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I recently heard that the GLL3D may be no more, which would be such a shame. I wrote this on behalf of The Dug a while ago and it seems appropriate to post it now in memorium (in memorium of the event, not the dog who is sitting rather aromatically next to me)

GLL3D – Meg’s perspective

I love the GLL3D, I have done the event three times now with my running buddy, Nikki and it’s definitely my favourite.  Last year I was devastated when my buddy went without me.  She said I wouldn’t have enjoyed it because it was too rainy then had the cheek to say that she ran better without me!  How dare she, when it’s quite clear that she’s the one holding me back.

A keen sense of direction and ability to navigate is essential for the event so things didn’t look promising when my buddy managed to get into the wrong lane on a roundabout and somehow ended up heading south on the M6 when she should have been going west on the A66.  I told her I could have driven better. We nearly didn’t get to the event before the car park closed and ended up sleeping together on the back seat of the car as we couldn’t be bothered putting up the tent. I slept brilliantly!!

After much grumbling and pointed remarks about lack of sleep due to snoring and dog breath we got registered.  Everyone seemed delighted to see me and gave me lots of fuss. They must have known I was coming as lots of registration staff were giving out my favourite snacks.  I was definitely the star of the show, my running partner got very little attention although they did search her rucksack thoroughly – maybe they thought she had stolen some snacks?  I heard her insist that her jacket weighed 300 grams, goodness knows what that was about.

Off we set for a lovely run.  It’s fantastic being able to explore new areas, with all the sights and smells.  I was a bit annoyed that the event rules meant that running partners had to be literally attached together with a bungee cord, this meant that I wasn’t able to go anything like as fast as I wanted and made stiles really difficult to navigate.  I really struggle with stiles. They make me so anxious and flustered then my buddy starts calling me stupid for not working out where to go which could really damage my self-esteem if I gave it more than 5 seconds thought.  

After a few hours of running we arrived at the overnight camp where my buddy very thoughtfully gave me something to eat then I lay in the sun while she tried to put up the tent single handed. She really needs to moderate her language, swearing that much is so unbecoming. I never swear.  She than treated herself to a burger and I got possibly the biggest disappointment of my life. Normally I would have expected her to order me my own burger too but apparently she couldn’t because they were vegan burgers. VEGAN BURGERS??? What fresh hell was this? Suddenly the shine was taken off the GLL3D experience for me.  The sun itself seemed dimmer. Mournfully I found some sheep shit to eat instead only for my buddy to shout at me and tell me that I’d end up with diarrhoea.  Then we cuddled up together in the tent for an afternoon nap, which made me feel much better – the fake burger of disappointment already forgotten.

The next day we had a longer run with more hills to look forward to, although due to my buddy’s hopeless sense of direction we nearly ended up running down a dual carriageway by mistake.  Luckily this prompted her to actually remove her compass from her rucksack and start using it and from there on the day went a lot better.  We got overtaken by the leading pair about halfway through the course, they both looked very fit and I felt a moment of disloyalty – why couldn’t my buddy run as fast as that?  She’s definitely holding me back from realising my full potential, leaching off my youth and energy and forcing me to pull her up steep hills.  At the final checkpoint we were both interviewed by a lovely pair of girls doing event media.  I was delighted to see on Instagram later that they had cut the footage of my buddy and only featured me looking stunning and energetic.  After that we only had a descent to get back to camp but I may have got a bit overexcited and pulled my buddy down the scree so fast that she hit the deck twice and swore a lot.

That evening there was a talent show.  My buddy was drinking cider and droning on about checkpoints with her mates in the tent and so we nearly missed it.  But luckily we arrived in time for the “who looks most like the Event Director” competition. I look nothing like Shane Ohly but did my best by running backwards and forwards in what I hoped was a self-important manner, while keenly looking for 300g synthetic mid layer jackets and was delighted to win second prize, which mercifully was an Ellis Brigham voucher and not a vegan burger.

The next day we had to pack up our tent then run back to the start again.  My buddy seemed sad that it was the last day but I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was high time she went home for a shower.  She makes a good tent companion but someone should talk to her about camping hygiene.  I gave my bits a good lick every night and smelt great according to my fellow competitors. 

We had another lovely run despite having to go straight back up the steep hill we had come down the day before. At least it meant we couldn’t get lost!  As we slogged slowly up a young man came past running and I called out “take me with you” but he ignored me which was a shame as I felt we could have made a much better couple. But here I am lumbered with a slow middle-aged woman. Despite this she did manage to run quite a lot of the final day which isn’t bad for someone her age I suppose.  I was delighted when the results showed that I came 3rd in our course but I still think that with the right partner I could be out there doing the Extreme Course. Any takers?  I am a good tent mate and don’t fart too much. Enquiries to Nikki Dunn please.

2025 was mainly good (apart from being hospitalised with an impacted kidney stone which caused a temporary set back – acute kidney injuries and ureteric stents aren’t conducive to heavy exercise, funnily enough). My daughter decided that she enjoyed Munro bagging so we had some really excellent days out, I hiked the first bit of the Cape Wrath trail with a friend then did the Alta Via 1 in the Dolomites with another couple of pals. So I went into SSN training with a decent base of endurance and hiking fitness.

In terms of why, I had a few reasons to do it. A sense of unfinished business with regards to winter ultras in the Cheviots having started the Cheviot Goat twice and bailed half way each time. With the SSN once you get beyond Byrness at 16 miles or so you’re pretty committed to continuing so I hoped that would work in my favour. Secondly I have been an enthusiastic Spine dot watcher for years, in awe of the folk who can take it on. I don’t think I could ever be up to the full race, physically or more importantly mentally. When the going gets tough, the tough get going and I tend to give up! I’ve been pondering about the Challenger North, though, so doing the SSN was a bit of a fact finding mission to see how I would manage psychologically and whether I would feel that I still had a bit more in me at the end, what with the CN being over 3 times the length. It was also fun just to get a mild taste of what doing a Spine race entailed but without the suffering, sleep deprivation and trench foot.

I was keen not to buy new kit just for one race and managed to scrounge together enough from my camping kit bag & borrow the odd bit. But then after doing a recce I capitulated to buying a new pair of waterproof socks. My frugal approach nearly blew up in my face at kit check as my sleeping bag was condemned for being practically a museum piece (I love that bag but my husband reminded me afterwards that he bought it for me as a birthday present in 1992). Thankfully they were able to rent me one (and it was a bit lighter than mine, sleeping bag technology having moved on a bit since the last millennium).

Despite having the tail end of a lurgy and a general dislike of winter walking, rain and bogs my husband very nobly went to Bellingham with me for a couple of days in December so I could recce most of the course. The B&B we stayed in was also a cafe and did amazing breakfasts. Day 1 we did Bellingham to Byrness, which is a pretty soggy and unprepossessing part of the Pennine Way. He sensibly decided to stay warm in our nice B&B on day 2 while I covered Byrness to Windy Gyle before dropping down to Cocklawfoot and getting a taxi back. The rest of the course I know well enough not to need a recce.

The time limit for the race is 18 hours and I figured that although I could beat that, I might well come close to it and would definitely be at the back of the pack. I had rough cut offs in my head for when I should reach Byrness and Windy Gyle and was within them. Unlike the main Spine races the SSN does an out and back to Cheviot summit then takes the high route back to Kirk Yetholm after the Schill.

We were set off at midday, a small field as there were only 50 places. As expected I was pretty close to last but could always see people ahead so didn’t drop off the field dramatically. My legs felt heavy – they always feel heavy nowadays (I blame the menopause) and I really didn’t enjoy the first bit to Byrness. I don’t know why – it stopped raining and the sun came out, all the waypoints came along faster than when I recced – but my head really wasn’t in it. Then came the inevitable thoughts along the lines of “if I’m not enjoying this then why would I even think about the Challenger North” “what’s the point of carrying on beyond Byrness” and “why am I so slow and crap?” Things turned around a mile or 2 before Byrness when I passed a lass who was on the Challenger North and doing really well, she’d already been out since Sunday night and endured horrific weather on Cross Fell yet was still trucking along with a good deal more enthusiasm than me. It gave me a proper kick up the arse mentally and I felt a lot more positive from that point onwards.

It was getting dark at Byrness. There’s a checkpoint there but we didn’t have to go to it, there were a couple of volunteers at the church doling out water. “I think I should let you know that you’re almost in last place” said one, helpfully to the four of us who were filling up our bottles. Headtorch went on but I didn’t add any layers as the hill out the back is really steep and I didn’t want to cook. The forecast was for it to be very cold up on the Border Ridge with lows of -11 and things were already freezing hard as we went up. I tend to pick up litter when I can and saw a full soft flask lying on the path which presumably had dropped out of someone’s pack so grabbed it without thinking and stuffed it into my pack. It turned out to be a real stroke of luck as I had been feeling sick for a lot of the race and hadn’t managed to tolerate much food at all. However the flask was full of Tailwind, so that kept my energy levels up along the next stretch, which is very boggy and tough underfoot. I also buddied up with another runner and although we didn’t chat much I think we both found the company really helped in the cold and dark. We reached hut 1 without incident on my part but my companion had fallen heavily on a stretch of slabs which were icy and absolutely lethal (he said he was fine & kept going OK). I stayed at the hut longer than I wanted to but was feeling sick and the lovely volunteers offered to make me a cup of sweet tea to settle my stomach. My buddy sensibly buddied up with another chap and left before me but the tea was like rocket fuel and I caught him up and passed him after Windy Gyle. I enjoyed this part of the race the most. I had put an extra layer & my warm gloves on in the hut so was feeling nice and toasty despite the cold, put my yaktrax on so could trot along the icy slabs quite happily and was in a part of the world I love and know really well in the middle of the night with just a sky full of stars for company. It was an amazing experience.

