Concerning the second "day" of running. Patterdale to Kirkby Stephen. Leaving the lakes and heading into the Yorkshire Dales. Featuring a red squirrel, Shap Abbey and the first sighting of Nine Standards.
As would become a recurring theme, I settled down for what I told myself would be a two hour nap, struggled to sleep for the first hour, woke up when my alarm went off after two hours grumpy as anything, and then decided to sleep for another two hours. Over the course of the four days I slept for about four hours at every available check point. The small group I was running with mostly slept for less time, but I was usually able to catch them up and get to the next aid station a little ahead of them to buy some extra nap time. So I guess the woman who overtook me at Tanaosri trail had taught me a valuable lesson about the importance of resting when needed.
Anyway, back to Patterdale. I managed to grumble my way out of the sleeping bag and towards another hot mug of tea and some more hot food. While sorting my stuff out I found myself chatting with a lovely Canadian lady, Melissa, who was also getting ready to head out. It turned out that this was Melissa's second attempt at the Northern Traverse. The first time she had to pull out because of feet issues (I believe I've remembered this right, I'm so sorry if not), but I am happy to report (spoilers!) that this time she absolutely smashed it. I have to say, the support between the runners was wonderful. It was so nice to be able to encourage each other along the way and root for all of the wonderful people I'd met along the way at the finish. I digress. We decided to leave together, me nursing a cup of tea, as was becoming habit. We pottered up the road taking care to be quiet in the residential area, before heading back onto the trail for the final big climb in the Lake District.
It was now about about 2:30am and as we climbed out of the valley we almost immediately took the wrong trail. Luckily some runners just behind us pointed us in the right direction. Unfortunately this was a sign of things to come. For a while there was a little group of about four of us, but shortly we broke off into pairs. Now I was with a Belgian runner, Frank, as we slowly navigated our way up to Kidsty Pike. I was very grateful to have anothorking er runner with me at this point as the navigation here got a little messy, I think it is safe to say. In the dark it was difficult to see what was actually a footpath, and what just looked like it might be before petering out into a bog a hundred metres later. A lot of the actual trail ended up being quite boggy as well and if we came across minor tors (rocky peaks) on the route it took both of us to work out where the path picked up again. It was slow progress and doing it alone would have definitely been a low moment in the race, but team work is both efficient and an excellent moral boost in situations like this. Running with Frank was a dream.
We started coming down from Kidsty Pike just as dawn was breaking. At this point Melissa caught up with us, at which time I have a distinct memory of talking about being lucky not to have fallen over, only to then immediately fall down. Luckily the landing was soft at this point, and if anything it increased my average speed a touch. It was a lovely, if somewhat slippy, run down towards Haweswater. This was another site I was excited to see, and quite relieved I was going to see in daylight, as I had recently started reading Wild Fell by Lee Schofield. This book tells the story of the RSPB's takeover of a farm at Haweswater, and their efforts to find a balance between the sheep farming that dominates the Lakes and the reintroduction of wildlife to the area. So far it had been an excellent read and I was eager to see a bit of the area. Leaving Melissa and Frank behind to have a breakfast stop, I kept plodding on around the edge enjoying the views and working my way through the veggie burrito that had been marinating in my pocket since Patterdale. It was a delightful stretch, with a chorus of birds waking up and going about their days to keep me company. At one point, a small, reddish ball of fluff crossed the path in front of me. My immediate thought was that it was a red squirrel, but that seemed unlikely given that they are incredibly rare in the UK. Later I did a quick internet search and found that this is an area where red squirrels are spotted, so I guess I was very lucky that morning. I certainly felt it at that moment; I was having the time of my life.
The section separating Haweswater and Shap is quite blurred in my memory. I remember a stretch along a quiet country road which followed a slightly different route from the GPS file, and therefore had me panicked that I was definitely going the wrong way (I wasn't), followed by a cut across some very boggy moorland, leaping less than gracefully across the worst patches, before crossing some fields. There was some confusion about which way to go around one of the fields (a sign of what was to come in the Vale of York, it turned out), but mostly this section was uneventful.
Shap Abbey was exciting for two reasons. First of all, it is an impressive sight on it's own and well worth taking a moment to slow down (ha!) and admire the ruins. Secondly, it was a sure sign that I was nearly at Shap aid station and I was really starting to crave that cup of tea. A short stretch uphill on trail, and then it was road almost all the way into Shap. As usual my pace picked up considerably at the promise of food and a hot drink.
