Skye Trail Ultra – the race

I guess to understand how good I felt taking off down Glen Sligachan that night in the pouring rain, you have to understand how bad I’d felt just a few weeks before.

I had been on my feet for 15 maybe 16 hours by this point, and I couldn’t believe how different I felt compared to the soggy, sore, slightly broken person who had arrived at the checkpoint in the Sligachan Hotel car park a little while earlier. It was so strange, but also funny, and I heard myself chuckling away inside my waterproofs, wondering what on earth people would think if they came up behind me.

I was wearing clean, dry, fresh, new running shoes. Dry socks.

My feet were dry.

Yes, they were blistered, but they were dry at last.

I was wearing my new waterproof jacket, waterproof trousers, my headtorch, my cap, a couple of layers underneath. The rain was really coming down now, but there I was, toasty warm, jacked up on tea and chips, and I felt incredible.

This was known territory now, I was 38 miles into the truly incredible Skye Trail Ultramarathon race, and I was starting to believe that I could do it after all.

A quick nosey at the race website will reveal a little more about the race, but a summary would be 74ish miles along the Skye Trail, an unmarked long distance walking route running the whole length of the island from Duntulm in the north via Portree, Peinchorran, Sligachan, Elgol, Boreraig finishing in Broadford, with a massive 4460m of elevation (that’s pretty much half of Everest).

The race is organised by a tiny team of hardy enthusiastic Scottish folk – runners, mountaineers, climbers with many years of experience out in wild places in rotten weather. Race director Jeff strikes an excellent balance between encouraging newcomers and ensuring people are aware of what they are undertaking.

Make no mistake, this is serious stuff. The race briefing was the longest one I’ve been to, and rightly so. It included extremely comprehensive verbal instructions as to the known tricky bits on the route (with a couple of locals helpfully adding their own excellent advice and lines), how best to deal with large livestock if necessary, and how best to signal to the coastguard helicopter if you needed rescuing. There are no roads or paths up on the ridge and access is tricky if anything goes wrong.

So what on earth was I doing here and why did I want to do it?

I had covered a similar distance before, at last year’s Great Glen Ultra, but on much easier ground. This race involved much more extreme terrain and much more experience and self-reliance. I’m no stranger to the hills, to big distances, to Weather and bogs and fells and moors and getting lost and figuring it out when things go wrong. It would be a massive undertaking for me, no question, but I wanted to try.

This would be a very long post if I told you the whole story blow by blow. If I told you about the drive up through the most beautiful weather I’ve ever experienced in this area of Scotland. About my recent Scottish immigrant parents sitting in the car with a road atlas each pointing out all the things we were driving past as it was all new for them.

About the utter astonishment on arriving at our Air BnB – a croft that was so far along the Lower Breakish road it was almost back on the mainland. About the good luck card and bottle of Prosecco that the croft owner had left in the fridge. About meeting up with the others for Jeff’s race briefing, and getting more and more nervous all the time.

So I’ll leave all that, and I’ll pick up with my mum kindly and firmly sending me off to bed on the Friday night, promising to make the precious rocket fuel marmite sandwiches for me, as I faffed endlessly and pointlessly over my already carefully sorted kit.

My dad very kindly drove me to the village hall in Broadford to get the 3am minibus up to Duntulm for the 5am start. He came in and said hello to everyone in the hall and then left me to it. The midges were out and he is not a fan, so off he went back to bed.

3am and the sun is starting to rise over the mainland already

At registration I caught up with Donna who I’d met at the Fling a couple of years back. And there was someone else who sounded and looked familiar – it was Barley Sugar Mike from the Great Glen last year (he was so named by me because I pinched his sweets off him when he retired at Drumnadrochit, waste not want not).

Jeff packed us all into the minibus, booted us out to locate the keys, and we arrived at the start just after 4.30. Jeff was worrying about being late, but a few of us pointed out the race couldn’t start without him or us and he relaxed a bit.

We lurked around the car park above the Duntulm phonebox waiting for the time to tick by, feeling anxious and watching the sun come up.

The sunrise was an absolute cracker. There was an incredible sense of camaraderie among this small band of folk, we all knew we were there for something special and that by the end of the next day, we would all be full of stories and we’d all have had a myriad of different experiences despite starting at the same time and place.

We wandered down to the start line. The countdown started after a small debate of 1-2-3 or 3-2-1, and we were finally off after months of preparation and many miles of driving.

Photo by Fiona Rennie

I soon met fellow competitor Carolyn and sweeper Andy, and introduced myself as I knew we’d be spending a lot of time together.

The first climb was long, hard, incredibly steep and really tough under foot, and a small part of me wondered if I’d been kidding myself about this. But the sun continued to rise over to our left, and gradually things eased off. The views across the sea were astonishing, and it felt so special to be in this place at this time in the morning. All along the ridge we could hear cuckoos and it was just magical.

Soon we were clambering over the fence and heading down to the Quiraing.

I’m glad of the photos I’ve seen from here. There was so much to take in, and I don’t really remember much of being here. Although we did come across a camera club who had come out at an ungodly hour, probably hoping to get nice peaceful pictures of the sunrise, which were of course interrupted by chatty smelly runners.

actual trails! luxury!
None of the usual race gurning. Thanks to Fiona Rennie for the fab photo!

The road crossing and water station was a very welcome sight and brief change of scenery. I refilled my bottles as there would be nothing but the slight possibility of stream water for 20 miles, and then we set off for the rest of the ridge.

Endless up and down. The torture of inching your way down some steep descents while confronted with the very visible steep ascent straight back up the next hill. Losing track of all the hills because there were so many of them and really we were just following Andy.

At one point I asked Andy which the next hill was.

I’m not sure, he said, but locally it’s known as…

Beinn Bastard.

There was a chuckle all round as we were all still in quite good spirits, and this grew legs.

I said, well if it was a proper hill, in Gaelic surely it would be the Old Bastard of Something.

Or the Old, Red (or Grey) Bastard of… Something.

Carolyn piped up, aye and there would be a song about it.

We all laughed, I laughed quite hard because I think I’d had my 9am tin of coke by now, and I’m still laughing now at the memory of this ridiculous, sleep-deprived, typical random runner hill chat.

At one point, Neil and Alex from the race team appeared saying there was a problem as someone was missing. They’d set out to look for the missing runner, and to collect Andy who as sweeper would drop back if needed. As he left, Alex helpfully reminded us we were still leading the ladies’ race, which made us laugh considering we were right at the back.

Andy took his leave, and Carolyn and I continued together. We were really concerned for the missing runner’s welfare, and we hoped the others weren’t put in too much danger searching for him.