I flagged a bit on the steep climb up towards the point where the out and back to Cheviot summit starts and briefly entertained ideas of not bothering with it. As soon as the gradient eased, though my determination came back again – why come all this way and not do the full course? The out and back was wild and amazing – compact snow covered some of the ground, the wind was howling and it was so misty that all I could see was the circle of light from my torch then every so often another light would appear from a runner coming the other way, we would bump fists and encourage each other then I was alone again. So exhilarating!

The wind and cold eased as I dropped down to Hut 2 where I sustained my only injury of the race drinking scalding hot tea and burning my palate. Lovely volunteers again and what a tough job they do. I checked the time and I had just over 3 hours left to get to the finish with what felt like enough energy in the tank to run the downhills. Up and over the Schill I went (one of my favourite hills) and fortunately was well aware of White Hill’s presence on the high route – it’s not big but felt steep especially in the dark when you can’t see the top! It was 5:10 when I reached the Halter Burn so plenty time to get myself up and over into Kirk Yetholm and under the finishing arch. I think I was second last but there were folk behind me who were timed out. I definitely didn’t feel in any shape to keep going though, so would need to be a lot fitter and probably need to consult a sports psychologist if I was to ever consider a longer Spine race!!

I decided earlier in the year to take a six month career break because, well why not? Life is short and I don’t see the point of grinding away for the NHS and assuming that I’ll be fit enough to do everything that I want to do once I am retired.

So I walked out of work one Thursday in September and by 10am the next morning was halfway up the Forcan Ridge in Glen Shiel in glorious sunshine with a couple of friends. The next day was equally stunning and I had one of the best hikes of my life doing Stob Ban & neighbour from Glen Nevis then the following day had fantastic inversions from Ben Lui. After that I tried to get used to not being at work (which was surprisingly difficult at first as I found I was missing the routine), started sea swimming again and embarked on some serious decluttering.

The main thing that I had planned for the first half of my break was a trip to Nepal. Thanks to friends’ recommendations I had booked the Manaslu circuit and my mother very generously paid for it. The trip was at the end of the trekking season which gave us beautiful clear sunny days, quiet trails but very cold night time temperatures at altitude. As penance for the CO2 emissions I spent a week volunteering up north in October, planting native trees and pulling up non native trees and can add the ability to tell apart a Caledonian pine from a Lodgepole pine to my CV…..My general dislike of flying was not improved by the experience of two legs wedged in an aluminium death tube with several screaming infants separated by 4 hours of existential suffering in the “world’s best airport” in Doha. I found it had a fake forest to sit in and while away the hours of tedium since I was far too tight to pay to get into an airport lounge. Why do they always say “I hope you enjoyed the flight” after you land, surely nobody enjoys this? Getting my visa at Kathmandu was a Kafkaesque nightmare as I was bounced back and forth from the visa desk to the barely functional visa kiosks but eventually I had my luggage and emerged feeling decidedly unrefreshed to meet the Exodus guide who more or less told me that evening that I had been looking frighteningly old & dishevelled on arrival but it was amazing what nap and some mascara can do for a woman my age.

I would say that I made two major mistakes when it came to this holiday. Firstly I didn’t bring the right gloves which was seriously stupid. I had some normal running gloves and some ski gloves. I remember looking at the army gauntlet mittens that I would normally carry in my winter rucksack for mountaineering in Scotland and not bothering to pack them because…..somehow a 5000 metre Himalayan pass would be LESS cold??? Second error was not getting a covid vaccine. D’oh…. Other than that my kit was pretty spot on, we were limited to 10kg weight which isn’t a lot once you’ve added a 4 season sleeping bag. I had most stuff I needed already, borrowed a sleeping bag, steripen & glacier goggles and the only thing I bought for the trip was a Kindle which came in very handy. I had one pair of very old trekking trousers, lightweight factor 50 top, hiking shirt, merino T-shirt, merino thermal, cashmere jumper, lightweight & down jackets, waterproofs, undies, socks and 2 x thermal long johns for 14 days of hiking. I washed some of the clothes as I went but the lack of showers meant getting fairly skanky and this is definitely not the sort of trip for anyone who likes decent bathroom facilities or has a fear of Asian squat toilets. The Nepalese have a fairly pragmatic approach to toileting which involves using the left hand for, erm, bathroom activities and the right hand for eating. I got the impression that they found the Western approach to hygiene with our disgusting habit of using tissue paper for wiping not to mention using our left hand when we shouldn’t faintly horrifying. Squat toilets are well known to be much better for you anatomically and aid the passage of solid waste in a way that reduces straining and the risk of haemorrhoids and prolapse. I only miss-squatted the once and pissed into my boot by mistake and thankfully nobody dropped their phone in. None of the group got diarrhoea either which was a significant blessing. Accommodation in tea houses was, until the end when we joined the Annapurna circuit, very basic (although they often had good wifi) and the food was plain, mostly locally grown and the portions were huge. We’d been warned off eating any meat on the trail so it was mostly Dhal Bat, veg curry or fried rice. Cabbage became an increasing feature the higher we got. The desserts were good, with a variation on the Scottish classic of a deep fried mars bar being a “spring roll snickers” but they also did nice apple pies. We all sterilised the water but it was coming straight off the mountainside so was reasonable quality and there was plenty of black tea, lemon tea, lemon ginger tea, mint tea etc. Coffee was poor.

The group size was smaller than normal with only five of us. Everyone was very fit and with my hobbit legs I found myself the slowest but that didn’t cause too many issues as the pace was kept slow to aid acclimatisation. We had guide 1 who’d met us in Kathmandu then we met guide 2 after we arrived off the bus transfer (neither guide had worked together before but guide 2 came from the same village as the porters who each carried 2 of our kit bags plus their own bags….).

Days followed a similar pattern – a wake up call with a cup of tea at 6:30, breakfast (more tea, porridge, eggs or sometimes pancakes) then off and hiking at 7:30. Hike for 2 hours, leisurely tea stop, hike for another hour or two then leisurely lunch then arrive at our destination mid to late afternoon. We were following the Buri Gandaki river for several days and gradually gaining height. The trail was mostly fine, lots of steps and suspension bridges and at times there was a steep drop on one side down to certain death (or at least mild dismemberment) if you were daft enough to fall off it. The first few days were warm and the hillsides full of small farms and cultivated terraces – the rice harvest was just in and there were fields of greens and mustard. The forest had a jungly kind of feel to it with lots of beautiful butterflies and this gave way further up to bamboo then pines, oak and juniper. Culturally things changed from Hindu to a more Tibetan influenced Buddhist society. The design of the houses changed, as did the clothing local people wore. We also felt as if we were walking through late summer into autumn then winter as we got higher with nights getting increasingly chilly in our unheated bedrooms. The scenery as we progressed up the steep sided valley was staggeringly beautiful and got more stunning every day. Weirdly though there was a definite Scottish feel about it, especially higher up with familiar looking trees, tumbling burns and the dried out brown winter vegetation. The Tibetan dry stone houses, tradition of bringing the animals in at night for warmth and fields of cabbage and potatoes made it seem a bit like a window into the highland crofting lifestyle of the past too. On the negative side there was a lot of litter, especially the first few days – there’s no infrastructure for collecting or recycling plastic waste in Nepal. We also crossed some huge landslips, some from the terrible earthquake a few years ago but many very recent from abnormally heavy monsoon rains. Change is also coming in the form of a jeep track that is being bulldozed up the valley with the aim of meeting a road that the Chinese are building up to the Tibetan border which will allow for trade but will very much alter the isolated feel of the area.

By day 6 we were at 3000 metre elevation and hoping for our first glimpse of Manaslu itself. Manaslu is 8163m high, the 8th highest in the world and a very beautiful peak with its double summit. It does have a habit of killing people trying to climb it, however and has about a 10% mortality rate. Nobody was climbing it while we were there as it was too late in the season. The trek didn’t include going to the base camp, either which was a shame. When we arrive at our overnight stay at Lho it had clouded over but at 6am I woke up, looked out the window and saw Manaslu glowing in the pre-dawn sky. I eagerly woke everyone else up (I think they were grateful….) and we watched, transfixed despite the cold, as the rising sun illuminated the mountain, turning it a beautiful golden colour.

The next day’s walk was shorter to help acclimatisation and we were staying in a traditional Tibetan style village called Samagoan. After lunch there we visited a Buddhist monastery then walked to a spectacular glacial lake with views up to the vast glacier on the lower slopes of Manaslu. Well it had to be done really. I’d brought a towel and quickly popped in for a swim, determined to claim the “highest altitude dip” record in my swimming WhatsApp group. It was certainly refreshing but didn’t feel too much worse than Portobello on a winters morning and considerably more scenic. As I exited the water there was a loud crash and an avalanche tumbled down from the glacier which made me wonder how chuffed Manaslu was at having a small smelly Scotswoman leaping into her nice clean lake…..