Once on the road I spotted another in the distance and made it my aim to catch him before the aid station, as much for the chance of a chat as anything else - I had been running on my own since getting to the edge of Haweswater. We arrived at the aid station together and settled in for a proper breakfast of vegan sausage sandwiches. Oh my, they were good. I had extra, changed my socks and shoved handfuls of snacks into my pockets. Just as I was leaving I was happy to see Chris and Steve, who I had been sure were in front of me. It was so good to see familiar faces, and to see them both looking so happy. But sadly I couldn't wait, I had momentum on my side and it was time to leave.
Crossing the M6 was delightfully uneventful and in what felt like no time I was climbing up towards the Yorkshire Dales. It was shortly after this crossing that I fell in with an elderly couple who were out hiking. On that day they were doing a shorter, circular hike in the area, however the gentleman in the couple had an interesting tale about his own adventure on Alfred Wainwright's Coast to Coast route. In 1973 Alfred Wainwright published the book, A Coast to Coast Walk, detailing the route that I was now following and would become one of the most popular long distance walks in the UK. In the summer of 1973 the man I was now talking to had some holiday from work booked, but no idea what to do with it. He happened to find himself in a bookshop and spotted this new guidebook. A flash of inspiration persuaded him to pick it up, and thus he became one of the first people ever to follow Wainwright's route across the country. A true trailblazer.
Having left this lovely couple behind and scoffed down yet another slice of delicious mint chocolate traybake (I can still taste it now, months later) I made slow but steady progress along the next section. The rest of the day proved to be a real pleasure. Rolling hills and moorland stretched out ahead of me, the sun was high in the sky and the temperatures were really very much within my comfort zone. It was impossible to be anything other than ecstatic that this was the life I was fortunate enough to be living. At one point I passed another running having a nap on the trail, then caught and passed another runner almost immediately after. Running up past a memorial the trail then cut across some fields with a beautiful long, runnable section. At least it would have been, except I was having a minor panic. Shortly before I had passed the other runner, who then completely disappeared from view. Looking back, it is possible that he wasn't actually part of our race, but I had been so sure that he was. I was now worried that I had messed up the navigation and was going to have to turn back. I kept glancing over my shoulder to see if he was following. He wasn't. This was one of the very few times on the whole route that I took my phone out of flight mode to check, double check, triple check, that I was definitely on the right path. As it turned out, I was. But the worrying niggle in the back of my mind that I might have messed up and be disqualified lasted until the next aid station.
The footpath went through some fields and farms for a little way, then along a bit of road before heading back out onto the moor. This part was glorious. Beautiful blue skies helped to keep my mood positive, although the extra help was barely needed, I was having a wonderful time. The paths here were easy to follow and wonderfully runnable. The hills were rolling which meant jogging down them was a joy and striding purposefully back up the other side felt like a breeze. I remember seeing a man and his daughter out mountain biking together. It seemed like she was just learning and he was helping her get the hang of it. We passed each other a few times, I usually caught them on the uphill, only to be whizzed past as we headed back down. It was lovely to see the girl enjoying herself so much up her on the moors. I hope she continues to enjoy adventuring!
Shortly before coming off the moor back onto farmland I had to stop for a quick pee behind a stone wall. Unlike Thailand, where you can hide behind trees in the jungle and know that no one is likely to spot you unless they're really making an effort to be a creep, it feels mighty exposed doing the same up on the moor. It took some finding before I a) decided that there was absolutely no way I was going to make it without stopping, and b) found a hollow that offered some protection. To be honest, I don't know why I was so fussed. By this point there wasn't a soul in sight.
Through a few fields and down a valley beside a beautiful river, the views remained glorious. I have to say, we were incredibly lucky with the weather. I feel the race could have been a very different experience if this patch of April sunshine had instead been grey drizzle, or worse. I crossed the river over a wonderful old bridge, before heading up the valley on the other side to some more moorland. Up, up, up, although at no part was it particularly steep, and then a lovely steady downhill. From the top of this section of moorland I caught my first glimpse of Nine Standards looking impossibly far off into the distance. It seemed like absolute madness to think that within twelve hours I might be able to make it that far.
More fields were crossed, only getting lost in the middle of one. Under a railway and through a farmyard with some big signs that seemed to suggest Coast to Coast-ers had gotten a bit confused there before. Past a sign for "Intake Bottom" (English place names are the absolute best) and into the village of Kirkby Stephen. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon, 32 1/2 hours and 130km had passed since we started the route on Saturday morning, and I was more than ready for my second sleep of the journey. I was also more than ready for some chips. Luckily more wonderful volunteers at the rugby club were more than happy to oblige. A hot meal, a change of clothes and some hot tea and I was ready to go lie down for a bit. It would be another chilly four hour nap, but I would need it before setting off for Nine Standards. But that, dear reader, is for next time...
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