled his name and realised I'd been telling a member of the GB Junior fellrunning team and a junior fellrunning champion that he needed to be careful on the hills!

A couple of years later, now well into my BG training, I was down at my usual Wednesday night run with the Newport gang. There was a new lass there that night, I'd not met her before but she certainly was a decent runner. I didn't get to talk to her (the usual suspects had collared her!) but it was noticeable that she was right at the front of a decent-paced pack.

Back in the pub later, Noel came across with this lass and introduced her as "Kate", who wanted to chat to me because she was really interested in having a go at the BG one day. We ended up sitting chatting for a fair while. She seemed really keen to listen to details of my training exploits and what I thought it would take to get round.

In particular, I told her that two keys (I believed back then) were to get out training on the route and to get a good team around you on the day. On the latter, I suggested to her that, if she didn't know the right people, I'd be more than happy to introduce her to some and, via reccies etc, she'd get to meet plenty. She thanked me for the offer but also mentioned that her brother, Simon, had done parts of the BG and knew a few people who'd done it.

On the first point, she expressed an interest in coming out on some of my reccies and I said that I'd let her know when I was going and it would be good to have some company. So, as we got up to go, she gave me her number to be able to contact her, which I duly entered into my phone as she said, "and the name's Kate, Kate Bailey".

It took me about an hour, having driven home and cooked my tea, to suddenly have a "lightbulb" moment and realise that the lass I'd been sitting in the pub with was the sister of Simon Bailey, one of the best fellrunners in Britain, mates with just about every top-class fellrunner out there and, indeed, Kate herself was a pretty darned good athlete, who'd won plenty of races in her time.

I immediately sent a text to Noel confirming I was correct with my assumption and asking why on earth he didn't tell me, before I made a fool of myself telling her she could tag along on my reccies, that it would probably take a few years before she was ready to have a go and that I could put her in touch with folks who could help her!

And so to 2013. The latest Lochaber AC winter league race....The River Bank Splodge! A 7+ mile route around Glen Nevis, heading initially up the glen, but then all the way down the burn to finish at Claggan. We were surprised to be told, at the start-line, that there was no set route and no markers.....not helpful when you don't know the area at all and no route-map or details were up on the website in advance!

It's a dreich morning, new snow on the higher slopes, and I've only decided to run at the last minute. A nagging knee problem has sidelined me for the last few days and the extra weight I've been carrying since Christmas will undoubtedly slow me down. The omens aren't good, I'm not going to trouble my "nemesis" in the placings today and, just as importantly, I suspect that this will be the first race where I'm beaten by the fasty Lochaber lass who usually finishes just behind me.

Off we go, initially uphill on forest tracks and, immediately, the people I usually run alongside are gone. There's no trying to tag them today, I just settle into my own pace. To be fair, I never start fast and so I'm not too disheartened....maybe I'll catch them later.

After the initial up, there's a quick descent through the trees back to the starting point and, here, I go flying past a lass who'd been 1st lady on the initial climb. As I go past, she says "I'm rubbish on the descents" but, sure enough, as we head back onto more even ground, she's away past me at an excellent pace.

We head off road again, and up a rough track and I start to reel in the first 3 ladies, who are just ahead of me and only a few yards apart from each other. As we reach the highest point in the glen, we turn down the tarmac road for about half a mile. As much as I dislike tarmac, I'm not losing time and places here and settle in running side by side with one of the lasses, trying to match her fast pace.

We head off-road again, and Margaret Rose is there shouting encouragement. Or, in my case, shouting "come on Richard, you're being beaten by a 17 year old girl!". Whether that spurs me on, or whether the slightly rougher ground and slight downhill is suiting me more, I move past both her and the fast Lochaber lass, Amanda, and start to gain on the 1st placed female runner, who is just ahead.

The race really moves off-path here, picking up trods across the boggy ground and you're never quite sure which way to go next. Plans to follow a local are scuppered when I turn a corner to find I can't see the two runners ahead - they must have nipped around a corned or over a hill and out of sight.

I've passed the first placed lady now, but she's running just behind, and we spur each other on. A few words are exchanged and it seems she's following me 'cause she thinks I know where I'm going - I put her right on that! But we plough on regardless, having to slow or even stop a couple of times when the way ahead isn't at all obvious. This allows the runners behind us to start catching us, and neither of us seem keen on that idea, so into the trees we go with renewed effort to make sure we increase the gap again.

Eventually, we emerge back near the start point of the race (albeit on the other side of the burn). I stay to the right of the barbed wire fence, she crosses a small stile and nips over to the left. This proves to be a good move on her part, I end up having to backtrack slightly to get over the fence and onto a much more even riverbank path. This slight gap is all she needs and, back on even terrain, she's off.