Somewhere around the Storr just as Carolyn and I were sussing out the best route around it, Andy re-appeared. He dropped straight to the ground on his belly, fished about under the peat and produced a bottle re-filled with water. He gestured for our bottles and filled them for us – we had been starting to run pretty low so we were extremely grateful, bits of peat or no bits of peat.

We reached the last big climb over Beinn Dearg. Carolyn and I were flagging, but we tanked ourselves up on gels and set off to get it done, step by step, working together to keep our spirits up as we hoofed up the side of the hill on hands and feet and tried to avoid the looser gravelly bits. Andy said to take our time and do it in phases, even he didn’t do this hill in one go, but I really think he was just being kind.

The long descent off the ridge was utterly miserable. There were clouds of drizzle starting to pass over, the boggy tussocks got bigger and further apart and my usual cheery patter (that had no doubt been driving Carolyn and Andy up the wall) was now reduced to the odd grunt.


Finally the road was in sight. Carolyn flew off into the distance and I plodded through the softly falling rain to the Portree checkpoint where my parents were waiting for me. Also, there was Carolyn, waiting with a big smile on her face because somewhere back on the ridge, she had decided to finish when she got here.

I was looking forward to seeing my mum and dad of course, but more so I was looking forward to the can of Coke and the marmite butties that were also waiting with them.

It was an efficient stop, not unlike a slower Formula One or Isle of Man pit stop. My dropbag was waiting, I sat in the chair, swapped my shoes over and then while I nipped to the loo (and got a bit lost), Donna filled my bottles, put all my food in my bag and emptied all my rubbish.

I said my goodbyes, someone sprayed Smidge over my exposed skin, Carolyn gave me a big sweaty stinky ultra hug and reminded me I was now first lady (!!), and then I headed through the bluebells down towards the beach. Thanks Andy for warning me about Fiona lurking in the bushes with her camera, and for the suggestion to hold off munching my marmite butty for a few minutes.

I felt really glad to finally be off the ridge, in one piece, in good spirits and on the way to the next checkpoint, and I was looking forward to chef Ali’s chips at the Sligachan hotel, and to Glen Sligachan which I adore.

I ran as much as I could along the road section to Peinechorran, sometimes just a few steps before the next hill came along, and I looked over my shoulder back at the ridge which was by now covered by clouds. We had come down just in time and Andy and I were both mighty relieved about this.

We’d been lucky with our timing and made it off the ridge just as the mist came in. The rain was on its way.

And then came the path along Loch Sligachan.

Andy had warned me it was a bit stop-start along the beach, but actually we ended up on a path slightly higher up as the tide was in. This was not unlike the Inversnaid path, but much wetter, narrower, more overgrown in places, muddier and with a few crafty twists and bits of nifty footwork required in places over seaweed-covered soaking wet rocks.

Andy went slightly ahead here, and occasionally dropped back and suggested I go a bit higher and see if there was a better path further up. It was pretty soul destroying, very slow going indeed and my feet were now soaking wet and I’d started to get some blisters. At some points, we were wading rather than even walking, let alone running. I was starting to fade – I was painfully aware of just how slow I was going and I’d really hoped to start making up some time on this stretch, but it was just not going to happen.

one of the nicer sections of ‘path’

I was wearing gaiters after last year’s gritty blistered disaster at the Great Glen, and these kept out the worst of the stones, but still the blisters came. I have run many, many miles with soaking wet feet, in these shoes, and I’d never had anything like this. On reflection, my old comfy soft friendly cosy familiar shoes were actually worn out – and choosing these had been a real mistake that would cost me dearly.

As we got nearer Sligachan, I was unsure whether I could face going on with my feet the way they were. It took ages for them to heal properly after the Great Glen and it was a very painful few weeks.

But then I remembered that at Portree, my dad had produced the box of new Terraclaws I’d brought with me but had decided against back at the croft. Mum and Dad had kindly picked up all the shoes from the croft and bunged them in the car just in case, and I will forever be grateful to them for that.

I’d planned to change my shoes at Portree and then not bother again until Elgol as I knew I’d get wet feet going through Glen Sligachan.

As we got closer to the hotel, I remembered the presence of the shoe box, and I prayed Mum and Dad hadn’t taken them back to the croft.

We reached the campsite and Andy assured me that whatever I decided about carrying on was fine with him, he said I was moving well and not to worry about him as he would be there whatever. I’ve spent time with a few sweepers over the years, but this was a rather more prolonged period than I was used to and I’d been feeling a bit self-conscious about my pace. As we crossed the road into the hotel car park, he continued to reassure me. There’s a lot of bravado at the back of ultras sometimes, about carrying on regardless, and I’m glad he was so kind and listened to me without trying to persuade me in any direction. I think if I’d been whining I would have been kicked into touch, but thankfully I didn’t test that theory.

Sligachan was my first experience of a Fiona/Pauline double act checkpoint. I’ve met them at races over the years  and always swapped hellos and a bit of chat but I didn’t really know them by anything other than their phenomenal reputation.

I sat down in the boot of my car. My dropbag arrived, a blanket was put over my shoulders, and oh my goodness, it was the loveliest blanket ever. It was soft and warm and I felt like I was in a little bubble of love and kindness. However, I was also under no illusion that I was not to get too comfy else there would be trouble. I asked my parents if there was any tea, Pauline overheard and nipped off to the kitchen and I asked if she could let Ali know I was there. She came out with a bowl of chips (I’d asked Ali to keep some for me!) which I struggled to squeeze down but I managed most of them.

The very careful chivvying started in the form of a gentle reminder that time was ticking on.

I was so tired now and not quite thinking straight.

It took me an age to change into the shoes – the lovely, new, comfy, dry shoes – and I was talking to myself, or so I thought.

But, when I asked myself if I should maybe put my waterproof trousers, I’d obviously said it out loud as there was Pauline’s reassuring voice replying that yes this was a good idea as they would help keep me warm as well as dry once the temperature dropped through the night.

Same with keeping my cap on – should I swap to a buff? No, keep your cap, that’s a good thing as it’ll stop your head torch slipping and will keep the rain out of your eyes.

I said my goodbyes, trotted through the car park, crossed the road carefully and then went over the bridge towards the glen. The contrast with my previous visit here was marked – I couldn’t even see the Cuillin this time. The rain was coming down heavily, it was just about starting to get dark and it was clearly going to be a very long night.

But inside my waterproofs, I was happy, unbelievably ecstatically euphorically happy.

I had dry feet, dry comfy shoes that had nice stiff new soles, and thanks to these, I could hardly feel the rocks beneath my toes.

