Peaking

Ironically, I saw on the OS map that we passed Simon Fell as we peaked. And we peaked three times in twelve hours. In near perfect weather, pretty much everything in moderation without any torrential rain, hail or snow. In The Yorkshire Dales National Park, some of which was moved to Cumbria, all of which remains in the north of England. No one left behind. No traumas brought home.

The challenge started at 7 am, from Horton-in-Ribblesdale where noise abatement considerations preclude earlier departures. We set out for Pen-y-ghent (694 m) in a conga-like line of several hundred challengers of all ages, shapes, sizes and purpose. We fourteen plus two guides from Maximum Adventure melded indistinguishably into the hordes. Said hordes were relatively well disciplined, discarding little waste other than losing hats and ziplock bags to the crosswinds and generally lining up patiently for the more vertical bits. Our guides reminded some overly enthusiastic folk that scrabbling above us risked dislodging rocks or sliding down onto us. My thoughts were darker; along the lines of 'If I survive you knocking me over, I will hunt you down'. A group of dentists from Leeds sportingly yielded space to me on the ascent of Pen-y-gent when I asked for a bit more time and showed them the scar I was protecting on my left hand. Guide C and I were discussing the 320 million year old cyclotherms underfoot, the alternating layers of limestone and grits that resisted recent glaciation and form the distinctive flat topped peaks, the mountains of our challenge. Ninety minutes into the hike and we were lined up at the wall on the peak for a team photo, in a gap between mists. Not too bad at all; so far, so good.

The second peak at Whernside (736 m) was a long way off; about 19 km and five hours away in fact. Much of the boggy portion between the first two peaks is paved and more paving is being added, all needed to limit people to a track and reduce the erosion due to the several hundred thousand who trek here annually. We crossed steams and walked beside dry stone walls and passed typical Dales stone houses. We stopped en-route for twenty minutes at the Ribblehead Viaduct for a bathroom break in the Station Inn, hot soup for some and generally, to take a breather. I often wonder what other people think about on treks like these. I wondered what it was like living in shanties during the four years of viaduct construction, especially when you know around a hundred were killed in workplace accidents and that smallpox was endemic. And do many folk notice (or care about) the impressive glacial drumlins that fill the valley? And on and on we went, alongside the aqueduct that takes a beck (the Force Gill) over the railway with a view to the entrance of the famous Blea Moor tunnel, up to the Force Gill waterfall and then up Whernside proper, a rounded mountain that is both the highest and least visually impressive of the three peaks. We lined up again for another team photo, this in strong crosswinds that somehow thickened the mist; 23 km and 6.5 hours done. Coming down from the plateau of Whernside was tough, along the sometime walled border with Cumbria and then precipitously down into the Shake Holes area but the weather was pretty much perfect and so it was nothing like as treacherous underfoot as wet limestone can be (and would have been if we'd walked 24 hours earlier).

We crossed the valley of the Winterscales Beck towards Ingleborough (723 m), the third peak, stopping for thirty minutes at Philpin Farm for tea, ice cream and a change of socks (at least these are what I enjoyed on that break). I was getting intermittent messages of encouragement, when mobile coverage allowed, via text and Whatsapp as Walkmeter was broadcasting our progress to friends and family across the world. Guide C rightly chastised me for 'being like a teenager' reading a message, I thought safely, being on a flat grassy bit; I was risking a tumble I couldn't afford (and nor could the team), mea culpa. As an aside, in a truly extreme example of mobile madness, I saw one young woman in trainers shouting over the wind to a tablet-sized video call as she stumbled over limestone cobbles in the mist, just a few metres from the top of a cliff. Ingleborough was the hardest peak for me. By far. I found the ascent really challenging. I was neck-tired from the concentration it took to visually spot the best place for each footfall - normally, this is pretty much autonomic but not when you are consciously protecting a recently repaired hand. Also, much of the blocky scramble was on my left side and I was having to steady myself with my good, right hand, while making very large steps up. Guide C and team mates, BA and AF really helped just by staying with me. And on arrival at the table-topped summit, Guide M walked me across to the peak for the last team photo, another misty mountain trophy. Ten hours and 33 km done, it was a trifle dismaying to accept what we already knew, that there were still two more hours to walk back to Horton-in-Ribblesdale. And so, for the first time, our team split into two, seven hares deciding to run to the pub (or so they said). Us tortoises still made it in twelve hours, just, enjoying the delightful evening sunshine as it brought fields to light and warmth to our faces. And we'd only needed our rain gear twice, for nothing more than short lived drizzle. Hurrah.