I try to stay with her, but tiredness is kicking in. Although the knee hasn't bothered me at all, I begin to feel tightness in my right thigh, presumably as a result of having favoured that leg. I glance back to see if I can see runners behind me. They're there alright, but a wee way back.

This is one of those moments in a race that defines how you do on the day.Things aren't quite right, you're beginning to feel the pace. You have two choices. Give in to it, steady yourself down, start to feel every ache and pain in your body, lose a couple of places and just resign yourself to a bad day at the office. Or kick again, put aside all negative thoughts and realise that, with only a couple of miles to go, your body will do what you tell it to. There's always more in reserve than you think there is.

If there's one thing I have taken from the BG more than anything else, it's that ability to choose the latter option, to know that there's always more to give. Plus I'm a competitive old sod, I'd like to beat the first lady! And off I go, digging deep, flowing well, reading the ground nicely and picking a good line along the muddy banks of the river, catching her slightly, certainly enough (with a mile to go) to think I can still do it.

And then we come up off the riverbank and onto tarmac for the last mile.

Anyone who's done the Ben race will know all about the tarmac road heading back towards Claggan Park. No matter how well you've raced up and down the hill, the tarmac will get you. The legs turn to jelly, even the slight undulations leave you wanting and you endure agonies which 4400ft of ascent and descent can't inflict on you.

And so it is today. Up onto the road, looking for an increase in pace, and there is nothing there. The legs, which have been skipping along the muddy banks, suddenly turn to lead weights. The runner in front clearly feels otherwise though, she's off, visibly increasing the gap. I have no choice but to admit defeat on this one and my focus turns towards what (or rather who) may be behind me. I get far enough down the road to turn and take a look, and I'm relieved to see nobody. I'd pretty much have to stop and crawl to be overtaken now.

So I cruise in, pleased to have had a decent race, glad to have finished. I go over and congratulate the lass who finished in front. We have a wee chat and she tells me that she's not the best on the rougher ground, especially the downhills, but I tell her there's no need to be when you have a turn of pace like she has on the more even terrain. In particular, I tell her, what was impressive was how much speed she still had after 7 miles.

We chat a wee bit more, she tells me that she's recently moved to Aviemore but is seemingly struggling to find a club locally. I mention Cairngorm Runners, but she's not sure they are fast enough, but that she knows people like Manny etc who she can sometimes run with. At this point, I'm wanting to head back up the road to see Kirsten in and she's off to get her lift home and, as we go, she "introduces" herself as Lucy and I tell her my name.

Kirsten comes in, looking absolutely shattered, having put in a good effort. We change in the car and head for a wee coffee in Cobbs, before heading back home to take the dogs out and then settle down for an afternoon on the sofa!

I'm not sure how, why or at what point something clicked in my head. My friend Ryan is always on about her. She's some kind of a running goddess to him. I swear a glazed look comes across his face when he mentions her name! Google. What did we do without it? Luckily, John has put some photos of the race up already and I place one side by side with the image that comes up on google and me and Kirsten are in no doubt.

I've just told a GB endurance athlete, the female record holder for the 95 mile WHW race, winner of the 53 mile Highland Fling on numerous occasions, and just all-round top long-distance runner Lucy Colquhoun that she has a "good turn of pace" and did well to keep it going over 7 miles!

Sunday, 16 December 2012

Go Tell It On The Mountain.........


Christmas is so exciting as a child. It’s early-70s December, school is finishing off for the term and there’s so much to look forward to – the decorations, the Christmas tree, the lights, the anticipation as the big day nears. Come Christmas Eve, I’ll be putting my sack at the end of the bed, leaving a mince pie and some whisky out for Father Christmas and looking forward to a restless night, with frequent checks to see if he’s been yet.

And once we get through this magical night, there’ll be presents to open, games to play, a big lunch with all the family. And then, beyond that, a boxing day football match, a chance to catch up with my friends and compare presents, and all that wonderful television to watch....black and white episodes of Flash Gordon, Robinson Crusoe, maybe some Banana Splits!

And yet this year is even more special. For months, I’ve been saving every penny of my pocket money and birthday money. If I get a small amount of money for Christmas as well, I’ll be able to take that most exciting of new year trips to the shops to purchase the one thing I’ve been after all this time.....a Scalectrix!! Only the very basic model, of course, that’s all I can afford. But that’s all I want, as well, that will make me more than happy.