The next day I was definitely starting to feel the altitude a little on the uphills and the scenery was very stark with glacial moraines and huge snow capped peaks. We hiked above the tree line and saw griffin vultures soaring above, maybe hoping we might lie down and succumb to mountain sickness. The UV was getting very strong and I found the borrowed glacier goggles a bit of a Godsend but was starting to get worried about my glove choice as the mornings were very cold indeed before we got hit by the sun. We were all having to do AMS self assessment sheets each evening but fortunately nobody was badly affected. I had a vague headache off and on, didn’t sleep well (but to be honest the entire trip was an exercise in insomnia) and my appetite was definitely a bit reduced. It was bonkers to think at our next stop that if we were in the Alps we’d be perched on the summits but here we were in a village with peaks going another 4000 meters above us! Transhumance is practised here with villagers heading down to lower altitudes for the winter but there were still a few folk and yaks around.

The next day we left the village of Samdo and walked beyond human habitation to Daramsala which is just for folk crossing the Larkye pass and shuts down in winter. It’s basically a load of prefab huts, a couple of dining rooms and the Worst Toilets in the World, or so I had been warned. Fortunately for us there were very few trekkers this late in the year so we were spared the experience of blocked dunnies full of frozen shit and I took enough Imodium to avoid a Code Brown until we were safely over the pass and down the other side. The guides decided that we needed to start out at 2:30am. Now clearly I am not a local expert but we all wondered why we had to set out quite so early, I’d read that winds can get up over the pass but that people tend to start off at 4am or so. But we did what we were told. I’d solved my glove issue by wearing a thick pair of merino socks over my inner gloves and kept pretty warm, although I was still berating myself especially as I could have sworn I’d put some hand warmers in my kit bag but couldn’t find them anywhere.

As we set off in the cold and dark I mused on the similarities of the experience to doing an ultra. Fatigue? Check. Loss of appetite, mild nausea and having to force yourself to eat anyway? Check. Dependance on Snickers bars for all main food groups? Check. Grinding your way up some Godforsaken hillside in the middle of Butt-f*ck nowhere in the dark while questioning your life choices? Check…..

As we ascended the ultra theme continued as one of the other group members started to feel quite breathless which made her slow down then start getting cold so I switched into support-runner mode and gave her some spare clothing and dispensed hugs and moral support, which brought back memories of coaxing Claire over the Devils Staircase then down into Kinlochleven in filthy weather in June on her way to a much deserved goblet. The top of the pass was familiar to anyone who’s done a bit of winter munro bagging as it was a bit of a boulder field with a lot of icy compacted snow. We picked our way across with the glimmers of sunrise at our back but it was very very cold. The pass summit was 5100m and it was light enough by then for amazing views in the ethereal dawn light but not a place to linger in those temperatures so we fairly quickly headed for the descent which was a good switchback so we were able to lose height fast. Despite sunrise we were still in shade and it was cold enough for water to freeze instantly when I spilt some. I wonder if we’d have got the benefit of some sunshine if we’d left a little later although I still think that crossing the pass was for me the highlight of the trek.

After descending we arrived at a tea stop, where the guides said we’d rest for half an hour. The dining room was well below freezing and I nearly lost my shit when I saw that the guides were both in the kitchen warming themselves round a cheerful fire and drinking beer (at 8am!!!). I’d already thought that they’d been a bit slack on the pass and not really grasped how cold one of the other women had got, hadn’t bothered to ask her how she was after the descent and left her trying to get her hands warm on a cup of tea in a sub-zero room. I’m not the most confrontational of people but had to stop myself from creating a bit of a scene, instead we all just packed up and hiked off, leaving the guides to their beer. It all left a bit of a bad taste if I am honest.

Over the next few days we all went down with a pretty nasty bug, apart from guide 1 and a couple in the group who’d been sensible enough to get a covid vaccine before coming out. That fact, plus the familiar feeling of swallowing razorblades followed by cough and breathlessness meant that even as a sexual health doctor I could fairly confidently diagnose myself. Guide 2 was suffering and appeared to self medicate with “Sherpa tea” (tea mixed with Nepalese rum) and kept going awol during the day only to appear in the evenings rather worse for wear and boorish with it, which was disappointing considering that he’d seemed a fairly decent bloke earlier. The two of us that were on the trek minus our husbands ended up having to get the rest of the group to act as human shields to stop him from trying to keep dragging us up to “dance” each evening which was bloody tiresome. What with all that and feeling ill, I didn’t enjoy the final three days as much and started to look forward to getting back home. The bus journey back was long and slightly torturous then we had a spare day in Kathmandu. Having started to feel better I then woke up In Kathmandu feeling appalling with a hacking cough and producing scary quantities of revolting green sputum. I had a quick chat with Mark and we both reckoned the likelihood of it being a secondary infection made starting some antibiotics worth a try so I broke into my supply of doxycycline and at least had had 4 doses by the time I boarded the plane the following evening. Localised pleuritic chest pain, breathlessness and productive cough equals likely pneumonia so I was very grateful not to be more ill and have to try and get medical help over there. Tried not to cough too much in the plane and slept a lot of the way home. Did I say how much I hate flying?

Anyway, chest infections and handsy guides notwithstanding it really was an amazing trip, stunningly beautiful, culturally fascinating and it’s very difficult to put into words the experience of being in the Himalayas – if you’ve been you’ll understand and if not descriptions of them being just really REALLY erm, BIG doesn’t begin to do them justice!! I’ll try and add some photos at some point.

I decided back in 2019 that I wanted to do the Cape Wrath Ultra and was scheduled to volunteer for the 2020 race to earn credits for money off the next one. Well, we all know what happened in 2020. Then menopause related fatigue and Mark’s illness meant that my Cape Wrath dreams died as I couldn’t envisage ever getting back to that level of fitness again. However last year my running finally seemed to be getting back on track; speed was still pitiful but my endurance was definitely returning and at the point I entered CWU Mark was more stable. The other thing that persuaded me to commit was the new Explorer course option. In the past if you dropped out of the main race you could carry on, but only by doing shortened days as a non-competitor. Last year they rather cleverly introduced this as an independent option in its own right and called it the Cape Wrath Explorer – making the race seem more achievable and you would still get a medal at the end. It’s an expensive race to enter and when you do it you can see why, it’s a hugely complex event to stage and obviously to make it commercially viable they need all places filled. Having the Explorer option would definitely appeal to those who might find the total mileage of the full race too daunting. I had a recurrence of my old hip/IT band pain doing Glen Ogle in November so after that I put any thought of doing the full ultra firmly out of my mind and trained purely for the Explorer.

Training

After Glen Ogle I stopped running completely to let my hip settle and started a programme of strength and conditioning. Lots of stuff to get my glutes firing, balance exercises and also using resistance bands to focus on things like my tibialis anterior which I know can tend to get sore if I am doing back to back days. Once I restarted running I would aim to run or hike for 4 days in a row each week and do strength & conditioning the other 3 days. I gradually increased mileage and proportion of running to hiking. I had a week’s annual leave in March so went out every day for 8 days in a row, obviously doing lower miles than I would in the race but just to get a feel for how it felt to make myself get out regardless of feeling tired etc. I also paid for a bespoke day out with Keri Wallace from Girls on Hills where we did some really useful navigation training and she gave me some top tips on how to manage the race.

Looking at the race website I tried to make a rough plan of what I wanted to achieve, without putting too much pressure on myself. There were videos and descriptions of each section, with details of the options for the Explorer course. On days 1 and 8 everyone was on the full course but days 2-7 had at least 2 options for Explorer, typically one longer than the other. I felt that I should aim to do as many of the longer sections as possible and really wanted to be in good enough shape by day 7 to do the 41km leg which is supposedly one of the most scenic. So basically I needed to be able to fit enough to run or hike around 35km a day on very rough terrain, but had the fall back that if things weren’t going well I could do a shorter section instead.

The full course is 400km over 8 days with the longest day of 68km. I did 259km total with a longest day of 41km and I think if my maths is correct that the shortest distance you could do on the Explorer is still a pretty respectable 176km. The website suggests that one can treat the Explorer as a “walking holiday” and I certainly went into it telling myself that it was going to be a holiday but in fact I found it properly challenging (in a good way) and felt by the end that I had really pushed myself and achieved something that I could be proud of. Needless to say I was in complete awe of everyone who did the whole course, it was really REALLY tough, with back to back long days on incredibly challenging terrain. The strength of will and bravery required is pretty out there.

Although the training went well the lead up to the event was tricky as Mark was relapsing quite badly and I had all the stress and guilt of having to leave the kids responsible for making sure he was Ok with my mum on standby in case things went completely tits up and he needed to go into hospital. If it hadn’t cost so much to enter I would have pulled out.

The Event

I drove up to Fort William for the Saturday afternoon registration. The weather forecast for the week ahead was looking fairly optimistic, I had managed to sausage all of my gear into the mandatory dry bag and get it in under weight. After registration, kit check and dropping the dry bag I decided to fill the van with petrol and go to the campsite to kill a bit of time before the compulsory Race Briefing. Leaving the petrol station the power steering suddenly failed and a rather peculiar and worrying smell started to emanate from the van engine. The next thing the battery warning light came on and then the engine completely cut out. What the fuuuuuck? I had just enough momentum to coast into a side road, stuck the hazards on and phoned the AA. Fortunately the local recovery van driver chose that exact moment to drive past, spotted a very stressed looking me on the phone outside the van and offered to help. He managed to quickly get the AA to assign him the job and before I knew it the van was loaded up and we were off to the garage. As the garage was closed for the weekend we had to leave the van there and post the keys through their letter box. Willie the pick up truck man then locked the garage gates and headed home, warm in the knowledge that he had acted heroically.