Ribblehead Viaduct

There are many memories and eventually, our photos will supplant them. As RN said, 'The memories of these challenges go on for ever - just like the last few miles'. Or perhaps SZ, 'it was the last 23 miles I struggled with most'. Meantime, in summary, this was a great walk, a fine challenge and despite it promising to be the hardest of the four I've done over the last decade, it was the most satisfying. The difference? This was the only one that didn't involve sleep deprivation. And our guides, M and C, were fantastic. They paced us well and circled to rescue any who became dispirited, and not just folk on our team. However, having experienced guides is about the security in case of accident or emergency. And having a reassuring safety-net to promote self-confidence.

There are several serious aspects to these challenges. In our case, we raised a lot of money for Care International (you know who you are and we are exceedingly grateful for your support). And the success of our fund raising was really put into perspective by some of the conversations I had with other groups out on the trek. There were an incredible number of motivations for their pilgrimages. Charity fundraisers for poverty, cancer, the children's hospice. Memorial walks after loss of family members or loved ones. A temple of Sikhs, a practice of dentists, a union of students, university challenge, all team building. Family outings for significant birthdays. A sober stag group. Reunions of all sorts; some said army, some said a get-together of former work colleagues. One group said they were on a corporate spirit weekend but I think we call that Corporate Social Responsibility, which is why we were walking. And I'm sure others had lots more reasons besides. The scale of it all is quite impressive. Imagine that we 14 averaged 60,000 steps each, expended about 3500 calories each and took not just three days in travel and trek, but maybe averaged 100 hours training beforehand. Our partners, spouses, family, friends, colleagues, employers and supporters deserve at least a moment's consideration. We, none of us, did this in a vacuum. And we, each of us, spent a small fortune on boots, socks, back-packs, poles, waterproofs, snacks, water-bottles, vitamins I and P (ibuprofen, paracetamol), sudocrem, knee braces, compeed and maps, gadgets and batteries. And they say a quarter of a million people will set out to do The Yorkshire Three Peaks this year. It's quite fantastic especially since Level 4 fitness is needed to conquer The Yorkshire Three Peaks (same fitness level as Mont Blanc and Kilimanjaro). Some readers might like to know that the annual Yorkshire Three Peaks Race attracts runners who can complete the course in approximately three hours. I'm pleased that we took the twelve and because of that, I feel less fatigue due to taking one hour at rest stops. Rather than a medal or a certificate, I have a flat cap, and to quote from colleague JB, 'I'll always wear my flat cap with pride'. Twelve hours was the perfect time to spend on this challenge.

And here's the link to the final map. Some might say that I owe my sponsors 100 km in training walks. I say I broke my hand four weeks ago and I'm delighted to have been fixed and able to complete the challenge at all. Including the challenge itself, I did 44 walks in total, and it took 100 hours to cover 447 km. Thank you all, sponsors, team mates, guides, physiotherapists, surgeon, friends and family.

And finally, the remainder of the string of (disjointed) notes from my phone:

Who'd have thought you could assemble a team of fourteen with everyone having unique initials? BA TB PB JB AF HG MJ SK RN SR MS PS PT SZ

Our guide M has done both Mont Blanc and Matterhorn.  Our Kiwi AF was discrete in her celebration of the ABs defeating the Lions as we walked. Our American HG took great photos in his new clothes. Our IT savvy Scot MS shared a host of new gadgets. Our Cornish delegate BA ate pasties and wore shorts that earned him a mild hypothermia. Our co-driver JB forgot to bring a tie for the designer shirt worn on the mountains. The Canadian PS sliced and diced a toe only days before the trek.