Other potential purchases (subbuteo?!?!) have been forsaken, money hasn’t been spent on sweets, and I’ve been encouraged in this by my parents. I’ve even done a few small jobs for them for money (we’re talking pennies here!). And I’m nearly there. It’s been hard, but I’ve kept to the task and learned a very important lesson.

And then Christmas Day dawns. With excited, magical, wondrous eyes, I look to the end of the bed and.....he’s been!! A large sack, brimful with presents wrapped in Christmas paper. It finally reaches an acceptable hour (7am?!) and we take our presents in to our parents’ room to open them.

The excitement is palpable,  as wrapping paper is discarded and presents received, and it builds to a crescendo as I have one large present left.....from Mum and Dad. What could it be? I have no idea. A game perhaps? Something to make? Something to do with football? It could well be.

I grapple with the paper, tearing it open, to reveal a large cardboard box. I hurriedly tear at the paper, at the same time turning the box over to reveal........a Scalectrix set! Not just the basic model, but one up from that, with more track, fancier cars, and a “bridge”. I should be absolutely ecstatic, overjoyed.

And yet (and I still recall the feeling to this day), in that moment, I feel unexpectedly deflated. I’d saved months and months to be able to go out and buy a Scalectrix set myself, I was almost there, I’d imagined the trip to the shops, parting with my hard-earned cash and walking out proudly with my new toy.

But I learned two very important lessons which have stayed with me throughout my life;

Firstly, if you want something, if you want it badly enough, you have to stick at it, work hard at it, and you can make it happen.

And secondly, and perhaps more importantly, it never feels quite as good when something is handed to you on a plate.

Tuesday 11th December 2012. Christmas is almost upon us again. The Christmas tree is up (courtesy of a “smash and grab” raid on the edge of the Glenfinnan road!) and the lights are on. Kirsten’s had her fun putting up all the decorations, and we’re both looking forward to the excitement of spending some festive time with our families.

But, for today, I have one thing on my mind.

Since we came here, I’ve headed off up Meall an t-Slamain countless times. Headed up the rough track that leads to the trig point, got to know its contours and its terrain, got to know where I can run, and where I have to take it down to a walk.

And, over time, I’ve started to push myself a bit more on each of the steeper bits (“today, I’m going to run all the way up this bit”), started to dig in and hold a reasonable pace even on the rougher parts. The fitness has started to come back, the resilience needed to run up hills is there again, the appetite for working hard has resurfaced.

And so, today, I am going to run every step of the climb. From here at sea level, to the trig point, at over 900ft.

It doesn’t auger well initially, as I head along the flat stretch to the start of the track, and then up the initial small climb, and the freezing air attacks my lungs and I’m instantly wheezing. But I take the pace back slightly as it flattens, re-gather my thoughts and my energies and head up the steeper early climb, to the deer fence.

Here, I have no choice but to stop for a moment, open the gate and close it again behind me. And then, immediately, I have to walk across the icy wooden bridge across the burn.

But from here, it’s me against the hill, following the path I can see snaking up above me into the low clouds. Head down, arms pumping, legs feeling their way into the climb, I head up. The first initial steepness is conquered and it flattens out briefly allowing me to catch my breath. Then, a small downhill to round the corner and come face to face with the longest, steepest section of the climb.

There’s no easy way up this, nothing offered up on a plate, just a need to get stuck in and concentrate on the arms pumping away and leading the rest of the body uphill. The lungs are gasping for air at times, the legs turn to jelly on the steeper steps but I remind myself of the most important fact – you can’t “try” to run up a hill, you’re either going to run up it, or you’re not!

I reach the top of the steep climb, the ground evens off a bit, and I take my foot right off the gas for a few steps, to let the lactic acid settle and the steel myself for the final part of the route. It’s icier up here as well, which makes it important in places to choose my footing carefully, adding another element.

And yet, as I’ve learned in many other situations, having something “small” to concentrate on (like where to place your feet) actually dominates your thoughts and pushes the pain and suffering to the recesses of your mind. And so it proves, before I know it, I’m up the final short steep part of the climb, and the ground really levels out as the mast rears up ahead of me.

In these frozen conditions, the normally boggy, peaty ground ahead is crisp and solid and I run easily across it, start the final slight rise up the path, then head off across the frozen tussocks to reach the trig point and collapse in a satisfied heap. I’ve done it! All the way up, without stopping. And, of course, that means I can do it anytime I want to now that the barrier has been breached. And I smile, a wee, slightly smug grin in the knowledge that, I may be getting on a bit and not have quite the speed and fitness I did have, but those two lessons that I learned all those Christmases ago, still hold true.

Happy Christmas everyone!