The path was so much drier than the last time, following a week of baking hot weather on the island. I could hardly feel my blisters and while I can’t say I ran that much, I could manage quite a march. I didn’t need to wade through any streams this time, and I had enough in the tank to skip across the rocks. This shouldn’t have been happening after 16 hours, and as I bounded along, I decided that maybe it was time to have another crack at the Fling.

I looked behind me a couple of times – I could make out Andy in the distance, getting nearer in his fetching hi vis jacket that he told me had been forced on him.

Then there was another shape too.

Head chef Ali had finished his shift and stormed down the glen to catch up and keep me company for a little bit. It was so good to see him. The thing was, as I talked and talked and was a bit giddy after all the sugar and the chips and the tea, and as I asked him about all his news, I could feel myself getting more and more tired.

I felt like a complete meanie as I asked him if he wouldn’t mind leaving me to it. I knew I would want to keep talking and sharing my race chat, but I had such a long way to go.

Of course, Ali is so utterly kind and considerate that rather than pushing me in a stream for being so rude and ungrateful, he gave me a big soggy hug and headed back.

Somewhere at the bottom of the glen, Andy suggested it was finally head torch time. We had debated and resisted as long as possible, and it felt like a defeat to finally let the day go. The night was here, earlier than expected, but very definitely here.

The arrival of the night coincided with the arrival of a plague of toads.

I’d heard about hallucinating on long races. I’d managed over 20 hours at the Great Glen last year with no ill effects so I was hopeful that I’d escape unscathed.

I had seen a few flickers down Glen Sligachan that I thought were flashes of lightning. I asked Andy if he had seen them, and he very kindly and gently said that while he wasn’t saying there weren’t any, he hadn’t seen them.

I gave in to the fact that I must have imagined the lightning.

But those were definitely real toads on the path.

Here I learned something new. Toads are like rabbits, and when caught in the light of a head torch, they will freeze. This is a nightmare when you are trying to choose your footing around them and you’re assuming they will move and then they don’t.

Just as I count steps going up steep hills, and I’d counted small stream and bigger stream crossings on my previous trip down Glen Sligachan, I began to count toads to keep my brain switched on. Counting is one of my favourite things to do on a long run and I will count anything.

I gave up counting at 22 toads and 3 ex-toads. Yes, I’m afraid I trod on 3 toads. I felt awful.

After the path started to leave the glen, the underfoot conditions got worse and worse. Muddy, wet, horrible. Andy had warned me it was even worse ahead and I just wanted it to be over. Finally we went past the Camasunary bothy and a couple of tents.

I don’t remember much of the next bit, except that it went on for an awfully long time, and my feet became more and more painful. Every time my feet rolled or I stumbled a little, I was in agony and as the time went on it became harder to cope with.

I’d stopped looking at my watch a long way back, I just wanted to get to Elgol where my dad was waiting. He’d been a bit concerned at Sligachan and decided to come to Elgol just in case I needed some cheering on (or that unspoken thing – to stop there).

Mum texted me as I was leaving Sligachan to tell me the plan, but thanks to the total lack of signal I didn’t get it for a few miles. I tried to reply while things were going well, saying to let him sleep as I was feeling good, but of course it never sent, and in the end I was extremely grateful for that.

A couple of tears started to sneak their way out along the cliff section. The pain was getting worse and there seemed to be no end in sight. Andy stopped a bit ahead and I caught up and asked how much more there was to go. He really couldn’t say anything other than, there’s still a good while yet, and I told him I’d be stopping at Elgol.

And then of course, he asked if I was alright, and I said I wasn’t, and I managed to choke down a big old sob so there was no actual tantrum visible to anyone else, just to me in the comfort of my cosy waterproofs.

We started to see lights as we came towards Elgol but I had no idea what or where they were. I’d been able to see a light from back at Camasunary and it had seemed so near at the time.

One of the marshals, Karen, appeared out of the night by one of the gates. She’d been a bit worried as it was getting so late so she had come out to investigate. She saw us and trotted off back to the checkpoint. Now that I knew the end was in sight, of course it felt further and further away.

Every step down that bit of horrible steep tarmac was horrific.

And then a little white building appeared, and a light, and voices.

I stopped after 22(ish) hours and 50(ish) miles.

There was a little hardy bunch tucked away in the checkpoint. Karen made me some tea and I sat for a few minutes with everyone before heading home. I dread to think how many hours my dad had sat there waiting for me, and how worried he would have been. I knew I would be OK, despite the abnormal appearance of a few tears there was never a minute where I was worried for my safety. This is normal for me now and all part of what I choose to do in my spare time, but this was his first time coming to one of my races and deary me, what a one to choose!

I hobbled back to the car and started to shiver once I was inside. I put my down jacket on to try and get a bit warmer. We drove along and saw a couple of people with head torches at the side of the road. One was fairly obviously Ruaridh – easily identifiable as he is so tall. He was weaving about a bit but thankfully he had some company. I contemplated stopping to see if there was anything they needed but realised I didn’t have anything to give them really, and I was conscious that my poor dad probably just wanted to get to bed. Next we saw the light by Terry and Susan’s camper van at the Blaven checkpoint. I wondered about sticking my head round the door to say hi but I was just too tired.

And then before I knew it, we were coming through Broadford, past the Breakish horse, and turning down to where the croft was. Mum was awake when we got in around 4ish. I’d wanted to clean my feet up a bit but in the end, I just went straight to bed.

I’d had strange dreams of still being out on the ridge in the dark wondering where everyone was and who had finished and when. I woke up a few times to the sound of sheep outside the window. I thought they were coming past for their breakfast but actually it was a late lunch they were after – I’d slept through until gone 3pm.

Two days after our arrival, we ended up full circle, back at the Broadford hotel but for dinner this time. Before long we spotted a very slow moving person entering the restaurant. He looked slightly familiar from the briefing, and with the hobble, he could surely only be a fellow Skye Trail Ultra survivor. We invited Michael to join us for dinner and much swapping of tales ensued.


Would I do it again? Yes I would, definitely. It won’t be next year as I have some other plans, but it will be the year after if not.

Do I regret stopping? Yes, more and more and I’m still upset about it, and a bit embarrassed too. However, the sensible side of me knows it was the right thing to save the skin on my feet for the big run in Switzerland. The only reason I had given myself permission to stop was if I felt Switzerland was under threat at any point.

What went right? Well, almost everything apart from getting blisters.

I’d done a lot of strength training all winter to survive all the elevation changes on the ridge (and to get ready for Switzerland). My legs felt amazing, so strong, I didn’t get sore shoulders, and my fitness is better than ever. My running training hasn’t been quite what I hoped or planned, but everything else was streets ahead of where I was last year.