Who knew phones were for streaming anthems via Deezer into blue-tooth boomboxes inside reverberant minivans? Prince Kinks Dolly My Way with Rocket Man.

Seasoned trekkers talk of anti-inflammatories and pain killers in tablet / caplet count to avoid admitting to self-medicating by grams rather than milligrams.

Time for a few top tips. Always turn off the taps in your hotel bathroom if plumbers are adjusting the mains water supply. Baby food pouches are a great way to keep hydrated and nourished - Ella's Kitchen red, yellow, purple and even green ones worked for me. As did putting sudocrem between my toes before the walk. Professional guides M and C from Maximum Adventure were just that, professional.

Hadrian's Wall was suggested for next year. Please count me out.

Fell

With optimism and inclination to determination and my summit inukshuk.

Welcome to a right handed blog post. It's one handed because I broke the other one. I stood on a tussock in a boggy patch among granite boulders and it gave way. I went over, skinning hip, hand, head and knees. And fracturing a metacarpal base.

As the nursery rhyme goes:

Hands, knees
and boomps-a-daisy
what is a boomp
between friends
Annette Mills

Going back in time, the day had started so well, I'd driven to the car park in Glenmalure, a beautiful morning, windows open, music from the XX reinforcing the majestic views, especially along the Military Road from Laragh. I got a text at the start of my walk:

Hope you have a lovely walk

To which I replied

Thank you. I'm just starting 0750. Beautiful here but no mobile coverage.

I didn't know I had the whole mountain to myself. Apart from the sheep, larks, meadow pipits, hooded crows and some Sika deer. The only signs of humanity were the occasional jet trails far above in the azure skies. Indeed, vertical visibility seemed so much more than haze limited horizontal views. Of course humans have long shaped this area; I was on roads and tracks, among fenced Sitka spruce plantations, seeing tagged sheep with red and blue dyes of ownership, modern hiking boot cartouches in the mud, the adjacent Glen of Imaal military firing range warning signage; but there were no other folk around as I headed up Fraughan Rock Glen. And vertically, up past the waterfall beneath Ballinaskea. I'd been here often before, the last time was in 2008 when I came on a family excursion. And the time before that, it was for a 30 km hike. But this time, I only had time for a four hour round trip hike, so I was headed directly to the summit of Lugnaquilla. And I'm not as fit as once upon a time, but getting fit, that's the point. 

I recalled the last time I got lightheaded and puked was 60 km into the 100 km Oxfam Trail Walker on the UK South Downs,  seven years ago. Then, I was very fit but had too many 'energy' drinks and supplements; sugar was the enemy. This time I reminded myself that I only have a month to get fit enough for the Yorkshire Three Peaks. So, I simply had to reach the summit. I rested several times, rehydrating, recovering among the meadow pipits, them saying 'sweet-sweet' when perched and keeping an eye on me, in between their normal business activities, which mostly involved flying up directly to a great height and dropping like hang-gliders, trilling exuberantly on descent. Lovely to watch.

The ascent from the valley of the Glenmalure River to Lugnaquilla feels like the inverse of a volcano climb. Volcanoes get steeper with altitude. The bits on the Lug that feel steepest are lower down, the final climb is along a broad shouldered plateau, popular with sheep. There's a good description here. The point is that I knew how it would end if I could get up to the shoulder. So I persevered, perhaps a bit too fast, perhaps more mindful of the limited time rather than accepting fitness limits.

Once up to the shoulder, I hiked quickly across to the summit where I took in the views, made an inukshuk on the benchmark atop the cairn, took a few photos and had a snack in the refreshingly cool and surprisingly strong wind. Surprising because the hike was otherwise windless.

Then I headed back down, retracing my steps. And took a tumble. And in taking the tumble, I realised, even as I willed myself to be unbroken, just how exposed I was. I found myself speaking out loud for the benefit of the onlooking sheep. I was otherwise alone. On the Lug. Madness. I felt my iPhone digging into my pelvis, stood, checked and saw 'no coverage'. Bottles of Lucazade and orange juice had popped out of the backpack's external pockets. The mouth piece of my Camel-Bak had somehow joined them on the ground. Contused on bony corners, and bleeding from other places, my left hand didn't feel normal as I reached down to pick up the jetsam. But I was standing and everything else felt normally connected. Lucky. Annoyed but lucky. I told myself to feel very lucky. But I was worried that I'd broken my hand. And worried that I was five or six km from the car park. And there was no one in sight.

