Wobbling Cameras in the Tatras

Like most grand ideas, reality never quite matches your imagination. Despite this, you have to start somewhere, and so here it is, my first YouTube thingo.

It's a run in the Tatras Mountains of Slovakia where a few of us from Eden Runners have spent the last week. It's been a fantastic running overdose amongst towering spines of granite. Fab.

Ooh, and no one is claiming responsibility for the scene involving some partial nudity.

Every Pub Should Have One...

Imagine my surprise to find this solid chap living in the beer garden at the King's Arms in Bowness-on-Solway.
An incredible character, he'd been brought up with the pub's dogs. He's a Kunekune from New Zealand, apparently. A Maori pig.
Where do I get one?

The Cruel Finger of Fate

Storms over Derwentwater

It was a hot, summer's Monday evening, and it seemed like the right time to start swimming in the mountain becks. The water was still a bit cold for it, but by exercising beforehand to get warm, a swim would be a chattery, but fun experience.

Clattering on mountainbikes along the stoney singletrack to Skiddaw House in the clefts between egg-box mountains, anything could have happened. Our skills are still a bit ropey, and it was a tight track.

On to the River Caldew in full spate, with luck on our side. Into wetsuits and into the raging flume spewing from the mouth of the falls. It was as plump a river as I'd ever swam in, and it seemed like a good transferable skill to practise darting in and out of the boiling white mass in case we got flipped out of our kayaks in a raging sea at some point in the future.

This, too, we survived. Later on, whilst taking off a sock, Stu managed to snap a tendon in his finger. Not falling off a bike at the back of Skiddaw. Not smashing into rocks lining the river. Just yanking off a sock. He's got 'Mallet Finger' and can't climb, kayak or mountainbike for 6 weeks.

Still, the splint looks like just the job for planting seedlings in the garden...

Down Time

It's always sunny in Douglas Wilcox's blog. Never a grey sky or a drop of rain (ok, there's some fog in one of the latest photos, but just look at the number of azure-blue-puffy-cloud photos there are).

But you know, I think Douglas is missing a trick. Whilst I envy the way he can charm the sky into being blue for a photo, the care-free look of a happy paddler in the foreground, I feel there's something missing.

Whilst I know it's the opposite (for him and everyone else), Douglas paints an idyllic landscape. He is the Constable of the kayaking world. Feted by the new, glossy magazine of the moment, his photos are scattered throughout Ocean Paddler. Full page spreads. Big, blue skies sell copy... There's no storm on the horizon...

'It's easy paddling from here' it is whispering to the subconscious mind.

There is a delightful contradiction at the heart of this.


We were recently holed up in our tents on the beach while a storm whipped down the loch. For a day we watched the sea make crazy, salt-flavoured Pollocks over and again on the shore. It was a fantastic piece of down time.

I guess how you see things through a lens is a good reflection of your inner world. I find the subtle moods of the darkest Scottish sky intriguing.

I can't wait to be holed up by a storm again.

East of Eden

You're probably more likely to see another person on the Moon than you are up here, on Cross Fell. It's a great place to run.

The Silence of the LAMM

All photos: Felicity Martin

0530 hrs, 7th June

I am conscious of a strange noise dragging my brain from 2 hours of fitful sleep. I can’t place it. It’s an unusual noise to hear at 5.30 am. And it’s very close to my head.

Oh, yes, it’s a bagpipe.

Somewhere in the back of the brain, there’s a synapse of recognition. You get woken up with bagpipes on the Lowe Alpine Mountain Marathon.

THE LAMM? How did this happen? The panic slowly subsides as the memory comes back. It’s not a horrible dream. Penny and I did enter the LAMM.

Outside, the midges are amassing in numbers. . Everyone’s got black midge nets on. It looks a bit like an outing of 900 suicide bombers. I put mine on. It’s marginally better than not having one. For a brief moment I snigger at people trying to conduct normal morning operations through nets. Brushing teeth. Drinking tea. Eating midge-flecked porridge. Then I try it for myself. I scrape the raspberry smoothie stalactites off my midge net and make a mental note to bring a straw next time.

0830 hrs

Well, this is it- the start. The sun seems to have moved closer to the earth, it’s baking, and there are still midges making the most of this unusually large feast. They probably haven’t had so much fun since the Battle of Culloden.


1030 hrs

We’re nearing the second check point. We’ve been contouring a deeply incised hillside for 2 hours. We crash down to a stream and drink like wildebeest.

1530 hrs

We’re looking for a checkpoint. It's not here. It’s the worst possible place to lose a checkpoint- a series of enormous hummocks. It could be any one of these monsters. Backwards, forwards we trudge. I can feel the will to live leaving. I have started to stop caring. Then a strange thing happens. I start to worry about food. I haven’t got enough. My brain is going, I think. Has my body had enough, or my brain?