Food and energy levels were great. I ate every 30 minutes religiously, I ate everything I took with me and could have eaten more. I’ve found my list of magic foods that work for me – bounty bars, marmite sandwiches, mini pork pies, McVities Nutrigrain ginger bakes, a few SIS gels, Lucozade sport diluted 50/50 with water, occasional mini tins of coke.

My asthma was absolutely fine, I had a few puffs on my inhaler after the steeper ridge sections and heading towards Elgol once I had started to give into feeling tired, but otherwise no problems.

All my kit was BRILLIANT and totally worth all the money I spent and the time I waited for all the prices to come down so I could afford everything without compromising too much.

Mum and Dad enjoyed their trip to Skye. I was glad of their support and while I’m not a stroppy runner, I was extra aware that I needed to be nice to them in checkpoints. Every time I see my dad he’s still talking about the race, and I caught him nosing at some of my running books last time he was at my house. We looked through all Fiona’s photos together and he had endless questions about everyone’s kit and what other races they’d done and what this race tshirt was etc. I sent him home with the Feet in the Clouds book, so who knows where that will lead.

Worst bits – struggling on the first climb and wondering if I’d bitten off more than I could chew, and that coming so early on. Worrying about the missing runner, worrying about the stress and risk this created for Jeff and the race team. Realising Carolyn was serious about stopping at Portree. The path along Loch Sligachan. The onset of the blisters. Mud at points where I didn’t expect it. Feeling the usual embarrassment about my pace and keeping everyone waiting, with bells on this time. The pain of the last couple of miles and realising I would have to give in to it.

Best bits – So many!

The joy of just making it to the start after a couple of illnesses and minor but at the time quite worrying injuries. The drive up. Staying in such a beautiful spot. Jeff’s briefing – extremely comprehensive and practical.

The start – the sunrise – the teeny band of brothers who set off into the day. Getting off the ridge. The first round of marmite butties. Finally feeling confident that I hadn’t taken too much stuff with me.

The Sligachan blanket and support and kindness and putting clean fresh dry shoes on. Tea and chips. Feeling positively euphoric battering down Glen Slig despite the pouring rain. Seeing Ali and knowing I could send him away without him being too offended.

Being among such lovely supportive people at Elgol and knowing my dad had been so well looked after. Andy’s kindness and patience and reassurance, and his ability to stay out of the way or be around for a natter, and to know which to do and when.

Jeff’s kindness and support and encouragement to come back again. The fantastic race team. All the kind words in the Facebook group during the race, which I read afterwards. The fact that no one, absolutely no one, made me feel bad or silly for being slow. No one, not at all, at any point.

If you’re thinking about doing this race, I can’t recommend it highly enough. It is not an easy undertaking, and if you are used to big races where everything is laid on and all you have to do is turn up and follow the signs, make damn sure you do some research. If you can look after yourself when the chips are down, you fancy something completely different, a bit (OK a lot) unusual and utterly life-affirming, this is the one for you.

A huge thanks to Jeff and all the marshals and race support team, and my mum and dad for coming all that way for something that wasn’t related to music or cycling. Special thanks to Karen for the pre-race calming messages!

Favourite post race snack – Mr Kipling’s French Fancies – and a huge pizza in the oven back at mum and dad’s in Dunoon



Skye Trail Ultra – prelude

April was one of the craziest months I’ve had in years.

It started in Kintyre – with a twitter buddy who I had finally met in real life, a castle, and a couple of beaches. That weekend was about getting some time away and putting the finishing touches to the gig I was working towards.

Then came the gig itself. It went really well, but the emotional intensity of it combined with the physical effect of so many late nights on the bounce left me in a bit of a mess.

Every single bit of me was absolutely exhausted.

My reward for surviving the gig was a trip to Skye over Easter weekend, the extra days off making the drive that bit more worthwhile. I had entered the Skye Trail Ultra race and I wanted to check out some of the route, but there was another reason too.

My friend Ali is the head chef at the Sligachan hotel and kindly offered some floor space almost at the bottom of the Cuillins. I’d consulted the Skye bus timetables and I had a plan all laid out to spend Good Friday checking out the first section of the ridge as far as the Storr, and then to head out on Easter Saturday to find my way back along the Boreraig beach section which I’d probably be doing in darkness.

I arrived late on Thursday night, to a huge hug from Ali and most of a bottle of red wine. It was so good to see him after so long, and it was a rather later night than either of us had intended.

Friday morning came, and I felt awful. This wasn’t due to the wine, surprisingly. I was beyond tired, and was dipping into exhaustion and overwroughtness (if that’s even a word).

Still, I stuck to the plan – 09.24 bus from the Old Man of Storr car park, get off at Duntulm, trudge along ridge as far as the Storr, collect car. The weather looked pretty murky, but it was dry at least. I arrived at the layby in plenty of time, parked up and looked up at the ridge.

The ridge was thick with mist that was boiling away down the rock formations around the Old Man of Storr. It looked thoroughly evil up there, and I was consumed with a really brief but strange sense of dread and foreboding. The best way I can describe it is like the Dementors’ kiss, and in that instance I knew that today was no day for me to be up there.

I drove a little further up the road trying to think of another plan, and cursed myself as it got clearer and clearer the further north I went. I could turn round and maybe still catch the bus, but it would be tight.

I turned round and decided to leave my fate in the hands of the bus service. If I made the bus, I’d go. If I missed the bus, so be it and I was not meant to be up there that day.

Just as I came round the last corner towards the car park, there was the bus. No ridge for me.

I thought for a few minutes and contemplated having a sleep in the car. I decided to try and salvage something, and set off to walk up to the Old Man of Storr for a bit of a look round before heading back to Sligachan to check out the Glen. I’d not seen this part of Skye before apart from driving past it, and at least it would be some good steep uphill training.

I tried to keep up a decent intensity as I walked but there was nothing in my legs or anywhere else. I got up past the Old Man and stopped for a little while to have a look out across the sea to Applecross. I’d covered about a mile and a half.

I plodded back down, not in any rush, and reached the layby which was now filling up with cars. I needed another plan, I wanted to make best use of my time here and at least see some of the race route on both days.

I’d wanted to save Glen Sligachan for the race itself – there shouldn’t be any navigational issues here, it was just one path (or so I thought) all the way to Elgol.

The words “in the shadow of the Cuillin where only footsteps can take you” I’d read in one the various race reports had filled me with excitement and anticipation when I read the race route description, and I wanted to have something special to look forward to on race day.