I walked on down and was only troubled on the descent around the waterfall, scared to fall again. First time I wondered about walking poles in years - said to spare the knees and make you think and therefore be careful on the tricky bits - but despite having two sets at home, I've never got comfortable with them. Are they an age related necessity?

And yet, I got to the car park in half the time it took to summit. Where I saw my first other people, a family group who had just arrived. They asked about local loop walks and told me they were seeking a one hour hike, practice before a 120 km walk in June on the last part of the Camino de Santiago. By now, my hand felt broken as I struggled to remove my hiking boots. And I can paraphrase what one of the Camino group said of my hand, them summarising a poem read the night before, you're not living if you're not getting knocks and scrapes. And a corollary I overheard ascending Ben Nevis in 2008, on the day of the annual Ben Nevis Run when I was doing another Three Peaks Challenge - the seniors (70+) were descending, two in conversation, one carrying bloody stigmata on knees and palms, he shouted "I'm getting so old that if I fall again, I'll give up fell running". 

The car is automatic and together with Tom Petty anthems, I drove home. I convinced myself it was a sprain until the next dawn light forced me to consider swelling as an indicator of fracture.  X-ray and CT scans confirmed and imaged the damage. Left fifth metacarpal fractured at base. Pinning may be required. And while telling tales of woe, last year's factor 50 sunscreen failed to protect my face and ears.

Four hours, 14 km, 770 m up at 21C. I wonder will I be able/allowed to do the Yorkshire Three Peaks in 26 days time? Our sponsorship status is here.

And by the way, here's something lucid and brilliant I read while in the emergency department.

Wysis

I walked through Henley-on-Thames a few years ago and spotted Isis House, an old name with a new connotation. With a bit of internet searching, I gleaned that Tamesis is an old word for Thames and the shortened versions Wysis or Isis are in common use among rowers. Which gave me the idea to visit the head of Isis.

A few months ago, I was lucky enough to read Thames Way by Diarmuid Fitzgerald, a book of haiku and tenka inspired by his walk from the Thames Barrier to the head of the river. I have less time than needed to begin at the sea, so I thought to start near the Cotswold Country Park, and maybe make it a 25 km round trip and leave the other few hundred km for another life. And then this weekend became 'free' so it was time.

I spoke notes into my iPhone as I walked from the Saxon town of Ashton Keynes, mapless, reliant on the Thames Way signage. A lone cuckoo calls. Coot, mallard, pheasant each reply: no competition. Later I noted The damselflies here. Sheep bleat where Isis springs, swans groan, content. I was trying to keep Fitzgerald's excellent haiku in mind, hopeful of being joyously unlost, finding inspiration for my own thoughts. But in truth, I was bored by the riverside flatness after just a few kilometres. And I made a few basic orienteering errors, bringing new life to one of his haikus.

in the marches

without my map –
joyously lost

Diarmuid Fitzgerald

So I snapped photos to capture ideas and memories for consideration later. 

One of my navigation errors was a classic. I'd digressed to Kemble to see a Norman church door but my arrival coincided with a mass exit from Sunday services. Standing in my hobo style walking gear, surrounded by tied and frocked worthies, I asked for directions to the river. Not so much the penitent's selfless request of "Where should I go now?", more like finding the inside track with "What's the quickest way back to the river?". They smiled tolerantly. "You won't find water you know." "You do realise it's an hour to the source from here?" "There's nothing to see other than a stone."

Resolute and sensing a little condescension, I overlooked a personal workplace mantra, "Trust, but verify." I failed to verify and it cost me at least five extra km because Mr Betied Worthiest said left was right. And he meant my right but called it left because it was behind him as he faced me. And the curve he suggested I took did lead to a bridge but it was a railway bridge that led to a PRIVATE trail. A map I saw later confirmed the road curved in the other direction too, before meeting a bridge across the river. And indeed, that was how I made the return journey once I visited the head of Isis.