Thursday, 6 December 2012

Safe, in the sanctuary, oh so safe.....


I wasn’t planning to do many more races. I’ve mentioned this several times recently. The excitement had gone. With the passing of time and the achievement of feats which I hardly imagined myself capable of, my thoughts and deeds were turning back to what took me out into the hills in the first place – a love of being out there and appreciating the surroundings.

And yet, here I am, on a freezing cold Sunday morning in December, lined up with nearly 60 other runners at the start of the latest Lochaber AC Winter League race at Sutherlands Grove, Barcaldine.

I’d ducked the long Lairig Mor race last weekend because I admitted to myself that I was doing it to go through the motions rather than for any particular desire or want to run it. And it had been a good decision. A flattish, wide landrover track running 13 miles is not my idea of fun.

I thought of ducking this one as well. It’s cold, I’m tired from a long week of running  and perhaps, just perhaps, part of my dislike of racing these days is the pressure that I put on myself to perform (which intensifies as I glance around and spot a couple of my “rivals”).

But here I am, too late now.......

Safe......

Easter in the mid-1970s. A long drive north, bound for Skye and another of those incredible adventures which have shaped who I am and for which I’m so grateful, at the time approached with boyish excitement at spending a week away in the mountains with my Dad.

Travelling past landmarks that would become so familiar to me over the years.... Gretna and the Scottish border, up and up from Moffat before the long descent down towards Glasgow, Loch Lomond-side and a feeling that you’re almost there, Crianlarich and Tyndrum, where memorable mountains enclose you (mountains with evocative names that I’d commit to long-term memory and spend boyhood hours poring over photos in Mr Poucher’s books – climbers in Ben Lui’s central gully, the great dome of Ben More, the sharp profile of Beinn Dorain), before reaching the bleakness of the Rannoch Moor and the final descent down THE glen as we headed north.

It’s indicative of the times that Skye wasn’t to be reached in a day, rather we would find lodgings in Onich, before heading further north the next day. Unfortunately, our “usual” place was full but they suggested a forester’s b&b around the corner and that’s where we ended up on a cool night, sharing dinner at their table (lamb, veg and potatoes no less!) before retiring to our twin-bedded room, wrapped up in sheets and woollen throws, Chopin playing on an old cassette recorder as I drifted off to a contented sleep.

Safe wrapped in the warm cloak of paternal love with the promise of great adventures together.

As usual, it’s a madly quick start, accentuated by the fact that the first climb is single file, by the side of a tremendous steep-sided gorge. Luckily there’s a fence to our right, where the crags plunge into icy depths.

I resolve not to go too fast (plenty of time to catch folks later) but this does mean I’m stuck behind runners who can’t climb and resort to walking before the track levels off. I’m already worried that I’m not amongst my contemporaries and this might be one of those days when I have a bit of a stinker. The legs are aching, the lungs are wheezing, and I can only hope I settle down....

Safe......

Late May 2000. A life which felt like it was leading nowhere, a life full of frustrations at not knowing exactly what I wanted or how to get it, only I knew it wasn’t this.

The mountains were calling me, I sensed a real need to get out there and find some direction. I ended up booking a trip to the Atlas Mountains with the promise of summiting Mount Toubkbal at the end of the second week. Sitting here now, I can’t honestly say what prompted me to go there, but it was a good, life-changing decision.

The first nights in Marrakesh were an assault on the system for a 30-something who’d been living a cosy, suburban life, concentrating on career and family.  But there was soon a realisation, that I was surrounded by others who were living the sort of life I desired.

After a couple of days, we headed off to the mountains and, on that first night, lying in my sleeping bag on a cold, stone roof, gazing up at a million stars, with towering peaks above the village disappearing into the silent void, I looked either side of me to see people of a like mind. And I knew my life would head in a different direction from that moment on. And I drifted off to sleep feeling safe.

Safe in the knowledge that there was a way forward towards the life I dreamed of.

As the race unfolds, the climb continues through rougher forest terrain, and I relish it. As usual, I’m stronger on the climbs than those around me and I start to pick up places and, not far ahead of me, I can see those who usually finish around the same time.

I run the whole climb, making up more ground on those who are reduced to a walk and, as we start to emerge from the trees with one final push to the level forestry track, I come up behind my “nemesis” and I’m boosted by the knowledge that I am having a decent run after all.

Safe......

The outdoors started to dominate my life from that holiday in Morocco onwards. My trips out were more frequent, my love for it grew, and the possibilities opened up as I met more people whose lives I aspired to.