So, there I was outside the garage, vanless and essentially homeless for the night and not exactly in a great frame of mind for starting a race. I had to leave the job of liaising with the garage & sorting the van out for Mark to cope with, find my way back to registration and throw myself on the mercies of someone in charge and hope they could help me sort out a plan for the night…..Thank God I remembered to take the milk and other perishables out of the van before it got impounded.

I checked Google maps and thankfully it was only a 15 minute walk back to registration and I managed to keep my dignity and not cry when I told the lovely race control staff what had happened. Bless them, they managed to find someone to lend me a spare tent so I could camp with the event team and we all agreed that the race was bound to go well since I had clearly used up my bad luck in advance.

Next morning there was quite a wait before race start as I hadn’t been quick enough to get myself into wave 1. Wave 2 was a 12pm start. So I had breakfast with the event team, then went to Morrison’s for a second breakfast then ambled down to the assembly point where we got given our trackers then waited for the ferry. I had plenty time to look at the map, and had some nervous chats with other participants. I was relieved that a few also said they were intending to do the Explorer course. FINALLY we were on the Ferry and got bagpiped off on the other side then started walking down the road. I couldn’t understand the lack of hurry before it dawned on me that we still hadn’t actually started. We got to a village hall and were issued tea & biscuits as the ferry had to go back and pick up the rest of the wave 2 participants. Having been woken up at 5am by daylight and nerves it already felt like it had been a long day before we were set off.

Day 1 – Fort William to Glenfinnan – 37km

More bagpipes as we set off then the first 10km or so were on tarmac unfortunately. So I ran the flats and downs to get off it as soon as I could but was disturbed to be feeling really quite tired. I assumed that I was still suffering the after effects of the Taper By Cuillin Ridge Traverse but at least it was just fatigue rather than potential injury – my sore knees had settled right down. After the first checkpoint we turned onto tracks up Cona Glen. I heard cuckoos calling, a soundtrack that continued almost continuously throughout the week, the sun was shining and the surroundings were really lovely with the promise of even more beautiful scenery to come. This was what I had come for – the chance to journey into inaccessible areas and see parts of Scotland that I hadn’t been to before. I started to relax and enjoy myself, helped by chatting to a lovely chap called Alan who was 79 and a really positive enthusiastic person. He’d intended to do the full route but had picked up some injuries so was also doing the Explorer.

The field thinned out dramatically giving a nice feeling of isolation. I wasn’t using GPX to navigate but the route was fairly easy most of the time and I prefer using a map. I also had the back up of an app with the map loaded on so I could double check that I was where I thought I was if necessary. My watch gave up the ghost on day 3 anyway and refused to charge properly or connect to satellites so I was properly old school for the rest of it.

Man, it was getting seriously warm though! I kept soaking my buff in burns and towards the top of the glen decided to take my socks and shoes off and sit in the river to cool off for a bit. This was a wise move, my legs felt much fresher afterwards as we climbed out of the Coire at the head of the glen. After that we descended down towards the Glenfinnan camp. Unfortunately there’s a bridge down on the route so we were sent down a track to the official end point for the day before having to turn around and walk a good mile BACK to where there were MPVs to shuttle us to the camp itself.

Once in camp we were all shown to our tents, with the dry bags already in them, and got the chance to meet our tent mates. Arrangements were pretty cosy, we had 7 in our tent so you were basically sleeping nose to tail with total strangers. I thought about all of those delightful nocturnal habits that my husband puts up with because he loves me – the snoring, the farting, the trips to the loo and the early morning dog breath and started to feel really self conscious. I was the only one doing the Explorer initially but two others were timed out on the very long hot day 3 and carried on as Explorers. Two unfortunately developed injuries around day 3 or 4 and had to go home which was incredibly sad for them (but did make the sleeping arrangements easier) and the remaining 5 of us developed a proper Cape Wrath trauma bond, leaning on each other for encouragement in the face of fatigue and blisters, poking fun at all of the arbitrary Ourea Camp Rules and having such a good laugh that at one point the tent next door sent someone over to tell us off for being too happy! You also tended to get to know the other racers who generally moved at a similar speed as yourself so the event became more sociable as it went on. The Ourea staff and all the volunteers were all lovely and encouraging too so after a while we were all in a weird kind of Cape Wrath bubble, moving our way up Scotland and getting progressively smellier, more tired and disinhibited as we went. Re-entry into the normal world, when it happened was really quite odd.

Day 2 – Glenfinnan to Kinloch hourn 57km – Explorer option either 15km or 42km

I made a tactical choice here, despite wanting to do longer options I also wanted to finish the race in reasonable shape and I was slightly concerned by how tired I’d felt on day 1. So I chose the shorter 15km option on day 2 then planned to do the second half of day 3 which gave me 24 hours recovery between both days. I didn’t feel like I was missing out too much as I’d already covered a lot of the second section when I was in Knoydart a few years ago. The first section was new to me, however. It was sunny again as we set off up Glen Finnan and I decided to take my time and hike most of it. The scenery was very pretty again with wild orchids and violets everywhere, turning more rugged and atmospheric as we ascended and some low cloud swirled around. We then descended down through Gleann a Chaoruinn, which was more treeless and not quite as scenic but still a very pleasant hike alongside a tumbling burn before the path got more boggy and eroded towards the forest then the checkpoint. A short day as I reached the checkpoint about 10:30 but I really enjoyed it. We then had to wait for everyone to get through the checkpoint so I went for a quick dip in the loch and chatted with my fellow Explorers. Unfortunately the road to Kinloch Hourn was closed due to electricity works and we couldn’t get down it to the camp until 4pm so we got taken to a cafe in Spean Bridge. In fact, apparently the works had nearly derailed the race as for a while it looked like there would be no access at all down the road – that must have been a real headache for the race control team to try and sort out! One of the runners with us had been intending to do the full course but had been vomiting all the way to checkpoint 1 and pulled out. At the cafe one of the drivers mentioned that there had been a few cases of vomiting and when we got to camp there was a little isolation area set up to house the afflicted. The problem of closed roads soon paled into insignificance as the race team battled a norovirus outbreak for the rest of the race. Covid levels of biosecurity were hurriedly instigated, the medical team worked in shifts and bore the brunt of it, with several of them becoming ill themselves, people would vanish from tents overnight and be put in quarantine – some having to go home and others recovering fast enough to continue on the Explorer course. What a total nightmare to have to deal with and it was very impressive how the Ourea machine swung into action with contingency plans and kept the whole thing going.

Day 3 – Kinloch Hourn to Achnashellach (aka Camp Midge) 68km. Explorer option either 18km to CP 1, 34km to CP 2 or 34km CP 2 to finish.

I slept incredibly badly. Wide awake at 3am I decided to go home. By 4am I had given myself a stern talking to and decided that if Jasmin Paris can become the first woman to finish the Barkely Marathons then I could pull on my big girl pants and run a few km on not much sleep. I nodded off only to be kicked awake at 5am by my neighbour who claimed that she thought my alarm was going off. It wasn’t, it was set for 6am and I suspect it was probably because I snoring rather loudly. Or farting. Either way, gratitude wasn’t the first emotion that filled my mind that morning. Things improved with a big breakfast and the promise of another beautiful sunny day before the weather was forecast to break. We were generally fed very well but I did struggle a bit, like many others, with food that was different to what I’d normally eat. I normally have a high protein, relatively high fat low GI diet and avoid gluten because it sets off my IBS. I didn’t go for the gluten free options in camp as they’re usually not terribly good and I figured that the main thing would be to just focus on getting as many calories in as possible and to hell with the consequences. As the days went by my guts became increasingly unhappy and I would have given anything for some full fat yogurt and fruit. By day 7 I was hoping that there was nobody running behind me because by then the uncontrollable flatulance was reaching toxic warfare proportions. My poor bloody tent mates……

Anyway, back to day 2. I had three reasons for choosing the 34km second half of the course. Firstly, as mentioned, to get a good rest. Then I figured there’s a good chance I’ll be back to do the Kintail Munros so will cover a lot of the first bit of the course then. Thirdly I wanted to do 34km and not run the risk of wimping out after 18km at checkpoint 1 when I saw the cafe – you couldn’t easily pull out if you did the second 34km as it was all too remote. Most of the Explorers had opted to do the first bit of the course and only me and another lass were in the MPV to checkpoint 2. It was a decent drive away so we arrived and set off running about 11am I think, well ahead of those doing the full course. This meant we had the place to ourselves which was nice and had to concentrate a bit harder on navigation as there wasn’t the usual trail of footprints to follow on the pathless bits. I went slightly astray at one point but corrected quite quickly. This was all really remote going, through a wide glacial valley past a couple of isolated bothies. Other than a few hikers there was nobody around. I kept wondering when I’d be overtaken by the front runners and it didn’t happen until I reached checkpoint 3 at 4pm. This was a really tough long, hot day for those on the full course and lots of folk got timed out. Meanwhile, on my nice fresh Explorer legs I was having a great run, it was probably my best day overall in terms of how I went. Towards the end we climbed up to the top of a pass to be rewarded by the most stunning panorama into Torridon, then a really beautiful flowing descent down to camp. Surrounded by all the leading blokes I got quite carried away and absolutely hammered it down, then kept running hard right into camp feeling elated, if a little concerned that I had terminally trashed my quads so jumped in the river afterwards to cool the muscles off. It started raining that evening and our tent leaked. Some folk, including 2 tent mates, were back attempting the race for a second time after doing it in 2022, euphemistically referred to as “the wet one” but the tales they told of man-eating bogs, raging rivers, freezing cold torrential rain and near misses with hypothermia suggest that it was more than just wet. I think many got so miserable that they packed up and went home early and after just one rainy night I can’t say I blame them!