I'm a bit ashamed at the number of mistakes I made. I've come to expect signage on national trails and I adhere to the principle that you don't change bearing until the next sign. Walking until the next sign isn't reliable even on The Thames Way National Trail. But I was tired after walking 20 miles yesterday. And prone to errors. Only now do I accept the sign reading "you're crossing the river Thames" was an admonishment rather than a direction - and the Thames paid me back for crossing it. I noticed potential for other forms of payback too - the Lower Mill Estate is actually lower than the lake across the road. And I crossed from Wiltshire to Gloucestershire, where new roadside signs confused me. What exactly does Quiet Lane signify? There were sheep bleating and the first sign I noticed was underneath crackling and popping electric wires draped from ugly pylons, these all under a busy flightpath for light aircraft heading to the nearby Cotswold Airport.

And in Kemble, silent Lycra clad, bike borne assassins kept me vigilant after some lessons yesterday in Box Hill. Had I witnessed both Giro de Box and Giro de Glox? I could see big, partly scrapped planes at edge of the airfield from down in Kemble. 

What's the meaning of Keynes (pronounced 'canes'? Milton Keynes ('keens') is one example but it's a long way from here where there are Ashton Keynes, Somerford Keynes and Poole Keynes. I read that Somerford Keynes was where beavers were re-introduced to Britain about ten years ago.

I made it back to Ashton Keynes, walking at a purposely sustained pace of more than 6 km/h for the last 8 km. From there, rehydrated, I drove to see some extraordinary pieces of glass in the studio at Avening Glass Art. And I know the folk there so they let me shower and then they fed me. Excellent sponsorship, thank you. 

In summary, I covered some 27 km in five and a half hours. So I was pleased to have walked 50% of my goal for May in the first week. Now, here are some scary aggregated stats to ponder. I've spent 73 hours walking on 36 walks and covered 336 km which is 67% of my goal. And I blog the walks, and each blog takes about an hour, so I've dedicated at least 100 hours to training so far. That's already 8 times the duration of the Yorkshire Three peaks itself. At this rate, I've another 50 hours to find. So, please help us help Care.

Neodymium

After a small tray of sushi and a cup of chicken vegetable soup, we took a 5.5 km walk along the Grand Union canal, dodging overgrown hedging blowing in the gusts of wind. Our discussion covered house prices, tenancy and repossession stories. We also covered the ITV program last night that asked How Safe is Your Pension. Pension fraud is rampant - something the UK government has been slow to address. Meantime, some 11 million people are targeted each year by pension scammers. It's not a simple story. Pension deregulation in 2015 was but another step in the continuing asset stripping by government of cautious savers. It's as if the government are becoming the farmers who intensively farm cows, chickens and pigs, rather than let them roam free range. The wealth in pensions is being redistributed to benefit the masses at individual expense.

Snapseed has added a double exposure option which is how I combined the mallard family with a road sign.

We met a man magnet fishing under a bridge on the canal. He was casting and dunking a strong magnet from the tow path into the canal. At first, I thought it was a hook and asked what he was looking for. He showed us his haul for the day so far: a boat hook he was convinced was over 100 years old, a sword blade, some old bicycle parts, odd scraps of iron from cars and boats. He'd also lifted a bag of at least ten unused shotgun cartridges. We left him as he was lifting some more iron and I could see he was using a neodymium magnet - small and very powerful. Did you realise that there's about a kilo of neodymium (Nd2Fe14B) in the electric motor of every Toyota Prius? Don't panic: rare earths should be have been called diffuse earths because there's more Nd than Cu accessible to us on this planet.

Today I learned of a new word to express something I knew but could only describe with a pen and paper. Boustrophedon describes the surveying system used for land grids in most of the US. Positions on the grid can be hard to visualise for the nonprofessional. Ox turning for ploughing is the etymology and it described an early way of writing such as found on Mycenaean tablets from Knossos (Crete), a script form called Linear B. Printers tend to be boustrophedous, the head printing in one direction, then backwards in the other. 