But here I was, with by now half a day left before I had told Ali to expect me back at the hotel. I decided to check out Glen Sligachan after all, intending to get to the beach at Camasunary and then turn back and retrace my steps – an out and back of about 12-13 miles.

I set off down Glen Sligachan. It was a good path but as promised, it was soaking wet in places with many streams to cross. I was wearing my X-Claws expecting to be up on the ridge, and they were not the thing for this path. The studs on the bottom are a little soft and very flexible which is great on wet grass and mud, but here on the soaking wet rock, I kept feeling my feet sliding about and it made me rather nervous.

The path felt far more hilly than I had expected, and I couldn’t get into any rhythm at all. Everything felt like a massive effort and I got really disheartened. This was meant to be one of the easier, flatter bits of the race route and here I was, struggling and feeling all my confidence melting away.

And then, in one of the bigger streams just before the glen changes direction slightly towards Camasunary, I felt a horrendous sharp pain in my left calf. It came from nowhere, and straight away there was this horrible sensation in the bottom of my stomach which usually tells me I’ve done something pretty serious.

Despite this (and runners will understand this although most other people will think it’s a stupid thing to do and they’d be right) I still tried to run on for a couple of steps just in case, but I was in agony every time my left foot hit the ground. It was no good, I would have to turn back, no easy feat in the middle of a stream on stepping stones when every motion sent pain shooting through my leg.

I felt sick. I’d covered 5 ¾ miles and it would be a long walk back, if I could even walk that far.

I had to walk. There was no question of it. There was no way to reach anyone to come and get me, and no road for miles. There were a couple of people a way behind me and I could see they had some walking poles, so if it got too bad I figured I could wait and ask them if they could lend me their poles.

I figured out a way of moving, slowly and carefully, with my toes pointing inwards on my bad leg.

I had to laugh here, as the usual bad leg was promoted to good leg status. I was effectively walking on half a good leg. This kept my spirits up all the way back, it really was quite ridiculous and there was just no point in letting myself get miserable. I figured it was probably going to take me a good three hours to get back so I resigned myself to it and tried to keep moving.

I decided to count the streams, minor and major, for something to keep my mind focused on rather than the pain in my leg.

Every step was painful but the stream crossings were horrendous. I couldn’t twist or flex my left foot/leg at all without feeling sick due to the pain, and the reduced rotational motion I have in my right leg meant that things weren’t great on that side either. I was really scared of slipping because of the pain that would ensue, but I was also conscious that if I didn’t try and relax, I would be more likely to fall and hurt myself even more.

I’m guilty of overpacking for long runs, and due to the likelihood of bad weather I had even more kit with me than usual. In the end, I was grateful of every last bit of spare kit as I ended up wearing everything I had and still feeling a little cold towards the end. I also ate everything I had and could have eaten more. Eventually I made it back to the hotel.

The upside of this was that I got to try out Ali’s new menu, which was launching that night. I was pretty sure there was no chance of me running or even walking the route round Boreraig beach now, so I could spend some time with Ali after his shift and take my time the next day.

The food was tremendous although I must have looked a sight limping around the hotel, and I was so tired after my rather-more-exciting-than-anticipated day out that I could hardly keep my eyes open through my pudding. I’d planned to have a whisky in the bar after, but headed straight off to the comfort of my incredibly toasty sleeping bag.

Ali came in after his shift ended, about 10.30 I think, I heard him and woke up and thought I should really say hi and ask how his shift and the new menu had gone, but before I knew it, it was morning.

I was so glad of the time with Ali. He is one of the kindest people I know, and a long time ago we were more than friends. I was horrible to him. It was too soon after a disastrous relationship I’d been in, and I wasn’t ready to believe that I was worth being treated properly. He did just that, and I was just awful towards him. We split up after a short time together, agreed to stay in touch and I hoped that one day we would meet again in better circumstances.

I can’t think of a better way to do so, he had forgiven me, I have almost forgiven me and it was wonderful to spend that time seeing his new life, seeing how much he loves his work and getting to eat some more of his amazing food.

All those years ago when I was a climber, I would never have imagined coming to the Cuillin and running past them instead of going up them, and I laughed to myself when I realised that it was 20 years since I last climbed and here I was, still kipping on someone’s floor to save money to go and play in the hills.

It was an uncomfortable drive home, but with a bit of rest my calf started to feel better and I managed an evening of incredibly enthusiastic dancing with my friend Laurie on Easter Sunday with no ill effects.

I also managed a 5 mile run with Angela on the Tuesday before seeing my osteopath Daniel who diagnosed nothing serious, prodded in some very painful places and shooed me off with the words “just keep bloody running”. I was careful on it for a few days and it started to feel better.

That is, until I got a bit carried away on the way down from Cort ma Law. I love running up there so much and was so glad to be there after a few months that I switched off completely and with the car park in sight, I jumped off a little rock on the path, just as I normally would.

There was a horrible crunching tearing ripping sensation in the same place as before, and even more pain than the last time.

The next day I had to sit down to get dressed, the dog walk was painfully slow and I couldn’t get up and down the stairs at work without holding onto the hand rail.

Back to Daniel, taped up again, still nothing major, “a divot but not a tear”, but climbing mountains in the Lake District for three days as part of the GL3D was now not a sensible option. This was meant to be my big mileage weekend before Skye, and I was doubtful that I would be healed in time.

With an empty bank holiday weekend, I headed back to Kintyre again.

The month ended as it had started, looking out across the beach towards Arran. I heeded the warnings that my body was desperately trying to give me, and I took things very easy indeed although I did manage a gentle walk along the Kintyre Way in an attempt to keep up at least some mileage.


Things kept healing and I decided to try a big run the next weekend.

My longest run all year had been 22 miles so I really needed another big one.

If I managed without any issues, Skye was on, but if not, I had to be brave and honest with myself and accept it would be yet another DNS and another year before I would get to do the race.

I was amazed to manage just shy of 30 very hot hilly miles out in the Trossachs with no pain, no twinges, good energy levels and good spirits.

Skye was on.


The hill

I’m back to proper running this week. After the Eiger race, I had a few days of no running at all and then a few little tentative plods. And then I really started to miss it, so things are back to normal.

I have a couple of races earmarked for the autumn and winter, and a couple of trips to the Lake District which are in the early planning stages.

I also have a coach who is helping me prepare for next year’s big birthday adventure. I won’t know if this is truly doable until after those Lakes trips, but given she knows how fast I run (or rather how not very fast!) and the fact that so far she hasn’t said don’t be ridiculous, I figure it’s not beyond the realms of possibility.