Day 4 – Achnashellach to Kinlochewe – 35km

One of my pre-race goals was to do the full day 4 course as both sections were supposed to be very scenic and the second section went past the magnificent Coire Mhic Fearchair which I have never seen and would like to go climbing in, so I was thoroughly looking forward to seeing it. I knew that although on paper this is a shorter day the terrain around the back of Beinn Eighe is not terribly easy so mentally braced myself for that.

The first section took us up a stunning corrie with some fabulous rock strata then over and down to the checkpoint on the single track road into Torridon village. After that we followed the path between Liathach and Beinn Eighe. A walker was coming in the other direction and had a light hearted moan about having come for some solitude only to meet hordes of runners. Then he started interrogating me about whether we were all carrying enough safety gear, which considering he was planning to go up Beinn Eighe with rain forecast while wearing JEANS seemed a bit bloody rich to me. In fact the rules were very strict about gear (to the extent that our spare layer had to weigh at least 300g and we also had to have extra cold weather kit with us in our dry bags in case we needed it) and we were thoroughly kit checked every morning.

The path climbed around and upwards….it was a bit of a drag but I kept going by thinking of the impending magnificence of Coire Mhic Fearchair. Surely we were almost there? Higher we went and some mist started swirling in. Then more mist. Then all of a sudden visibility reduced to a few feet and as I reached the outflow from the lochan in the Coire I could see………absolutely f*ck all. Sigh. All that promise dashed by the sodding Scottish weather and now I had a good few km of horrible boulder strewn boggy trackless morass to negotiate with thick clag to add to the fun. And no GPX to follow. Deep, deep sigh. I plodded along, trying to stay on a rough bearing and reassured that there were other folk going in more or less the same direction including one of my tent-mates. Eventually the terrain eased and a proper path emerged from the mist just as my compass promised it should (I nearly got on my hands and knees and kissed it) then it was a simple matter of following it down into camp. A challenging day and I was very chuffed to have done it.

Day 5 Fisherfield – Kinlochewe to Inverbroom 44km. Explorer option either 34km or 10km

34km through the Fisherfield wilderness? Yes please! Despite low cloud and being quite wet and chilly initially this was a satisfying day with a real feel of being on a journey. I’d like to go back and repeat it in good visibility. We had one of the more technical river crossings and plenty of quality peat bogs. Ruined crofts were a reminder of a vanished past when the glens were inhabited. The big highlight for today was to be the magnificent sight of the mighty An Teallach. Well, it was in the clag there somewhere I am sure! I hiked most of the day to give my legs a rest and the chips back at camp were especially welcome today.

Day 6 Inverbroom to Inchnadamph 72km. Explorer option either 37km or 35km

Another very long day for those still left on the full course, I was full of admiration for my 2 tent mates who were getting up early, dealing with agonising blisters, fatigue and sore legs then getting out there and trucking their way through such long difficult days. No short option available for Explorers either. I picked the first section available as I preferred to just get up and out, then be back in camp in time to get plenty of food on board and have sufficient kit faff time. I had made the fatal error of not bringing a spare dry bag to put all my minging wet stinky used running gear into so had been chucking it down to the bottom of my main bag. The smell was beyond description. And as a sexual health doctor I have smelt some pretty revolting things in my time (retained tampon anyone?). I decided to sacrifice keeping my sleeping bag dry, took it out of its bag and decanted the festering clothing in, sealing the top and wondering whether to just burn it all when I got home.

It was overcast and humid to start with, leading to a “delightful” midge ridden first few kms through forest but fortunately we soon ascended and were onto open moorland and a good long stretch of bog that was right up my street so I ran most of it reasonably well. Amazingly my legs were still feeling pretty good in the mornings, I had no blisters and only a touch of grumbling from my right tibialis anterior. After that we had easy tracks to follow, which to be honest I found harder than the bog before stopping at a checkpoint near a pub. As the MPV was preparing to leave several Explorers came out of the pub looking suspiciously happy and refreshed, making me regret not running a bit faster to get there in time for a swift half pint.

Day 7 Inchnadamph to Kinlochbervie 61km. Explorer options either 41km or 20km

I didn’t allow myself to even consider going for the 20km option and fortunately nobody told me in advance that it involved a pre-run trip to the world famous Lochinver Pie Shop because my resolve would have definitely wavered with the memory of the delicious venison pie I had when I was last there. The 41km option was supposed to be one of the most beautiful sections in a race full of superlative views and with sunshine forecast I was going to do it, tired legs, trapped wind and all. The scenery this far north is so beautiful and otherworldly it is difficult to put it into words and in good weather there are few places that would beat it. Just as well it was beautiful because I was tired setting out and stayed tired all day. Fairly early on the route passed by the highest waterfall in Britain, a stunning spot to sit, eat snacks and sort out the first blister of my race. After that we had a very very long route around the edge of a loch, up over a headland then more going around the edge of the loch with a lot of it on rough ground before finally reaching the first checkpoint. I had another snack, gave myself a motivational talking to and got going on the final 15km which also took a long long time but had lovely views of Ben Stack and Foinaven. And at least I could stop after that and not have to do ANOTHER 20km, half of which was bog and the other half road. My legs were really sore at the end but in a way that didn’t matter as now there was only one day left to go and unless I succumbed to norovirus overnight I was definitely going to finish. There was a lot of emotion in the tent that evening, not least when the later arrivals who had done a longer day got in to find that the promised showers had broken and that food was being served over in a school hall rather than next to the tents. But we were all going to make it now, nothing could stop us! And a slightly shorter easier final day beckoned, with sun forecast.

Day 8 – Kinlochbervie to Cape Wrath Lighthouse 26km

Hooray, no overnight puking in the tent meant we were good to go. Blisters were taped, we put on our least smelly running gear, packed our dry bags for the last time and set off lighthouse bound. There was a staggered start to try and prevent everyone arriving at the lighthouse at once so the fasties went early for once and the Explorers had a more leisurely morning and an 8am start. Amazingly my legs felt much better than at the start of yesterday and a group of us power hiked together to Sandwood Bay, approaching it through sand dunes and accompanied by the sound of skylarks. In a perfect world we would have just stopped here and had a giant picnic but no, there were a few miles and 3 small but noticeable hills to climb before the lighthouse itself and an emotional run under the finish gantry.

The logistics of getting us all from the lighthouse back to civilisation were a little tricky. Fog rolled in and it got chilly, everyone was knackered and the only way to get out was via a minibus along a very poor quality road. The road was so dodgy that there was a bit in the middle that the minibus couldn’t tackle so we all had to get out into the cold foggy moorland then wait for a second minibus to come up for us (luckily there was an MOD cottage there for us to wait inside, but the whole set up felt like we were in some kind of horror film where runners got lost in the fog only to be picked off and murdered one by one). The second bus driver fancied himself as some kind of comedian and kept on bellowing at us that we were going to be going back to eat “VEGAN HAUGGIS! AHA HA HA HA HA! No’ lamb for youse lot, just VEEEGAAAN HAUGGIS”. I knew he was talking absolute mince because I’d spotted the catering team making pizzas that morning.

We were disgorged from the minibus onto a jetty, where we stood shivering and grateful at last for our mandatory Ourea approved 300g synthetic insulated tops. What would happen next? A dutch cyclist joined us and boggled when we told him what we’d done. At least it explained our bedraggled state and the weird smell. We then spotted a small boat making its way towards us out of the mist. When it arrived the boatman curtly told us he could only take 12 people and disappeared off leaving 4 of us plus the baffled cyclist on the jetty, hoping he would come back soon!

When we eventually got into camp I noted the sign promising delicious vegan haggis for dinner and wondered darkly who’d eaten all the f*cking pizzas, before spotting a wee van selling booze and just like that, the evening improved quite dramatically. After the haggis surprise we watched the set of films showcasing the week (lots of wonderful brooding shots of dramatic landscapes, stirring music, runners looking strong, runners looking emotional, runners looking happy (but oddly enough no footage of runners projectile vomiting on hillsides or staggering out of tents at 3am with the squits) before all receiving our hard earned medals. After one glass of red wine I started feeling rather emotional and wandered out to watch the sun setting and have a little weep to myself. There was nothing on this earth that would have enticed me to get up the next day, put on soggy trail shoes and start running again but it was all over and the Cape Wrath bubble was going to pop. We’d spent 8 days being fed, watered, looked after by the amazing race team and in return we had run, walked and bog hopped our little hearts out. We were up at the very tip of mainland Britain, it was achingly beautiful and tomorrow we all had to go home to reality and our complicated lives.