The chart below is the order of our Yorkshire Three Peaks walk. The steepest bit is first. Aarghh, our rucksacks will be heaviest for the steepest bit. I'll have to practice now as if it was the real walk. I'll have to pack everything I'll carry at the start of the day. Spare socks. Survival blanket. Tissue. The camel-bak. Perhaps a spit roast chicken (joke) or whatever I intend to eat on the day. Like a refugee, everything on my back except not like a refugee at all (let's face it, I had sushi for lunch). Care sends packages to real refugees and others in crisis. That's the point. Please help us help them by sponsoring this challenge using the link at the top of this page.

Burgundy

This morning I woke to a dawn chorus like I don't think I've heard before. Breakfast and then I walked along the disused railway from St Desert towards Buxy and up to Rosey, some 7.5 km. The disused railway is really a cycle path, flat and a bit boring being also boxed in by hedgerows. And those hedgerows are at 10:30 in the morning absolutely full of birds singing, calling, trilling under high-pressure blue skies; it's a beautiful day and it feels like a world apart from the rest. You would never know that fascists and comments are vying for power via the ballot box, today the first voting day in the French presidential elections.

There were lots of Charolais in the fields, not surprising since we are only a few kilometres from their origin at Charolles. The vineyards of Givry, think Premier Cru (Côte Challonnaise), are visible to the north from Rosey. So many well manicured towns here. And so many second homes. 

As to the rugby, we were a bit late to the start due to traffic, much like Leinster themselves. Ten down as we reached our already occupied seats; we had heard all the scores as we circled the stadium looking for the right entrance. The carnival continued and that brief period of yellow shocked quiet in the second half, before the TMO broke our hearts, was reason enough to have traveled so far.

We lost. but we lost well. And they won and of all the teams in Europe, their fans are reason enough not to begrudge Clermont yet another shot at their first European Rugby Cup title. Their opponents are a good second reason to support the "lions" slayers. A tough ask, I don't see Clermont beating Saracens but we can hope Ici. Ici. C’est Mont-ferrand!

I think it's OK to have digressed to Lyon for this post because after the game we rented bikes and cycled some 8 km around the two rivers and old town. After this short cycle, perhaps foolhardy because my knee had been quite sore earlier, it stopped hurting. Nonetheless, I'm taking a few days off to recuperate.

It's 235 km walked in 28 walks taking about 50 hours. So projecting this average pace to the Y3P, where degrees are C and distances imperial, the 25 miles should be achieved in well under the mandatory 12 hours even allowing for those three peaks of Pen-y-Ghent, Whernside and Ingleborough.

Hurrah, we've raised 65% of our £5000 target. Could it be your time to sponsor us here?

Overweight

I woke up to the start of March worrying about The Yorkshire Three Peaks. The event is on June 24 and time is compressing. My concern was that I pledged to walk 500 km in training as a fund raiser.

Then I weighed myself and found no comfort in being 9 kg over ideal. I recalled the mind altering book 'The Things They Carried' by Tim O'Brien from the 1970s. Inspired, without intending to trivialise the sacrifice of soldiery, I found another purpose for half of the books in the bedroom, books also in mind because tomorrow is World Book Day. I collected and piled them on the scales until their weight allowed me visualise my excess. That's a 60 cm tower of books. I really need to keep walking.

So I took a lunchtime walk, choosing a route I'd blogged in April 2010 for another challenge. This date I know with precision because I still use Walkmeter on my iPhone and the track is still stored there all these years later.

There was a great variety of scenery with lots of chatter from hedgerow birds. In Harefield Place between the lakes, long-tailed tits were mobbing a jay. And the waterfowl on the lakes and canal were in courtship. I even saw two swans going through the entire ritual on the canal - fascinating and so elegant.

A few observations I dictated to the phone as I walked along The Drive - a road naming pun (?) leading to the Uxbridge Golf Course, passing Harefield Place and the former Blockbuster HQ, now being block busted, judging from the demolition advisories, four years after video streaming killed their rental business.

6.5 km today which leaves me 470 km to walk which is about 115 km per month. While nothing is impossible, some things are unlikely.