From Joe Morrell…

‘Wasdale’ is a word that strikes a certain level of trepidation in most fell runners, it has a reputation of being a brute, with not only 34km and 2,870m to contend with but also some of the roughest ground in Lakeland. 

As Wordsworth said, ‘deepest lake, highest mountain, hardest fell race’ or something along those lines…

The heat on Saturday the 9th was stifling. At 10.15am as I pulled up at the National Trust campsite, the car temperature gauge was reading a tropical 21°C. My good friend Lawrence McCourt, a native of the far and inhospitable Northeast was looking at me with a worried expression, “I’m gonna fry out here today!” Being a kind and loyal mate, I gave him an empathetic look and told him he should consider his full body waterproofs as a means of protection.

Wasdale FR has some pretty strict cut-off times and no room for dilly dallying and ‘enjoying’ the time on the fells. ‘Enjoyment’ is a folly strictly reserved for ramblers, apparently. After this encouraging pre-start pep talk from the folks at Cumberland Fell Runners Association (C.F.R.A), we were given the usual nonchalant ‘right go on then’ for the start. With that, approximately 180 very warm and already distinctly smelly runners went off up to the summit of Illgill head, a lovely ‘laal’ fell with it’s distinctive ‘scars’ plunging down 600m into lake Wasdale. Pace setting on super long classics is hard to judge, go off too fast and it’s not a fun experience, go off too slow and you’re panicking to make up time. 

The first CP is Whin Rigg, a couple of km’s down the ridge from Illgill, a lovely section of runnable ground. From here, as you turn to descend down into Nether Wasdale (it’s worth a look up), the whole of the Lakes, in all its glory, is looking back at you. On route down the fell, Lawrence McCourt, Simon Bell and I assembled into Ilkley formation and did our best impersonations of proper fell runners. The next few km’s over to Joss’s farm at Greendale is flagged and flat, here Lawrence overtook me with his superior running ability and I didn’t see him for a good 2.5 hours.

Next is Seatallan/ Middle Fell/ Buckbarrow or one of its many other names it was called during the day. A brutal, tussocky, and boggy climb up to 680m. I got into a good group here and found my place with a bunch of familiar faces including Victoria Thompson of Helm Hill and Paul Cornforth of Ambleside who was leading us on hidden trods and old racing lines. 

The heat really started to kick in around 13.30, just about the time when our small group was scrambling up to Pillar. Lack of salts started to take its toll here and at only 20k in, Great Gable but also cramp was on the horizon. The old Coffin route that skirts around Kirk fell was an opportunity to immerse oneself in water and many runners were taking advantage of the cooling potential. Just remember to fill up bottles upstream of those washing bodies.

The crux of the whole route is Great Gable, its dominant Western face a constant reminder of the brutally steep and unforgiving climb. A scene incredibly reminiscent of Mordor and the Frodo’s ring destruction took place, apart from it was bear crawling fell runners reaching to dib the ‘precious’ dibber. The descent from Gable to Styhead is never pretty and your choice is between bad and rough, many an ankle has been rolled on those rocks.

Lawrence’s parents were spectating at Styhead and saw my Ilkley vest. His dad threw me a bottle of water but the temperature was that of a perfect flat white, not boiling but not cold enough to quench a parched gullet. 

Up the path to Esk Hause, I caught back up with Lawrence who had done incredibly well to say that he markets himself as a middle-distance specialist. I was proud to see how much he’d improved on the big ‘sloggy’ days and to say I’d been part of the journey with him. I only nearly killed him about 10 times. Coming over the rough ground on the tourist path under Great End our little gang started to simultaneously break into a cacophony of cramp induced screams brought on by the change of gradient and the serious dehydration. What is usually a lovely runnable climb was brought to a shuffle.

With Scarfell in sight, the next challenge was the dodging of tourists who were annoyingly really enjoying the heat. After getting over this, a short and sharp balcony path down Lingmell Fell to the final CP awaited us. Probably one of the steepest descents in the Lakes, it’s a cruel finishing touch to blow your quads before Wasdale campsite comes into view. I was too tired and dehydrated to care about Lawrence’s screams of cramp pain and I crossed the line in 5:08. Billy Bland had already been home, showered and had a cuppa at this point, as his incredible record of 3.25 set in 1982 still stands. 

A classic fell race ending with a dip in the lake, homemade sarnies and a catch up with familiar faces. That’s some of the many the reasons why we love this sport; no thrills, no medals, no pat on the back, just a brownie and a few good memories.  

Beautiful, brutal Wasdale didn’t disappoint. 

166 started 

42 DNF or missed the cut-offs 

Men’s Winner:

Philip Rutter 3:56:38

Women’s Winner:

Victoria Thompson (25th overall) 4:57:39

Ilkley:

Joe Morrell 29th – 5:08:00

Lawrence McCourt 31st – 5:08:26

Simon Bell 39th – 5:18:20