The bank holiday weekend saw me down in the Lake District doing the Great Lakeland 3 Day, which is becoming one of my favourite events. It’s a bit like a mountain marathon with all the unpleasant bits taken out (and the nav is much easier). I’ve entered Cape Wrath Ultra so got a discounted entry to GLL3D and used it as my final big weekend of training. I covered around 50 miles and 14000ft ascent which was plenty as I’m “only” intending to do the Explorer version of CWU. Time to sit back, relax and taper……except that I’d managed to schedule a trip to Skye 3 days later to try and do the rest of the Cuillin ridge. I clearly hadn’t thought that one through particularly well.

I used a guide again because my rock skills aren’t up to doing it myself yet and the navigation is incredibly intricate and I don’t want to die, or at least I’d rather reduce that risk as far as possible. I’ve tended to use West Coast Mountain guides in the past as a friend recommended them but they folded last year after the owner died in a horrible accident with clients on Aonach Eagach. I went with Mike Pescod from Abacus Guides, who was very good and knew every inch of the traverse. This was especially useful as he was able to assess our pace and use it to predict what time we would arrive at various points and what time we’d be off the hill which allowed me to get my head into “this is going to be a very long day” mode.

I drove up on Thursday and stealth camped in Glen Brittle with an alarm set for the unholy hour of 3am. After picking Mike up then driving down the the campsite we were walking up by 5am in tranquil dawn light with the Cuillins ranged in front of us. Mike commented favourably on the uphill pace which was nice because at that moment I was feeling every one of the GLL3D 14000 feet of bloody ascent and not exactly fresh legged. Both of us were hoping for a sunrise from the top of the In Pinn but alas the clouds rolled in at exactly the wrong moment for that. We started at the point where Ellie had had enough last time, which meant starting with the In Pinn. Unsuprisingly at that hour we had it to ourselves and it was an easy climb up, summiting about 7am. The next stages were also in clag but later on the clouds cleared and we had beautiful sunshine with glorious views. The wind was a bit strong but not enough to be problematic and it did keep the temperature down and dry out the basalt quickly. The scrambling was all fairly straightforward and enjoyable and I was pleased that short roping was kept to a minimum, although it was reassuring on some of the harder scrambles especially considering the exposure. You have to concentrate for the vast majority of the traverse, just because of the potential very nasty consequences of any slip or fall and that is pretty tiring in itself. We passed a few bivvy sites which didn’t look appealing at all plus we didn’t have to lug any bivvy gear either so I really don’t think I have missed out by not doing it the traditional way over 2 consecutive days at all.

Some of the hardest stuff is towards the end, with Am Basteir and the option of the subsidiary Bastier tooth then some rather technical scrambling up the final munro Sgurr nan Gillean. One can bypass the Basteir tooth, but I could tell Mike was pretty keen for us to do it, and it seemed rude not to after he’d lugged the requisite climbing gear all that way. Naismith’s route is graded v diff which shouldn’t really pose major problems BUT I was tired and wearing approach shoes. In hindsight I would have taken my climbing shoes even for that one short pitch as the foot holds weren’t great for someone of my limited climbing calibre. Suffice to say I was on a VERY tight rope at a couple of points but lurched my way up before finally reaching the belay ledge. I had my left foot on a not very good hold and was resting with my elbows on the ledge like a swimmer at a pool. “Just swing your right leg up and on to the ledge” said Mike unhelpfully, clearly having mistaken me for someone with a lot more flexibility. Instead I flopped and wriggled my way on, with all the grace and style of a walrus getting onto a beach and I daresay the eponymous Naismith was spinning in his grave at the lack of elegance. Made it – yay! Well there was a bit more before the top proper, but it was much easier.

There were only two points where I struggled, both times where you have to take a step across a gaping chasm. They weren’t huge steps, even with my hobbit legs and on secure grippy rock but the exposure was unbelievable and I had to literally get my hand held to get across.

The walk back to Sligachan is actually very pretty, a lot of it beside a beautiful stream with waterfalls and plunge pools. It’s quite a long way, though and my feet and knees were very sore by then so I was pleased when the pub came into view. The whole thing took around 14 hours and I was gubbed. Having said that, not so gubbed that I didn’t wake up the next morning thinking “wouldn’t it be ace to come back and do the whole thing in one go”.

Anyone who takes up bouldering will, sooner or later, hear about Fontainebleau. I have heard it said that it’s proof that a) God exists and b) he’s a climber. I don’t believe in God and Wikipedia says that in fact the forest is littered with thousands of sandstone boulders due to the erosion of an ancient sea bed.

Handily, my middle sister has a holiday house about an hour’s drive from Nemours, the most southerly bouldering area. When my son found out about this proximity he asked if we could take him and his mate there for a bouldering holiday.

Being a glass half empty person (or as I would say, a realist) I spent some time trying to anticipate all the things that could go wrong. Taking someone else’s child away on holiday to do a potentially dangerous sport gave me plenty of nightmare scenarios to contemplate in addition to concerns about the camper van breaking down or my husband (who has been doing a lot better but only in the last few weeks so still quite fragile) breaking down. Fortunately, despite the best efforts of a hideously aggressive French lorry driver we all got there and back in one piece.

It’s a long drive from Edinburgh to Chatillon-sur-Loire especially as there were no van spaces left on the ferry from Newcastle and we used the Eurotunnel instead. The price one pays for smug environmentalism is sitting at a standstill on the A1 then being driven off the road by French lorry drivers. We’d put a couple of saltire stickers on the van but they clearly weren’t obvious enough to give the full “leave us alone we’re SCOTTISH!!” effect.

Once we’d arrived and settled in we decided to head for an area called Petit Bois near Nemours. Having done some practice bouldering on Northumbrian sandstone at least we weren’t completely taken aback by the nature of the climbing and outrageous grades given to the routes. Unsurprisingly I couldn’t manage even the easy routes on day 1, as much due to fear of falling as anything else. As the boys got stuck in we were all aware of a commotion coming from nearby.

“Allez! Allez!”

“Allez…..ALLEZ ALLEZ ALL….”

<THUD>
Then commiserating and “merde” and “shit” before the “Allez” would build to a crescendo again, usually following by the sickening thud of a body hitting the deck from a great height but occasionally by cries of triumph and a round of applause.

The boys wandered over to find a group in front of a very large boulder that goes by the name of Big Jim. After offering their mats up to help cushion the landing they were welcomed into this sweaty little group to try their luck.

“Allez allez ALLEZ!”

<thud>

It was time to leave but the boys were determined – the entire focus of the holiday from that moment revolved around topping out Big Jim.

Now obviously I don’t want to be sexist but there does seem to be a tendency for males in particular to embark on heroic yet futile endeavours. Like Mallory and Irvine, the two teenagers threw everything at Big Jim. Time after time they went up, getting further each day but ultimately thwarted by the last couple of, frankly terrifying, moves. You basically had to use a tiny pocket big enough for one finger then launch yourself up to grab the top – and at this point the floor was a LONG way down, mats or no mats. I had recurring nightmares where I had to phone Jonny’s friend’s parents and explain to them why their precious son was unconscious in a French hospital.

One of the great things about bouldering in Font is that groups of boulders have been made into circuits, all marked up & colour coded for each grade. I had been reliably informed that it can be enormous fun to go around lots of circuits and that you can get into a proper state of flow. Apparently one’s climbing ability can improve dramatically after just a few days there. Apparently there are loads and loads of different areas each with their own characteristics, all set in stunning forest locations swarming with butterflies.

Thanks to bloody Big Jim I didn’t get to experience any of that. I spend most of my time being asked to video the boys’ doomed attempts while my husband was on spotting duty. Every so often they would tear themselves away for long enough to allow me to try some climbs myself. They were even quite helpful if you don’t mind being talked up a route by two slightly patronising 16 year olds. You do quickly get used to the exposure and get a feel for how to move on the sandstone so by the end I even managed up an easy blue route but I was a bit cheesed off at not having had much of a chance to explore. I went for a run at one point and after 20 minutes or so came across a whole boulder area all marked up with routes in a particularly lovely tranquil part of the woodland. It was completely deserted (apart from hundreds of butterflies) and not even mentioned in the guide book. I told Jonny about it. “Oh really?” he said without any great enthusiasm, then “Lyall just got up to that finger pocket. I really think we’re going to top out today, tomorrow at the latest!”

“Allez…..!”

The mist swirls around the jagged summits of an ancient volcano. Occasionally it draws back, offering tantalising glimpses of corries and lochans below only to close back in, reducing the world to blackened rocks soaring into pinnacles and a jumble of boulders underfoot. Sounds echo through the clag – the clatter of dislodged rocks, a perpetual drip and trickle of water, clinking of climbing gear and disembodied voices echoing off the rock walls. Ravens lurk, hidden but waiting patiently for anyone to leave a rucksack unattended long enough for them to cleverly undo the zips and extract carefully packed trail mix. Here and there people emerge from the mist, a runner with bloodied knees and a lean and intelligent collie checks with a passing guide that she’s on the correct path to her intended summit then continues her scramble upwards; a young couple, well equipped, leaf through a guide book; a hill walker sits down to eat a pork pie and wonders what on earth he is doing in this god forsaken place while his guide wonders how to motivate him over the next obstacle; a mother and daughter are having a heated discussion about who’s stupid idea this was while their guide, a veteran of both the Cuillin and teenagers getting stroppy on mountaintops patiently suggests that maybe they just put on their harnesses and crack on.