While I was away, I had a lot of time to reflect on my running and how I feel about myself and my body. Getting timed out during the race was not unexpected but it was still pretty tough, and for a few days after I did wonder if I was just being silly with this whole running thing. Working so hard to be so slow. Stressing about cut-offs rather than enjoying my surroundings. All my spare time and money and energy (and more) being taken up with training. Maybe I was just kidding myself after all, and I needed to find something else.

Out in Grindelwald, I was surrounded by mountains, and I felt the urge to start rock-climbing again. To stretch out and to use my body in a different way. To think about moving and striving for different things, to solve different problems along the way. My flexibility has all but disappeared thanks to the constant pounding of running, and I miss being bendy and strong.

A little voice reminded me I had seen a circus school in Glasgow a couple of years back and fancied going along. I decided this would be the first thing I would look into when I got back.

I have loved what I have been able to do so far, I’ve been a little surprised by what I can’t do (yet), and I have found something else I want to devote some time, energy and commitment to. It asks different things of me, and gives different things back, and I need that.

But after my break, I still wanted to run. There are some changes to make, but I still want to run.

Last weekend, I met a fellow small person and steady runner friend for a trip up a favourite hill. I felt stronger than I expected, and I ran more than I thought I would.

Sometimes when I am out in the hills, I ask myself whether I really do love all this or whether it’s something I feel I should love, maybe because of all the social media posts that tell us how important nature is and how we can find all the answers we need out there etc. Maybe it’s just the accounts I choose to follow (and continue to follow because I really enjoy them) but the positivity can be a bit overwhelming sometimes. The side of things that says, hills and mountains (and life itself) are awfully hard work and they test us in ways we don’t always expect, well that doesn’t seem to be such a loud voice.

But standing on the side of Meikle Bin with my friend and the canine assembly, I felt really happy to be back there, and in better shape emotionally and physically than the last time I’d climbed that hill. I did feel real love, love for that view down the hill looking out towards Loch Lomond, and that spot, and for the many happy memories of some of the people I’ve shared that hill with. Love for the life that I have built here, and for the generally sunny outlook that I am able to maintain even when the chips are down.

It was a hard run and it took a long time for my breathing to really settle down. Things have been stressful lately and my fitness has suffered a bit from the post-race break. But with about half a mile to go, when we were almost back at the car, I felt something I haven’t felt for a long time.

I call it rasp-free running, where my lungs and brain finally settle down and there is no asthmatic breathing death rattle noise and everything is in total harmony and I am just breathing in and out and not thinking of anything else apart from that.

Breathing in, breathing out, heart beating, legs moving, being a part of the scenery that is passing.

Willow, Hooch, Isla – Thanks Angela for the picture
Willow and Hooch (I’ll have what Hooch is having, he did this for ages!) – Thanks Angela for the picture

A Place Above the Clouds

January passed almost silently, and then there came a big shock. I’ve had my head down dealing with it all, and then before I even noticed, the middle of February came and went as well.

At the start of January I set out to get my year’s training off to a good start by heading up a reasonable sized hill every weekend. I finished with a hill in hand, although I’d repeated one too so really I’d call that all even.

The day before my beautiful greyhound Ronnie had his accident, I’d been up Dumgoyne – one of my local hills. It’s the very distinctive lump at the western end of the Campsie Fells just north of Glasgow. There are a few routes up and round it, with a notoriously steep track that goes straight up the middle.

I’d chosen one of my favourite running routes that day, taking the pipe track from Blanefield out to Killearn and then coming back along the West Highland Way. I added a steep stomp up Dumgoyne to collect the required weekend hill.

The mist was dense around the pipe track, but it was clearing higher up above me and in places there was a bit of blue sky peeking through. The strange Victorian waterworks emerged from the fog as I ran past them and it was eerily silent.

I set off up Dumgoyne, taking the slightly less steep side path. The ground was frozen solid in places but with patches of very sticky, slidy mud.

I almost came back down without going all the way up. My normal shoes were wrecked so I’d worn another pair that were good on grass and trails, but hopeless on mud. I lost a lot of confidence in my feet after the fall in Austria a couple of years back, and although better now, I’m still building it back up.

The reason I carried on, apart from the obvious draw of the summit, was that I suspected it would be clear on the top. I could see more of the sun as I went higher although the mist was still thick in places. Finally I was past the steepest part of the climb up and I began to make my way along the narrow path across the face and then up to the top.

As I plodded, something caught my attention to my left. I was astonished to see my first Brocken spectre – a slightly creepy trick of the light that happens on foggy days when the sun can cut through the mist.

There I was, or rather my shadow was, bathed in white light and a rainbow halo. I shivered a little bit, and choked down a couple of tears. Just in that brief moment, despite the thrill of what I was seeing, I felt desperately sad to be out on my own with no one to share the moment with. It passed, and I headed onwards to the summit.

Soon the mist was level with my knees, then far below me. As well as the Brocken spectre, I had finally bagged my first cloud inversion too. The sun was bright, I was high above the clouds now and I could see over to various other mountain summits poking out.



There were a few other people at the top enjoying the experience, and we shared laughter and our wonder at the whole thing. After a while I headed back down, slightly fearfully and therefore extremely carefully. I made it safely back to the path dodging small boys who were enjoying hurling themselves down the muddy slopes, and I continued with my run.

The next day, I had gone to visit my parents in Dunoon with my dogs.

Ronnie broke his leg chasing after young whippets in my parents’ back garden.

Sadly it was a nasty injury and with the support of my wonderful vets, I made the decision to let him go. He was very old, and he had lived out a long and very happy retirement with me. He was a dog who was impossible to love too much, and everything I gave him, he gave me back a million times over. He left the world in one of his favourite places (he absolutely adored going to the vets) and he got to say goodbye to all the people he knew and loved the best.

When I look back now to that awful day of the accident, I think of the day before, and I imagine that maybe wherever he has gone now, he has found some company and it’s like the top of Dumgoyne that time I was up high above the clouds. Peaceful, filled with sunshine and warmth and laughter. Among good spirits, and not so far away from home.



Big week

Last week was a funny old week really. Lots of good things seemed to sneak in. 

After the training lows of the week before, I was amazed to post my biggest weekly mileage since I started running. And I realised just recently that I’m starting my fifth year of running! 

I can’t quite believe where the time has gone, and what has happened in that time, and what happened leading up to that time to place me where I am just now.

But I digress.

I had some wonderful comments from happy harp listeners and clients. 

I revisited some old haunts, some favourite places to run. I discovered new places and in doing so, I found some new favourites. 

I reclaimed the Cobbler from the jaws of bad relationships past, and avoided getting myself into mischief on Saturday by going up mountains in conditions I wasn’t equipped for. 