“Charles!! CHARRRRRRLESSS!!” An elderly man behind is shouting at the top of his lungs. He’s miming the international symbol for a checkpoint to his partner, although it seemed a little superfluous. He’d attracted the attention of everyone. Including us.

I confess my food concerns to Penny and tell her to leave me to die right here. I can’t go on.

She makes me sit down, feeds me a breakfast flapjack. Takes some weight out of my sack. She knows what’s happened, and deals with it. The experience of an Alpine mountaineer.

2030 hrs

It’s been the hardest 11 hours out on the hill in a long time. A tough decision had to be made to climb up and over a set of Munros, not down the valley to disqualification. Walking like an empty shell, nothing left inside. A never ending, drawn out pain. The silence of the LAMM.

2230 hrs

Every last atom of energy has left my body. Penny has got outside of her rations, while I cannot eat a thing. It’s a bad sign. The midges cluster around the squashed remains of the raspberry smoothie.

There’s a strange sense of having learnt a great and valuable lesson. To know where our limits lie is a powerful thing. Do we learn more from our successes, or our failures?

The course planner, Andrew Spenceley tells us that our course had twice as much ascent on the first day as it would have normally. It makes me feel a little better about having scraped the barrel of my endurance and my being. Now, a month later, the pain has gone. And what are the memories? A perfect herd of deer thudding close by, the light splintering through pines, the dance of a thousand folds in the rock, pressed by unimaginable heat and time as we ran past in a moment.



0530 hrs 8th June

The piper digs out another tune from the wheezing bag.

It’s ‘For A’ That’ by the great Rabbie.

"Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that,
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that."

Fishing for Poems on the River Eden

"This leaf which is being persecuted by the wind,
Let her beware of her fate.
She is old though only born this year."

A while back, squeezing between tree roots along the banks of the Eden, we came across a beautiful quote carved into the rock. It is reputed to be the work of William Mounsey, an eccentric botanist. It turns out he carved a few things along Eden's banks, and recently, we set out to find one of his more eloquent ones. Of course, being Welsh, it was the vague rumour of an ancient Bardic poem by Llywarch Hen that was the lure.
An old Welsh poem did seem a very strange thing to carve in deepest Cumbria, but then again, maybe not. When Llywarch was penning his words of wisdom (early in the 9th century), Wales and Northern England were linguistically one.
Mounsey carved his eulogy to Llywarch on St. Constantine's caves, a series of monastic, multifunctional cells variously attributed to meditation, storage, and retreat from the dreaded moss-troupers...hmm..

The caves themselves were a curious mix of surprise and disappointment. Others had followed, rather less creatively, in Mounsey's footsteps and covered the walls with names, italics, childlike scrawls and finally, spray paint. It was madder than the walls of a mental institution.


The final act of vandalism was sprayed right in front of William's wonderfully sonorous poem, and laid claim to the fact that members of a certain eastern European immigrant community had been there.

It's interesting to chart the way that, over the course of human civilisation, drawing things on rock has gone from the ultimate expression of a timeless sprirituality to...well...something rather less profound.

Running Through Mountains of the Mind

Andy Ramsay and some of the Leg 3 pacers

It's been said that life is really just a series of wonderful opportunities disguised as impossible situations. And as with life, so it is with running. If there was one endevour that epitomised this above all others, it would be the Bob Graham Round.

A 72 mile circuit over the tops of Cumbria's highest fells, it conveniently has the same amount of ascent as that of Everest. The catch is to complete this in under 24 hours. It is impossible, and more so, inconceivable to most. To many, it becomes an obsession. And to a few, it becomes the wonderful opportunity in disguise.

To say that this insanely long run takes it out of you might be an understatement. On a run this long, such a sustained onslaught on your system, your physical ability becomes a mere background to the current of your own thought. The mind (and dare I say it, spirit) are put squarely on the line. Anyone who's read Richard Asquith's Feet in the Clouds will know how it goes.

Seventy six years to the day that Bob Graham first set out in his pyjamas, shouldering a big bag of hard boiled eggs, Eden Runner Andy Ramsay (pictured at right, above) set off to complete the round. Armed with sandwiches (not too posh..no sundried tomatoes round here) and a lot of energy drink, he was guided round the route by a host of Eden Runners with all their hopes pinned in one place. As each leg was completed, the pacers breathed a sigh of relief and handed over their cargo to the next. There was a sense of trepidation as the Leg 3 pacers saw Andy, Robin Gillespie and Dave Owens charging off the foothills of Helvellyn. So much so that some of us decided to start the leg early in case we held him up. It all went wonderfully well, though. Even clagged in summits could not halt the Ramsay machine as Penny's supercharged navigational skills kicked in ("now...at the thirteenth cairn, we need to bear 190 degrees")...