A few months ago my daughter approached me after school. “I’d really love to do the Cuillin ridge with you, once my exams are over – as a treat before I leave for Uni”. Deeply touched I took about 5 nanoseconds to get onto the internet to get a guide booked and then spent some quality time reading up about the intricacies of the ridge traverse and making lists. Skye attracts some appalling weather so in general if you go for a guided traverse you book a guide for a few days then go for the two that look best for the weather – generally the hope is that you get two decent consecutive days and bivvy out on the ridge overnight. I’ve read that only around 10% of people manage a full ridge traverse on their first attempt. As our trip approached I felt that our chances were less than 10%. Daughter had been busy working hard for her exams (and also busy with a new boyfriend) and although she goes to the gym she hadn’t been out in the hills at all. The weather forecast suggested that two nice days on the trot were highly unlikely and before we set out I’d chatted to our guide, a wonderfully laid back Cumbrian, and we’d decided that a bivvy out was off the menu and we’d just see how far along the ridge we got on day one.

Even getting to Skye is an oddessy. I managed to wangle an earlier finish to work so we could beat the worst of the traffic but it was still well after 10pm when we rolled into Glen Brittle campsite. In the fading light and low cloud we couldn’t see the Cuillins properly, just a hint of something massive looming behind the campsite. We couldn’t see them the next morning either but having rendezvoused with our guide we headed on up. Our first stop was in Coire Ghrunda, sitting by the lochan surrounded by a dramatic amphitheatre of vertical rock, cascading water and boulders. The tops were shrouded in mist but every so often we glimpsed jagged towers of rock high above. It was a beautiful but slightly menacing place.

First target of the day was the munro of Sgurr nan Eag, which as an out and back meant we could dump rucksacks (having put rocks on top of them to deter any hungry and cunning ravens). It had some easy scrambling but in the main was a bit of a boulder hop with occasional views down to Loch Coruisk to add interest. Then a reverse boulder hop back to the bags and onwards. I noticed my daughter was getting ominously quiet. A 6am start is rarely welcome to the average teenager, her boots were rubbing and so far the going had been hard with little to enliven it. I started to worry that she was getting well into into type 2 fun territory. I kept asking her if she was OK, only to get a slightly hostile “I’m FINE!” back.

We stopped beside a small dripping wet cave (surely the most un-preposessing of bivvy spots) to don harnesses. I tentatively voiced my concerns to my daughter “You don’t look very happy”

“I am NOT HAPPY”

Oh God. The guide withdrew slightly and fiddled with his climbing gear.

“Um” I said cautiously “Are you ok to carry on?”

“Yes, I’ll keep going but I am NOT HAPPY”

Then I stupidly said it “Don’t forget, this was your idea”

“THIS WAS NOT MY IDEA!! You asked ME if I wanted to do this, and like an idiot I said yes”

I was non-plussed. That wasn’t how it happened was it? But now I thought about it, her version of events did sound more likely. Bugger.

“Best just put your harnesses on” said our guide tactfully “and let’s crack on”

Finally we’d reached proper scrambling territory and the next stages were really good fun (well I thought so anyway). After the first major obstacle we bumped into another pair with their guide. One of the men seemed in good spirits and asked us how we were doing. “Great!” I replied enthusiastically. At this point my daughter locked eyes with his companion, who was sitting and eating a pork pie with an air of despair. She said afterwards that something profound yet unspoken passed between them, in that instant they each understood the misery that the other felt. The trio moved on, with the guide assuring them that yes, they could definitely make it over the Inn Pin and we took their spots to eat lunch.

Whether it was the more scrambly terrain, or the effects of some food or maybe just the knowledge that there was someone on the ridge who was having a worse time than she was, my daughter’s mood improved dramatically and she even started to exhibit signs of enjoyment, especially on the couple of abseils that we did. However after Sgurr MhicChoinnich she asked whether we could descend which was fair enough – we’d been on the go for 8 hours by then, doing the Inn pin would have added on at least an hour or two more then we’d still have to get back down to the camp site. She’d done incredibly well, especially in managing to turn her mood around and dig deep enough to keep going.

After slithering down scree then hiking back down below the cloud base we eventually emerged back at the camp site and had a coffee at the excellent cafe. The weather forecast for Saturday hadn’t improved so we discussed options for Sunday. “We could go back up to the ridge and carry on where we left off” said the guide.

Deadly silence.

“Or” he said hurredly “there’s some excellent climbing at the Cioch so we could head round there for the day”

This option seemed a lot more agreeable to the Teen so we decided that climbing it was and we ended up having a fantastic day. I started to plan when I could come back and finish off the ridge myself.

Last year I decided that I wasn’t going to race any more. I got into a bit of a vicious circle where, presumably due to the <expleted deleted> menopause my running had slowed down dramatically. Unless I attached myself to the dog I had no speed and running felt like a massive effort. If I tried to put in some proper training I would end up knackered or injured or both. After coming last at the Chevy on 2021 I really thought there was no point even trying to race. The good news is that the endorphin rush after running was unaffected so I carried on running 2 or 3 times a week but was well on the way to being a recreational jogger. And to be honest, that was fine. 2022 was not easy, my husband had 3 admissions to hospital and after a period of mania over the summer a shiny new diagnosis of bipolar to contend with, in addition to yet more drugs and courses of ECT that appeared to do sod all. Really who cared if my park runs were done at what used to be my marathon pace?

The sad thing is that I do care. I wish I didn’t since I was never all that good a runner anyway but it had become part of my identity and the drop off in ability had been so sudden that it has taken a lot of getting used to. No wonder so few women over 50 race.

About 6 months ago I decided to go the full Davina and persuaded my GP to prescribe testosterone. I was generally feeling better on normal HRT but still felt a bit like someone had taken my batteries out. The menopause results in loss of muscle but the drop is more pronounced in your type 2 fibres so you lose far more speed than endurance. The numbers of mitochondria fall too, apparently. You can only get testosterone on the NHS for loss of libido so you have to be a bit creative with the truth if you just want to see if it will give you a general pep up. Crying often helps. You need to be prepared for side effects – it can cause anxiety, acne and if you rub it into the same bit of skin each day you can grow hair there like a were wolf.

The first thing I noticed was that I became a more assertive driver. Instead of seeing amber lights as a signal to brake I saw them as a challenge. The kids noted with amused approval that I was driving a bit less like a granny. Then just a general improved sense of well being, which was welcome considering my poor husband was back in hospital yet again. I felt like I just had a bit of pizzazz back. Sadly running didn’t seem any easier at first but I stopped needing to nap after longer runs and gradually could think that maybe some runs felt a little bit less like wading through glue. Then on Christmas Day I ran a PB at my local park run. This isn’t saying a lot as it’s a new course so I’ve only been doing it since July – I’m still a lot slower than my previous times at Portobello but I felt ridiculously chuffed and decided to enter my first race in 18 months.

The Greenmantle Dash is a short blast from the brewery in Broughton. You leap over a wall, cross a small raging torrent, plough through a bog then go up one of the spurs off Trahenna then zoom back down again. It’s only 3k so I thought that even if it was a disaster the pain wouldn’t go on for too long. It was quite nice to go in with zero expectations other than to try and enjoy it. It was a beautiful sunny cold day and I didn’t break a leg going over the wall, or drown in the stream or have a cardiac arrest going up the hill. The descent was OK then there was just a short sprint back along the road. Alas despite the short distance my legs refused point blank to sprint but I wasn’t last and it had in fact been largely good fun. Then, bonus, I got a prize for 3rd lady over 50. The first prize winners got boxes of random Borders goods like cauliflowers and shortbread, in true hill race fashion. So maybe, just maybe, I am not as over racing as I thought I was.

I can’t exactly remember how this came about but both my sisters are adamant that it was my bright idea. At some point last year we decided that it would be lovely to spend a weekend together, just the three of us and somehow thought that the ideal way to do this was to enter a 100K slog along the Ridgeway national trail. The last time the three of us got together on our own was a looong time ago, pre-kids when we did St Cuthbert’s Way so we do have form for that sort of thing.

RTTS was ideal as it offers different variations on the theme of “slog along the Ridgeway for 100k” – you can run it or walk it, do the whole thing in one go or split it over 2 days or just enter one day and do a mere 50k. We opted to walk it over two days as middle sister, Jenny, doesn’t do ultra running. She’d done a similar event with her husband so knew she could walk the distance and also knew the likelihood of pain being involved. “I’ve brought ibuprofen, dihydrocodeine and tramadol” she announced brightly when we were doing our pre-race kit faff.

Step 1 – Edinburgh to London. I got an email couple of days before departure from the Caledonian Sleeper asking “are you as excited as we are about your upcoming journey?”. I really don’t get this modern thing about everything having to have superlatives attached to them. Every bloody horrible housing scheme these days has a massive sign outside declaring that it’s an “EXCITING!!” development of 2 and 3 bed houses. Job adverts, estate agent blurbs….it’s all over the place. It’s like nobody can face the mundane honest truth that most things are Ok at best and more often just a bit shit. Politicians are the worst, promising sunlit uplands and delivering instead a miserable, paranoid, grey, impoverished litter-strewn shithole of a country where nothing works but where train rides are described as exciting.