A few years later, armed with my new tent and large rucksack, I took off on my first backpacking trip (inspired by a route in Trail magazine!) to the wild Rhinogydd. I took the train from Barmouth to Talsarnau, where I was deposited at the station and stood, alone, excited and yet with some trepidation at what would follow.

That first day I learned a few important lessons about backpacking, not least of which was that you should pack as light as possible because, by the end of an 8 hour day, your shoulders are going to be very sore!

I had a camp site in mind, from the map, which involved descending from Rhinog Fawr into Bwlch Drws Ardudwy. However, as I summitted Rhinog Fawr, the cloud rolled in. Suddenly, the steep descent on a very feint path took on a new seriousness.

And here was lesson number two – tricky manoeuvres are much more difficult when you’ve got a large, weighty pack on your back. I realised later that I’d actually descended down the wrong gully! As it was, it was ok at first but, having descended several hundred feet, the gully dramatically narrowed and dropped over a 15 foot crag to reach the scree, which would see me down into the Bwlch. The prospect of dragging my tired body back up was not one I wished to contemplate so I determined to scramble carefully down. 

Only I couldn’t. The pack got stuck in the narrow defile and I was wedged above the drop. Slowly but surely, I pulled myself back up and decided there was only one thing for it – remove the pack and chuck it over the crag and down onto the scree. It landed with a crash of pots and cups but stayed where it was rather than disappearing down the slope. I carefully scrambled down, retrieved it and set off, with heart still racing, for my camp spot.

As steady rain fell, I got the tent up within minutes, unfolded the sleep mat and sleeping bag and lit the stove to cook much-needed food.

Safe in the security of my shelter, safe from the clutches of the hill, safe and warm, basking in the  glow of satisfaction from a thrilling day.

We hit the undulating forestry road and, as has become customary now, I play cat and mouse with a couple of other Lochaber runners, overtaking them on every uphill, losing ground again on the flat and downhill.

I can sense that my “nemesis” in particular is tiring and perhaps this is the day I’ll beat him. It certainly feels that way as I go past him again on a short climb. But sure enough, he’s back at me as soon as it flattens out, accompanied by another runner.

We seem to have been going for miles....and yet it’s only a 4.8 mile race! This isn’t terrain I know and the mind plays tricks. I know it’s a loop, and I’m sure that I can see where we headed out, not too far away through the trees. But, not being certain, I daren’t kick for home just yet, there’s not that much left in the tank.

Safe......

July 2010. My Bob Graham. A whole host of fellrunning legends turning out for me. Spending 23 hours on the hill with these fantastic people, who do it not for the glory (for there is none!) or the thanks (of which there are plenty) but because they want YOU to feel as good as they did on their big day.

Mark came all the way from Cheshire to impart his not inconsiderable wisdom, advice and humour. Yiannis navigated me around 2 miserable, wet legs with little visibility and then boosted my energy levels back up at Honister by telling me how superbly I’d done. Darren, a real hero of the fells, posed for a photo with me at the end, all smiles, absolutely chuffed with my success.  Morgan congratulated me at Newlands, having accompanied me all the way from Dunmail. Ian Roberts came all the way up Robinson just to see me down the rock steps,

For those who don’t aspire to do a BG, I can only say that it is such an affirmation of everything that is wonderful about the fellrunning and mountain “community”. Through all the pain and suffering, which you undoubtedly have to endure, I can honestly say it felt nothing compared to the uplifting energy of being out on the hills for a day with these tremendous people. The pride I felt at the finish was not so much at my achievement, but at the fact that these people had all come out for me, had all wanted to be there to see me round.

Lifelong friendships are forged, reputations are enhanced, dreams are realised. It was, without doubt, one of the greatest days of my life.

Safe within the supportive bond of unconditional help, assistance and encouragement from people whose achievements and adventures over the years I can only gaze at in admiration and awe. Thank you, each and every one of you.

All too soon, we’re back in the lower woods, descending down the track and I recognise where we are (from my little pre-race warm-up). I’ve left my kick too late and, with no more significant uphills, I can only dig in, try to maintain position and see what else I can do.

As it happens, I round the next corner to find the person in front of me reduced to a walk on a slight uphill. “Are you ok?” I ask as I approach. “Nothing left”, he gasps, “but I’m ok”. That’s all the encouragement I need to surge past, up the pace, and not look back!

A flat section gives me a chance to really push and gain as much advantage before the steps. I cross the slippy bridge (carefully!) and manage to run the (awkward) steps. Just the downhill to go....

Safe......

That journey, from a young boy fascinated by the mountains, mind fed and nourished by the adventures I was exposed to, to who I am now, contented, happy, and joyfully immersed in the beauty of the wild hills, was one that was always going to happen.