So next time you're in Keswick late at night, and you see someone staggering on their feet, throwing up with a bottle of champagne in their hand, it might not be all that it seems... they might just have seized a wonderful opportunity out of what looks like an impossible situation. They might have just completed a BG.

Fantastically well done, Andy.

Arran's Better Half

In hot and sultry conditions we spent a couple of days kayaking down the eastern half of Arran. Well known as Scotland in microcosm, Arran's landscape has a little bit of everything. Well, almost.

Perhaps the highlight of the trip was a visit to Holy Isle. Docked alongside Arran, this mountainous little drop in the ocean is home to the Samye Ling Tibetan Buddhist retreat. It has recently been put in the (admittedly small) spotlight by sea kayakers, as some have been asked not to land by the monks. Happily, the 'no landing: retreat' signs have been removed from the lighthouse at the southern end of the island. While we were quietly enjoying the pervasive sense of peace at a discrete distance from the Buddhist centre, it seemed that the most disturbance was being caused by powerboaters driving up and down (as they do). A particularly loud powerboater dragging a sea biscuit could be heard shouting way out in the bay.
It was, though, a place of wonderful peace and tranquility, and I can't help thinking that sea kayaking is a most 'Buddhist' way of going about things. Quiet...no engines. Nothing but you and a bit of fibreglass...the mesmerising sea...a respect for everything around you...and the nothingness.

We squashed down a particularly un-Buddhist box of Viennese Whirls and went on our way. Leaving nothing but crumbs and taking nothing but peace.

It was a surprise to see a small Viking longship in a dock at Corrie. Turns out that it belongs to the Arran Viking Longship Society. It's called the Black Eagle, and it's smashing.

One thing that was sadly missing from Arran's little microcosm was the Arran Brewery. It started up on the crest of a wave which has since become a massive growth in Scottish brewing. Arran's pubs and ferries were plumply endowed with finely crafted beers- an oasis in a desert of ales, as it was a few years ago.




To cut a long story short, it turns out that Arran's bottled ales were doing quite nicely on the supermarket shelves until the price of hops went through the roof. Forced into selling to the 'big three' at a loss, they slowly but surely went under. The supermarkets don't care- they have many more where they came from. But to the Isle of Arran, it is a tragedy. It is desperate to see a line of Tennents and Guiness taps where the Arran brews should be. It's not even this that is the greatest worry. It's also what it means for the rest of the Scottish revivalists of the ancient art.

Leaving Inch Kenneth

As the road winds around the thick basalt flows of Loch Na Keal on Mull's western side, there's an isle out in the throat of the loch that is small, yet captivating.

It's bright green, and tilted slightly, but commanding in a way that is not related to size. This is Inch Kenneth. It is steeped in uncharacteristically peaceful history. Saint Cannoch made this patch of green his home, and it became a monastery. Clan Chieftains were said to be buried here when the crossing to Iona was too hazardous. We made the crossing in stunningly beautiful conditions- bright sunshine over azure blue water. We wandered through the 13th Century ruins, taking in the peace of the place.







These 500 year old engravings were once the gravestones of the mighty clan chiefs. Once again, landing in kayaks seemed to dislodge any sense of 21st Century time.

As it happens, one of Inch Kenneth's most infamous residents died almost exactly sixty years ago. The childlike, limping figure of Unity Mitford was a common sight along the shores of Inch Kenneth, and it is quite a blinding story. Always struggling to outdo her five sisters, she topped the lot of them by becoming a Nazi and entering Hitler's inner circle. At the outbreak of war, she took her pearl inlaid pistol and shot herself in the head. Having lost her faculties, she lived out ten years on Inch Kenneth before the bullet finally claimed her.

Set in Stone

If you take one of the myriad paths leading to the river Eden at Armathwaite, then squeeze between a few trees splaying their roots in the tiny gap between water and rock, you might find these unexpectedly whimsical carvings.


William Mounsey travelled the length of the Eden from its source in Mallerstang to its end, carving beautiful memories into stone as he went. One of them, I'm told, is a sonorous poem in Bardic Welsh. This one is an extract from the Compleat Angler by Isaac Walton.


The moon-like faces with impassioned stares probably pre-date William's time, and along with a large salmon carved at rest on a sandstone slab, are perhaps the work of an angler. An intriguing place to climb.