It was really hard saying no to just going a little further, a little higher, despite the snow, just to see. But in the end it wasn’t quite so hard saying no more to the endless energy sapping boggy mush that lay between Beinn Nairnan and Beinn Ime.

A 12 mile loop around Loch Venachar was absolutely stunning on Sunday morning, and sharing it made it even better. Finding a new little thinking spot and enjoying a recovery lunch in the Brig o’ Turk tearoom might just have made it a perfect day out.


Things feel so much lighter. I have a big event coming up in a couple of weeks that I’ve been worrying about a bit, and while I still have a lot of logistical stuff to sort out, I’m starting to believe that I will be able to do it.

The bigger one is about 10 weeks away and that feels like it will be OK again too.

There’s also a holiday in the diary, and I’m so looking forward to seeing another part of Scotland I’ve always wanted to visit.

I found myself looking at places to live, just daydreaming really. But I came across a disused barn for sale for development in a perfect location. Although there were big plans to make it someone else’s idea of just so, I couldn’t help think that with a loo, shower, kitchen and plenty of hot water, it was pretty much perfect as it was. It reminded me of a friend’s workshop where I’d spent some happy times a few years back.

And there are other good things quietly going on in my life too, scary but in a good way. 

Ultra running is about many things, but for me one of the biggest is dealing with the highs and lows as they develop over the course of a long training run, or an even longer race. I accept that these are part of the game, and I’ve enjoyed learning to cope as things change over a long day. Dipping energy levels, sore legs, wheezy lungs, poor weather conditions, tough terrain, landscape that isn’t always beautiful. These all come and go, often unpredictably.

You’d think I’d have worked out by now that life is just the same, and that I really don’t need to worry so much when I find myself under a bit of a cloud for a while. 


The last few weeks have been rather more jam-packed than even I’m used to, and not with good things. Each night I’ve been arriving home utterly drained, with a to-do list longer than I can possibly keep up with.

The way forward has been a bit clouded so I’ve had my head down trying my best to get through it.

Daydreaming has been a really good way of keeping the bigger picture in mind.

Warm evenings in Alpine villages with cold beer and live music

A beautiful 1980s Mercedes SL

Deserted west coast of Scotland beaches

Flights on a teeny plane

Summit cake shared with friends

Sofa days with wet noses, tails like whips and skinny ribs

The moment on a run when the rasp from my lungs disappears

Racing the sunset home through the lavender fields of Provence

The secret whisky drinking club

Warm tarmac and tipping into Paddock Hill followed by the bounce at the bottom

Pizza, pizza, pizza

Freezing my bum off in a football stand sipping hot chocolate with my Dad

A wee restaurant that takes an epic journey to get to

An open house in the hills with huge windows and a long drive lined with Lombardy poplars, and filled with friends, food, drink, music, pets

Cycling up short sharp climbs round the Applecross peninsula while remaining completely relaxed

Freshly smoked fish eaten on the shore of a turquoise Bavarian lake




Bites, tape, yet another scar, still smiling

It feels like the midges have been particularly vicious this year. I certainly hadn’t expected to still be scratching the odd bite into November, but as I’ve learned, every Scottish ‘summer’ (haha) is very different, and the midgie level is just one indicator, and perhaps a more meaningful one than the level of rainfall or hours of sunshine. I think I was a bit spoiled my first year, as the number of bites has increased exponentially year on year since then.

As the bites fade, and the scar on the side of my leg heals, maybe it’s time to reflect on the running year I’ve had.

So far (touch wood big time), it’s early November and I’ve not had a cold yet.  I’ve not had to resort to steroid treatment for my asthma, my peak flow has remained strong, my iron levels are healthy and I haven’t bonked out of any races this year. Straight away that puts me in a considerably better position than this time last year.

I’ve run more miles, but in less races.

I had some tremendously inspirational help with my running at the start of the year, which set me up brilliantly despite me being unable to see it through. There was just too much else happening at the time, and I hope to pick up where I left off at some point.

I ran both my longest ever and shortest ever race this year. I pulled out of a race for the first time (as in didn’t even start, let alone finish). I put late entries in twice on a waiting list and managed to get in to both races. I ran an ultra for my birthday. I had a long overdue trip to A&E, this time in another country which was a first.

I did my first hill race (to say I ran it would be a bit of a fib). It was awful but I survived, met some great people, didn’t get lost and didn’t fall over. Someone on Twitter asked me to be in their relay team, I said yes and it was fab. There have been a lot of positives, and a whole lot of negatives/learning points too. However, I’ve only been out cycling once, and that is definitely not so good.

After last year, I’d got myself into a bit of a pattern of never feeling good enough just being me, and trying to fix that by always trying to do something bigger and better than last time.

Looking back at this time last winter, I wasn’t completely sure I wanted to do the Fling, but having to make a decision/sign up six months ahead meant I wanted to have my options covered. It would be a big challenge, but I was fairly sure I could do it if I had a reasonable winter. I wanted to do Loch Katrine again having loved it the year before, and I knew it would be a good long run before the Fling. Beyond that, I didn’t really know.

I helped out by crewing for a friend who was running the West Highland Way race for the first time. This was a long, tough weekend but a really brilliant thing to have done.

I thought I might go to France to do some cycling again with my Dad, but I’d learnt from the year before that switching to bike training was not compatible with ultra training and so I was wary of signing up to anything later in the year. A wedding booking meant I couldn’t do the Devil, and Glenmore didn’t appeal. I had wanted to do Tiree, but was down to be supporting at Glenmore that weekend.

A change in circumstances meant I was suddenly free to do whatever I wanted for my birthday/Glenmore weekend, so I put my name on the waiting list for Tiree, booked flights and hoped. A few days later, I had an entry.

A few weeks before Tiree, I went to the Austrian Alps for a week to stay with a friend. It should have been a few days spent recovering from a break up and exploring everything the mountains had to offer, but that all ended rather abruptly when I found myself sliding down the side of a hill and coming to a halt with a bit of tree branch stuck in my leg. I was a fair distance from my friend’s house, and took the shorter but steeper route back, covered in blood and rather worried as to the state of my leg. That was a very hard earned summit and while it was beautiful briefly at the top, the effort to get there wasn’t particularly enjoyable and proved to be another hard learned lesson. (Gory photos available on request – I had hoped for a small neat bat-shaped scar but it was not to be)

What it did do was to stop me in my tracks, and I spent the rest of the week very sore from the stitches, reading, chatting to a parrot, drinking beer, eating ice cream, eating freshly caught freshly smoked fish, being pointed it at and talked about by some German tourists and generally enjoying some of the staggering Bavarian scenery. I promised myself I would return.

sun going down on the Konigssee in the Berchtesgaden Alps. Slightly creepy being in the shadow of the Eagle’s Nest, but truly a beautiful place and a lot of thinking was done on the shores of this lake.