It’s certainly not always been an easy one, wrestling with other’s expectations of me as against who I really was. It’s been shaped by various people along the way, all of whom had a part to play.

As I opened up my heart and my mind towards the possibilities for the future, fate played its hidden, unexpected card. Out of the blue, I met someone who identified completely with who I am and where I wanted my life to lead.

Not only that, but my life has been greatly enhanced by the ideas, attitudes and general enthusiasm for life that she’s brought to me. New avenues have opened up, simple joys have been (and continue to be) explored and I’m even more optimistic about the future.

Safe, in the knowledge of unconditional love, both given and received,safe to be the person I want to be. Safe in the knowledge I will receive support and understanding whatever I try to do.

I charge down the last descent as best I can, catching the runner in front, but not quite enough. The path flattens out as I dodge the tree routes and see the gathered crowd and the finish line just ahead of me. A quick glance back confirms I’m ok and I run through the finish to shouts of “well done”.

Hands on knees for a moment, gasping for breath, feeling the fatigue start to creep over me immediately. Handshakes are exchanged with fellow runners, including with my “nemesis”, who’s finished just a few seconds ahead of me (he’ll later tell me, with a smile on his face, “keep trying, you’ll get there one day!” as we left the cafe).

There’s a buzz and excitement around the finish line which I have missed. Stories are exchanged of falls suffered, wrong routes taken, races not paced correctly. It doesn’t matter where you finished, fellrunning is not about that. Everyone will chat to you and your run is as important as theirs.

As Kirsten finishes and we get ready to head for the car to wrap up in warm clothes, I pop over to the race organiser and thank him for a cracking route and a smashing morning. Without people like him, we wouldn’t be able to do this.

And, as I look around at these like-minded people, all with smiles on their faces, I realise that I do still like racing sometimes. There’s a familiarity that comes from racing, a chance to focus your mind and body, an opportunity to see if you can push yourself to your limits and beyond, and a camaraderie that comes from being part of the event. It feels safe.

There’s no doubt that I have an undeniable feeling that I’ve come “home”, so many miles from where I was born. Up here’ there’s an attitude to life that is more in tune with my own. Hardy people whose daily lives are an adventure and yet they make no odds about it. People having preposterous adventures as though they were commonplace, people living tough, “ordinary” lives, which hark back to the old days and which put the whinges and moans of those “better off” to shame.

Sunday afternoon, on our way back from the race, we stop off to walk the dogs in the beautiful Cona Glen. A real chill hangs in the air and, post-race, it seeps inside our bodies, leaving us shivering. And yet we can think of no place we would rather be in this moment than here, amongst the unspoilt, quiet hills of Ardgour, our special dogs trotting along the path with us, bringing smiles to our faces.

At the new gate, we turn for home and head back down the track. As we near the farmhouse, there’s activity and we call Sam close. We’re all apt to pre-judge and, in our minds, we suspect the farmer may not take kindly to a collie off-lead amongst all the sheep.

And yet, as so many times in life, we’re proved wrong.

As we approach, and a car is waved off down the track, the farmer greets us with a cheery “hello” and is keen to meet Sam and Rufus and talk about his dogs. And, before we know it, after a quick chat about the hills surrounding us, we’re invited in for tea, where we sit in a proper farmhouse kitchen (no ikea “farmhouse” tables and chairs here! Simple furniture, cluttered, basic, but all you need, books on baking and dishes of food for the dogs!). Steaming cups of tea are served and biscuits are laid out on a plate, and we chat to two lovely people who have lived across here all their lives and clearly have so many stories to relate.

And, as we walk back down the last part of the path, having said our goodbyes, we look at each other and smile.

Safe in a place we call home. Safe amongst people we can relate to and who aren’t “chasing the dream” but who realise the dream is right here, right now. Indeed, it’s anywhere you want it to be, if you just stop and look.

Thursday, 29 November 2012

Under a Poet's Moon There Are Dreams in Action...

Under a poet's moon there are dreams in action
Prayers met and questions answered
As the world birls in the darkness, I'm still staring at the skies
Under a poet's moon

There's something really special about moonlit runs. Clear skies, an eerie light sending shadows across the hillside, the faint outlines of higher peaks and the surreal glow of snowcapped summits.

With the temperature having plummeted these last couple of days, and frost giving a crispness underfoot even this early in the evening, we couldn't resist the lure of our first bat run from Achaphubuil. Kirsten was home at a reasonable time, Sam was itching to get out there and I......well, I had no choice but to be swayed by their infectious enthusiasm.