Ocean of Time

There are some places on this frenetic isle that have been frozen in time. Changeless landscapes where time’s endless chasm opens out into a breathtaking vista. Curiously, it is often easier to see this dimension when travelling by kayak. Don’t ask me why.


I’m also not sure why I was reminded of Jon Swain’s book, ‘River of Time’, when kayaking through Scottish islands. A hauntingly beautiful book centred on the lodestone of the River Mekong, it poignantly captures the thin line between Cambodia’s haunting beauty and its collapse into war-torn destruction. It seemed about as far from a trip to Mull as you could get.

On the north side of Ulva we sank into the landscape. Just two people in an ocean of time. The flat spot we just happened to camp on was the site of an old, abandoned croft. Very few people would have known about this place unless travelling by sea. Slowly, the croft grew out of the ruins. Here, the stone walls of the compact, black house…there, the shed next to the tumbling burn, everywhere the meticulous rig and furrow lazy beds once full of potatoes. Even beautiful paths carved on the steep slopes to the track above.

While a Force 5 wind blew itself out on the water, we explored inland. Time seemed endless as house after crumbling house rose defiantly out of the windswept bracken. On headlands, in bays, abandoned communities everywhere. The crofters had been here for a thousand years or more, and there was a strong sense of presence in this absence.

I later learned that the notorious F.W. Clark bought the island in the 1850s, and set about systematically ridding Ulva of its tenant crofters. Six hundred of them on this one island. Sixty people had lived and worked on the land that our feet were treading. I could touch a stone that they once grasped as they built these houses into the landscape. It was a world away, yet their presence was immediate.

The hearth inside a croft

Jon Swain’s story was immortalised in the film ‘The Killing Fields’, and in many ways, Ulva’s past played out much the same story. In fact, the parallel was eerily perfect. The same terror, destruction of a way of life, the same futility and the same timeless beauty.

Past lives, frozen into the landscape, and frozen in time.


"As I walk along these shores
I am the history within."
Runrig, Proterra

Above the Cloudbase

It's another world up here, where the cloudbase is down. In these conditions, with high winds and no visibility, we are taught the most. We have to become super-aware of our surroundings or we are lost. It's a lot to do with self-reliance, being comfortable in the hills, being part of them.

This is what it's all about. More than any of the small challenges we set ourselves, any race, any win, any loss. It's about a deep sense of belonging up here.

The Anniversary Waltz Fell Race

'Who's idea was this, then?' Runners piling up Catbells with Robinson and Hindsgarth distant memories behind. Photo courtesy of Bill aka Baggins.

With ten minutes to go before the start of the epic Anniversary Waltz, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It belonged to Wendy Dodds, one of the greatest fell-runners of her generation. She just whispered "Now, this is a real race...." before disappearing into the crowd.

She wasn't wrong. Compared to the piddling winter fell races, this was on an altogether bigger scale. No fewer than 5 summits, 3600 feet of ascent over 12 miles, this was different. Keeping what I amusingly call race pace up over this distance and terrain would take me into very different territory.

A fierce wind shot us up and onto the first, most gruelling peak, and I was two minutes ahead of last year's time. As the route circled back on itself to Hindsgarth, the wind was against us though, and this kept up most of the rest of the way, making it a tough battle of the mental over physical.

Over a welcome blob of mince and tatties after the race (food of champions), it struck me again what a nice bunch of people fell runners generally are. There's also a touching tendency to completely inarticulate understatement amongst those, generally, who are superhuman in what they do..."aye..grand..." might be the long version of what is said at the end of a tough day out on the hills...

But, I have to agree. That was a real race.

Of Men, Stones and the Feeding of Rats

When Al Alvarez eloquently summed the need to climb as 'Feeding the Rat', he probably didn't quite envisage the way it would set the paradigm for describing the compulsion to climb to the outside world. Whilst the insatiable gnawing from the inside that he describes is undoubtedly a good analogy, there's always the personal question as individuals as to why we climb. A Russian doll of enigmas that is never quite resolved.

Sometimes the rat is more bloated than hungry, and it all seems like a bit of an effort. At other times, there it is.. a circular feeding frenzy of risk and reward.

Our latest pilgrimage of the hungry rodents took us to another great swathe of European limestone: Provence. The seductive combination of hot, dry rock, wonderful food and wine was quite enough to feed any number of rats.



Of Stones and Men

Of course, the weather turned wet, and in contrast to the highly planned nature of climbing days, we followed our noses into old, medieval walled cities and let fate decide what we should see. It has not let us down so far. In the back-streets of one city, we found the remnants of a wonderful exhibition, 'De L'homme et des Pierres'. The natural masters of the trompe d'oeil, this purely French exhibition was stunning in its subtle interplay of black and white and warm limestone. Quite something.