Strangely enough when Becky and I boarded the sleeper, that staff didn’t seem terribly excited to see us. We were just relieved it was running at all with all the strike action going on. I like the sleeper and tend to sleep reasonably well on it. Unfortunately yet another gift of middle age has been that I have started snoring really badly. My poor sister has insomnia at the best of times and even ear plugs couldn’t drown out train noises and snoring sister in the bunk above so she didn’t get much meaningful sleep.

We dropped our luggage off in storage then had breakfast outside at an Italian cafe near the British Museum. It was seriously warm even that early, and sitting in that cafe it couldn’t have felt less like Scotland. We were far far far away from our jobs, children and husbands and we both felt a certain amount of weight lifting. We’d booked tickets for the Stonehenge exhibition at the museum which killed a couple of hours then retrieved our bags and got the train to Jenny’s place in Herne Hill.

Our plan was to sleep in Jenny’s camper van at the race start and arrived at sunset. We then discovered that you weren’t supposed to camp at the start the night before (you could camp at the finish and get a shuttle bus) but nobody seemed too bothered about applying the rules so we bedded down. I probably slept the best of the three of us and awoke to complaints of “you snore as loudly as our Mother!” which is quite a feat.

The weather forecast for the weekend was hot and sunny but at least at the start there was some high cloud and the route at first was nice and shady under trees. My knowledge of the layout of England is pretty sketchy so I thought we were in Wiltshire but apparently it was Oxfordshire. Wherever it was, it was all very bucolic and rural until we hit the Thames and had a tarmac stretch passing some very expensive looking houses and dodging Range Rovers (presumably other cars are available in Oxfordshire but you wouldn’t know it). Afterwards we were mainly up on the Ridgeway proper for the rest of the two days which was an advantage in terms of catching what little breeze there was. It’s a surprisingly empty part of England and a very nice route with easy walking and fringed with wild flowers a lot of the way and lots of butterflies. The way is pretty popular with cyclists too, many of whom seemed reluctant to slow down or give any quarter to pedestrians.

The race itself seemed very well organised. It is a big event, much bigger than my usual ultra of choice and run on a commercial basis and of course had the obligatory pair of blokes with microphones providing motivational banter at the start. And the finish. And the overnight camp. How they managed to keep up their inane and chirpy banter for hours on end in blazing sunshine God only knows, it takes a particular and rather niche talent. One had a beard and one was called Nigel. The route was waymarked within an inch of its life and the pit stops were good with a huge choice of food & drink. There were water stops between the pit stops. There were people spraying you with water. There were also big buckets of cold water for dipping caps in, although I just went for the full wet t-shirt effect and dunked my top in too. The overnight camp was well set up with fantastic views out over the plain below and stalls selling ice cream and beer etc. They transported all your gear, provided a really decent dinner and had a wee pop-up tent for every overnight participant. The other nice thing about it was that it wasn’t terribly competitive, most folk seemed to be doing it for fun or as a challenge and the cuts off were very generous.

Generally speaking the three of us get on pretty well, but there is a bit of a family habit of spectacular fallings out. These usually happen at Christmas but also at other family gatherings when emotions are running high. We reckoned that we should have a safe word to use if conversation seemed to be heading into dangerous territory and picked “halloumi” as this was the unlikely trigger of the most recent family conflagration. We only had to use the safe word once despite some fairly wide ranging chat (although most conversations circled back to “humanity is completely f*cked” and we are all in agreement on that one!).

Day 1 went pretty smoothly, especially once the bulk of the runners had come past. It was hot from midday on but of course one can keep a lot cooler walking compared to running. The aid stations all had water melon which was lovely in the heat. Considering that Jenny hadn’t really trained she stood up to the distance very well, but bloody mindedness is a bit of a family trait. I found the final 5k or so the most enjoyable, I suppose because I knew we could stop soon but also it was getting a little cooler and the sun was lower and casting a beautiful light through the long grass beside the track. It was very peaceful and hypnotic and…..”Can you hear Nigel?” said Becky. We strained our ears and definitely caught snatches of hearty banter being carried on the breeze. Poor Beardy and Nigel (or maybe Nigel was the one with the beard, we never worked it out) must have been at it for hours by then but their patter didn’t falter “Heyyyy, welcome to the overnight CAAAMMPPP! Are you ready to PAAARTAY?”. Once through the finish area we make a bee-line for the stalls and settled down in the evening sunshine for ice cream and a pint.

Despite the invitation to PAARTAY I turned in so early that I didn’t even see the text from the race organisers saying the earliest start had been brought forward an hour to 5am to try and beat the heat. I slept remarkably well. The same cannot be said for anyone within a 20m blast radius of my tent. Even with ear plugs in both sisters said that my snoring was reaching epic decibel levels. Sorry…

We were up, breakfasted and sent on our way by a bleary-eyed and slightly less enthusiastic Nigel before 6am and it was getting hot by 7am! It took me a while to get into it, and I had a minor sense of humour failure at the first aid station which was at the end of a pointless out and back. I felt a lot better once I’d got the first 20K or so under my belt. We passed a sign to the Uffington white horse and decided to detour to have a look at it. Well, Becky and I did, Jenny resisted then grumbled along behind us and of course it turned out that you couldn’t see any of the horse other than the tip of an ear unless you went off the ridge and down to the bottom. We didn’t do that, we’re not that masochistic. The area around the horse was a nature reserve and absolutely teeming with birds, in stark contrast to the farmland we’d passed through before. It’s easy to overlook how little wildlife there is in the British countryside until you are confronted with evidence of what it should be like.

Further along there was another potential detour to a neolithic tomb. This time the detour was short and the tomb well worth the visit, nestled under a canopy of trees. It is thought that the Ridgeway has been in fairly constant use as a travel route since prehistoric times and if you’re that sort of person (I am guilty as charged) there was something romantic about feeling like I was treading in the footsteps of generations of ancestors.

There was nothing remotely romantic about the state of Jenny’s feet, which were starting to blister in response to the mileage and heat. Each time we stopped she applied more tape, raided her stash of painkillers then soldiered on. She also started to develop tendonitis down the front of one shin, which she had looked at by the medic at the final checkpoint. Their interaction was vaguely along the lines of:

Medic “Oh that looks sore!”

Jenny “Yup. Can you do anything for it?”

Medic “Not really, you’re just going to have to suck it up”

Jenny “Will tramadol help?”

Medic “PLEASE DON’T TAKE TRAMADOL!”

Jenny <necking tablets> “Too late! Righto, off we go!”

Apparently the tramadol didn’t do much for the pain, and a mile or so down the track most of the skin on her little toe sloughed off. I applied more tape gingerly to the raw flesh and she stoically kept plodding onwards.

It was still very hot and with 10k to go we all knew that although that didn’t sound an insurmountable distance it was still going to take 2 hours. Becky and I decided that it was time for a sing-song to lift Jenny’s spirits! Tunes of various quality were belted out, including “Flower of Scotland” but she didn’t seem terribly grateful for our efforts. Suddenly we could see the finish area through the shimmering heat haze. The kilometre markers were at 94k and the finish looked a lot closer…..either the markers were wrong or there was going to be some kind of pointless loop or out & back. And so it transpired – the clue was in the name, the race to the stones visited the Avebury stones which were not at the finish but on an out and back. At this point poor Jenny let out a yelp and thought she’d trodden on a nail but it turned out that it was just one of the blisters under her foot exploding. She decided just to stay put while Becky and I visited the stones (in previous years the race route went through the stone circle but for some reason permission for this was withdrawn this year but we were told we were welcome to go into the circle and have a look). I’d like to go back as the area was quite extensive with a processional avenue that we only spotted from the bus on the way back.

After that it was just a kilometre or so to the finish – I’d forgotten that we’d given ourselves the team name of “smells like middle-aged spirit” until it was announced to general hilarity on the tannoy by a Nigel substitute as we approached. Presumably by this point Nigel himself had gone a for a wee lie down in a darkened room. Luckily there was a shuttle bus back to the start about to leave so we grabbed our bags and jumped on.

Our varying levels of fitness and endurance were laid out clearly the following morning. Becky felt grand, if a little sleep deprived and reckoned she could have managed another 50k. I had one blister and a touch of tendonitis and was grateful that I only had to walk as far as the train station. Jenny had more blisters than feet and a nasty patch of bruising over the extensor tendonitis on one leg and was very grateful indeed to be working from home that day.

The biggest endurance test was the train journey home. It ground to a halt south of Berwick with ominous announcements of trees on the overhead lines and “we don’t know how long this will last”. When we pulled into Alnmouth station to let everyone off to stretch their legs Becky phoned our parents and my dad drove to collect us. He’s always said he would be prepared to drop everything any time to come and rescue us and is as good as his word even when his daughters are in their 5th decade, bless him! We offered a lift to a couple who took about a nanosecond to decide to throw in their lot with total strangers rather than stay a minute more on that train. My dad drove us to Berwick then I borrowed my nephew’s car to drive myself and the very grateful couple on to Edinburgh. The train should have arrived just after 3pm but we got there at 7pm. I found out later that the train finally got in at 9pm having run out of food and water, with no water in the loos either. A lucky escape.

We haven’t made any plans for our next get together yet.