And so it was that, wrapped up in base layer, thicker long-sleeved top, buff, warmer hat and two pairs of gloves, we stepped out of the door into the freezing night.

Back in 2006, I'd only been running a few years, and fellrunning for a year or two. We'd sometimes head out from the sports centre at Lilleshall with head torches on, to take in a cross-country route, running across fields and through woods. It was exhilarating, it was fun, it encapsulated everything good about running.

So, one night that winter, with significant snow having fallen, I decided to head over to the Long Mynd after darkness had fallen and run around part of the Stretton Skyline route. I parked the car in Carding Mill, donned the headtorch and set off up the main track. 

Having crossed the icy stream, I headed left and, before long, reached Little Spout waterfall, where torch beams bounced back at me off the icicles in the falls and the sheet ice on the "steps" up to the right. I paused to take in all this beauty, but set off again before too long as the cold wrapped itself around me.

On up to the top of Pole Bank to gaze out at a snowy,winter wonderland. And then a fast descent down to cross the road and head towards the descent into Little Stretton.

Only here, I learnt a very important lesson about night running: places that you think you know like the back of your hand look very different in the dark!

Somehow, amidst the snow and thin mist, I ran straight past the left fork in the track that leads you down into Little Stretton, and found myself on unfamiliar terrain and unsure of which way to head. The heart rate quickened, and I recalled the story of the vicar who'd spent a snowy night stuck out on the Mynd! All alone, pitch black and nobody knew I was up there....I'd better keep moving! After some floundering, I ended up heading down steep, snowy slopes to reach a fence, which was followed back to the main track.

Back to the sanctuary of a warm car and a chance to reflect on what had been a memorable evening. The toes eventually thawed out, a change of clothes brought warmth to my body and I revelled in the excitement of it all. I'd be back again pretty soon!

As we head along the road to reach the gate onto the hill, icy tentacles of air reach deep down into my lungs and leave me wheezing, struggling for breath. It feels as though this may be a slow one! Any sustained effort will be tough in these conditions. As I gulp in oxygen, the cold numbs the inside of my mouth and a dull ache pervades my jaw.

We turn up onto the track and, encouraged by Kirsten and Sam's efforts, I break into a steady trot up the hill, eventually running all the way up to the deer fence, where cold fingers grapple with the bolt to open the gate and make our way onto open fellside.

Torches off for a moment, a chance to appreciate the magnificent views and the exceptional light provided by the moon on this clear night. From down below, noise drifts across from the sawmill, a veritable hub of activity amongst all this calm. We turn, put the lights back on, and focus our attention on the climb.

1.00am on a calm, clear and warm Lake District night in May 2009. I park the car in the little car park at Little Town, get my pack together, step out into the darkness and trot up the tarmac track leading towards High Snab Bank.

I make my way along the track and up to level with the waterfall, where I head off on pathless slopes up to the right, making my way up to the summit of Robinson. The distant lights of Keswick are visible to the north and, beyond that, the orange glow of Carlisle reflects against the high cloud cover.

I descend on runnable slopes at pace, cutting a little too low and left as I head to Hindscarth, before turning back on myself and trotting towards Dale Head, which is reached at a canter. A fast descent down grassy slopes to the side of the eroded path takes me down until I can see the buildings at Honister and a brief stop to retrieve the provisions I've stashed amongst the piles of slate. The humous and vegetable wrap is barely palatable at this strange hour, but I force it down, knowing the body will need it over the next few hours.

I climb the rocky steps beside the fence line as I head up Grey Knotts, clambering up to its craggy summit before increasing my pace as I head to Brandreth. A glance to my right reveals a strange, eerie glow across the whole northern sky....not the northern lights, I don't think, but something akin to it. A magical place to be on such a fine night, all alone with my thoughts, my whole being concentrated on that shaft of light in front of me.

I reach the top of Brandreth and look back to see the first light rising to the east. A fine day beckons by the look of it. As I descend to the col below Green Gable, that early dawn light creeps across the sky and, on the final ascent to that summit, the sun's first rays peer over the horizon.

To anyone who doesn't go out on the hills at night, it's hard to explain the feeling as the sun rises on a new day. An energy fills the air, and fills your very being. Even after a long night out running, it recharges your batteries and brings new hope and expectation. And, perhaps most of all, it brings warmth.

The headtorch goes off as I start the scramble up Great Gable, and as the sun rises in the morning sky, I sense I'm in for a tough day in scorching, hot May conditions.

The highland cattle have been loitering here lately and the obvious signs of their presence are scattered across the track(!). Torch beams search the darkness for the reflections of peering, curious eyes. We toil on upwards and the intensity of the cold increases.

