Misty Muddles in the Mountains of Mourne

I was very excited to be part of a small group of Glossopdale runners travelling to the first FRA British Championships counter race of 2014 in Northern Ireland. I had heard the mountains were beautiful, the hostel warm and friendly, the beer cool and tasty and the disco after the race legendary. We had managed to organise both a mens and a ladies team for the race, which is no mean feat considering the weekend included a club championship counter and some nice early spring events in the Peaks. We had also picked up an interloper in the form of Rob Taylor from Pennine. Seven of us set off from Manchester airport accompanied by John S's wife Sheelagh who was en route to visit some family in Ireland. Our first big moment came in the departure lounge where we met none other than the great Wendy Dodds. I must admit I was a bit awestruck though like all the great fell champions she is a warm, friendly and chatty person happy to hang about with other devotees of her sport. More about her sage advice later.

We arrived in the dark in Newcastle, the seaside town at the foot of the Mourne Mountains, ate a Mountain of fish and chips and retired to our bunks. We heard rain battering the window overnight, a sure sign Spring had not yet come to bless us with her warm air and fine views in this corner of the British Isles.

Upon waking, many runners in the hostel, whose number included Cheshire Hillrunners, Calder Valley, Ambleside and a visiting couple from Tennessee, commented on the invisibility of the mountains. We took to studying the maps and learning bearings off by heart. We collected race numbers plus free fun-sized Mars Bar and water and prepared our kit and our mettle. Having looked at the calibre of runners on the start list I was certain of a sound drubbing, though I calculated that if I came halfway down the ladies field I would at least score a point to bolster up Caity's surefire success.

Pre-race we nervously contemplated about 1000m of climbing in impenetrable mist chasing the fastest feet in the land. We sheltered from wind and rain in a little pavilion where we spied Wendy giving advice to another lady on the correct bearing to take from the summit. "If you go on 42 you will end up in hot water, some shady terrain there. 50 is much better" 50, 50, 50 I chanted to myself as I set my compass.  A proper (but well executed) kit check and we were off. Fast climbing on forest paths which necessitated quick removal of my windproof layer. Popped out of the woods onto the hill proper and began the walk/run snaking line to the next checkpoint at an old quarry. I followed the line of runners away from the quarry, knowing still yet more steep climbing was to come. I spied an Eryri lady ahead, compass firmly in her hand, and reassured myself I was on the right line. After some more climbing and thinning out of the field it was only possible to see one or two runners up ahead in the thick mist. I asked my neighbour if he knew if we were on a good line "that there is Jim, he knows this mountain like the back of his hand, follow his yellow socks" and so I did for as long as I could. It was really very eerie not being able to see the usual chain of runners blazing the way and I had no idea how far down the field I was. Finally the gradient lessened and wrapped-up marshals came into view, encouraging us to the top and the next checkpoint. Dibbed in and turned. To see Chris coming up...I shouted encouragement but our puzzled faces said it all.

Runners were now descending by various ways. I saw a Calder Valley lady and companion with their compasses and asked them what bearing they were on - 50. Good I said, I'll come with you, I know which way to go around these boulders, I spied it on the way up. So we worked as a little group finding good rock-free lines and constantly checking the magic 50 was being adhered to. We agreed on the way down that the day was so stinky and the route so challenging, working together was a better option than racing. Soon we were clearing the steep slippy parts and dashing down boggy heather happily. We reached the taped-off quarry and cheered with delight. Now that we were out of the mist we spied runners approaching checkpoint 4 from a variety of directions, but it was no time to question it. The forest section at the end was the part I had looked forward to the most and I sped off down the trail towards it, putting a gap between myself and my erstwhile companions. The forest was a fun-park for runners - fast downhill, twisty and turney with logs and roots to leap over. I revelled in it. Reached the park and put on the gas for a last sprint and crossed the line breathless with a stitch. Alex McVey was there and I asked my usual finish-line question - Caity? How did she do? "Zoe, you're the first Glossopdaler in" No fupping way, I said!!

Post race the situation was surreal and bizarre. I cheered in my team-mates and wondered what on Earth had happened to the top names coming in behind us. Gradually the stories began to circulate.. 'ten followed Lloyd and ended up at checkpoint 2 twice' ...'reached the Black Stairs by mistake' ...'came out by the ice house and had to run back to the forest' Suffice to say the whole of the evening and next day was taken up with runners recounting either disaster or blessed good fortune (or use of noggin) and the also-rans became some of the points scorers whilst some of the champions languished with the pickings.

I am bound by sportswomans honour not to recount the hedonistic events of the evening in O'Hare's. Spring had definitely sprung in the hearts of the runners young and old and they comported themselves in the expected paganistic manner. I met a lot of friendly runners from other clubs and look forward to seeing them perform to their usual skyscraping standards next race at Pendle. I just don't think I'll be able to recognise some of them without their dresses on..

Results and photos on the NIMRA website