Then we spot the cattle immediately ahead of us on the track. They've seen Sam several times lately and, whilst not unduly concerned, there is a curious interest in him and we're not about to get too close. We fork off onto pathless, frozen boggy slopes and make a beeline for the ridge high above us. The crispness actually makes for an easier ascent than usual as the studs grip, contrasting sharply with the slippery nature of recent runs up here, with the top surface a moving, unstable mass of sodden ground.

We reach the ridgeline just as Sam gets excited about something he's either seem or can smell in the darkness. For certain there will be deer in the vicinity, there always are here and we've seen them plenty of times just lately. We scan the plateau but see nothing.

We turn left to descend towards the trig point, heading towards the lights of Fort William, aware of the snowy fortress of Ben Nevis dominating the gloomy view to our right. Down below, the lights sparkle and shimmer on the loch. Kirsten sees the mast long before I do and, soon enough, we reach the trig point following a bog-hopping trot across fragile, part-frozen ground.

The torches go off again and we appreciate the panoramic view. Snowy peaks in all directions, the Ben towering above us close at hand, the sawmill busy down below, lighting up Corpach, before darkness envelopes the loch as it heads west towards Glenfinnan, only the odd speckle of light from remote houses the further you head up the glen.

Numb, stinging hands search the bumbag for a camera, and obligatory photos are taken. Our first time up here in the dark.....Lochaber Bat Runners!!

October 2009, and the first frosts of autumn have arrived to coincide with a backpacking trip into the hills west of Loch Lomond. A tough day, suffered under the hazy cloud of a hangover, had seen me camp out amongst the forests of Gleann Leacann Shelleach, settling down in my tent to listen to the primeval roar of rutting stags across the amphitheatre of steep slopes which surrounded me.

The next day, I left the tent hidden amongst the trees and set off for a run around the skyline, taking in 3 munros on a high level promenade, before dropping down into Arrochar, where I was meeting Kirsten off the train.

She'd been on family duties, but had wanted to join me as soon as possible for what would be our first time out in "proper" hills together and our first wild camp as a bona-fide couple.

We climbed back up over Ben Narnain, relishing the last wee scramble up by the "Spearhead", before heading down to the west of Creag Tharsuinn on steep, pathless slopes, to make our way along forest paths and back to the tent, where we ignited the cooking stove and settled down to a well-earned meal.

It was a cold, wonderfully clear night and, despite the gathering frost, we couldn't resist lying together with our heads out of the tent, gazing up in awe at a ceiling of stars. We felt so alive and so at one with each other. This was the perfect antidote to a testing few weeks, where the ramifications of our meeting and falling  in love had started to sink in.

In those moments, none of it mattered. We were alone in our beautiful world, we were sharing and appreciating all that was between us. We were both content and yet so excited about the possibilities of life together and the promise of a lifetime of similar adventures. I held her close to me and looked up just in time to see a shooting star leap across the dark void. As moonbeams lit up our woodland haven, we looked at each other, and, even at this early stage, we knew we there was a bond between us that would be everlasting.

We head off around the mast, following slippy grass slopes down to reach the first telegraph pole. Then it's a matter of shining torches up at the wires and following their direction downwards, cautiously when the slope steepens and disappears into the darkness, until we reach the deer fence at almost exactly the right spot next to the kissing gate leading into Crofters Woods.

We release Sam, safe in the knowledge that he won't now take off across the hillsides chasing shadows in the night. We head down on the narrow path through the bushes, the shrill cry of a disturbed nesting bird briefly causing us to be startled. Down across the slippy wooden duck boards and on down to the road, where we turn left for the last mile trot alongside the loch, past the familiar landmarks which we tick off on our daily walk.

We take the pace down for the last couple of hundred yards, as we reach the row of houses where we stay. We look out at the mist starting to gather above the water, and watch the graceful retreat of a heron, who is startled into flight from the shoreline just below us. The gate clunks shut behind us and we open the back door, ready to retreat into the warmth, a bellyful of reviving fodder and a chance to ruminate on another of our little adventures together. 

And, as we do so, we take one quick glance back at the selenite moon.......



     





 


Wednesday, 28 November 2012

I'm so glad that I'm still here to see this.....


I'm so glad that I'm still here to see this,
the whole story is unfolding before my eyes;
I'm so happy I can barely believe it...
this simple pleasure is the mystery spice of life

Here you go, Em, some pictures!


Beautiful dog!!


The view down Loch Linnhe


Sam sitting under the erratic


Stob Coire a Chearcaill


the top of Meall an t-Slamain, looking across the the Ben