Six stitches, an infected wound from a bit of tree left in my leg and an enforced break from running rather threatened the Tiree trip, but in the end all came good.

a bit raggedy round the edges, I couldn’t even begin to tell you which beach this was on other than it’s somewhere on Tiree and it must have been windy because I have an extra layer on.

I celebrated my 37th birthday recovering by trying out Stand-Up Paddleboarding (SUP) for the first time the day after the race. I can strongly recommend it – gentle but focused, meditative, flowing, rhythmic and stretching every single muscle in the body. I also had my first trip on a really tiny plane.

I decided to defer my Saltmarsh 75 place. I hadn’t done enough big back-to-back miles, and after last year’s disaster on day 2 (which I still haven’t blogged about), I really wanted to do a good job when I went back. Once it became clear this wasn’t going to happen, I moved my place into next year instead.

I wanted to do something that weekend though, and there was a hill race on, a hill I hadn’t done but one that was on my list and in one of my favourite areas of Scotland where I have had some great times with some great people.

only one way to go... straight up
only one way to go… straight up

Ben Venue proved to be some of the toughest few hours I’ve ever had, there were lots of choked back tears on the way off the hill, and I came very close to a serious asthma attack. It was something that should have been well within my capabilities, but all the bad things that happened this summer suddenly hit at once and everything was completely out of control.

There was a photographer waiting as I crossed the line so I had to at least try to smile. I felt worse after these 9 miles than I’d felt after the Fling, but some really nice people made me feel better after I finished the race. They brought me cake, and made me tea, and generally scraped me up off the floor and helped me feel better. I’d always been a bit wary of road runners, having only encountered the really serious/miserable variety, but here was the exact opposite.

The after effects lasted longer than those from the Fling, and are largely responsible for the tape covering my right lower leg. I literally bashed up against the limits of my already very badly damaged right ankle for the first time in many years, and it really, really hurt to the extent that I thought I had done some serious damage.

And then a few days after, I received a message on Twitter.

Would I like to fill in for a relay team?

Hmmm…Would I be too slow?

No of course not. Just come and join us.

As a result, I had a wonderful day enjoying all the autumn colours around Jedburgh.


I found myself in a part of Scotland I’d never been to and would never otherwise have come to, I met some new people, caught up with old friends and generally made my peace with the dubious joys of social media.

I also acquired possibly the brightest piece of clothing in my wardrobe in the form of a bright DynoRod orange race t-shirt, which will be extremely useful while clocking up the miles through the long dark Scottish winter.

I’ve just put my race entries in for next year.

Many times this year, I contemplated giving up completely. Speyside last year was a real turning point, and the Fling this year was another.

Now, when I enter a race, it is truly because it’s something I want to do for myself, rather than because I don’t feel like I’m good enough in other areas of my life and I think finishing a big hard race will make up for that.

That’s not to say I only want to do easy things, far far from it.

I’ll finish with another quote, this time from Jake Humphrey:

Never sit in the comfy chair

Thanks to Fiona Keating for this picture. I had been on my feet for 14 hours 40 minutes and had just finished running the 2015 Highland Fling, still smiling though!
Thanks to Fiona Keating for this picture. I had been on my feet for 14 hours 40 minutes and had just finished running the 2015 Highland Fling, still smiling though!


A few years ago I was a Brownie leader.

For 75 minutes a week (and a bit of craft shopping/preparation time), the outside world took a back seat as 16 girls aged between 7 and 10 years old met and observed traditions that have been in place across the world for years.

It’s quite a responsibility, taking on the role of informal educator. You are somewhere between parent, teacher, aunt and older sister. Memories of my own time as a Brownie were not great, but the very fact that I remember it at all meant that I took great care of my Brownies and how I looked after them. I wanted them to have good memories of their time with us.

My first meeting as a leader was when the bug man came to visit. Within a few minutes, I had a wee girl, 9 year old E, clinging desperately and slightly hysterically to me as she was petrified of spiders. I didn’t mind the spiders but wasn’t a huge fan of the giant cockroaches. I couldn’t have let on though, so sat bravely and declined to stroke them. Some of the girls did and I really admired them.

At the time it gave my week some structure and a bit of ritual. I knew that at 7.15 every Thursday night, we would stand in a circle, link little fingers and sing the same song.

When it came to enrolment, we would sing a different song – This Little Light of Mine, with the word “Guiding” added so as to make it more relevant to the movement we were part of.

As we sung the words with new little Brownies bursting with pride and relief at having remembered their promise in front of their friends and family, I hoped they might take some of the words into their hearts and call on them when needed.

“Don’t you (puff) my little light out, I’m going to let it shine,

Don’t you (puff) my little light out, I’m going to let it shine,

Don’t you (puff) my little light out, I’m going to let it shine,

Let it shine, all the time, let it shine”

It’s really easy to get flattened by the bad things in the world, to let it crush our spirit and wear us down. To dumb down because it’s not seen as appropriate to celebrate our achievements and skills, our passions and what really makes us tick.

Doing a less than thrilling day job, conquering a mountain of debt, housework, people that unwittingly drag us into their misery and lack of spirit, bad relationships, illness, injury, fear.

When I think of my little Brownies singing that song on their special day, I am always reminded of similar words from Marianne Williamson, given to me by a dear friend and often wrongly attributed to Nelson Mandela’s presidential inauguration. They remind me not to be too shy, not to keep things hidden too much:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world.

There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.

We are all meant to shine, as children do.

We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.

It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

Over the time I’ve been in Scotland I’ve collected a few photos that remind me of what lies within, what makes me me.

I didn’t really have many before I came here. Partly because I was never doing anything exciting when there was a camera around, and partly because the sparkle had become a bit squashed and was rather too well hidden back then.

(this post is part of the DIY Creative Club September challenge, which I’m a bit behind on (!) but am using to get my writing unstuck and out of my head)

On reading

I am what could be politely described as a voracious reader. I have loved books from a very young age, thanks to my gran and my mum both being primary school teachers. The most treasured possessions I kept when my granny died were some of the rare children’s books and embroidery books that she had collected over her lifetime.

Hours can pass by, until the only thing that stops me reading is a sore neck or a dead leg.

There are several books in various stages of completion next to my bed, as I love having real books around me. (Looking at them, I’m also reminded some of them are not mine and I need to get on and read them then give them back!)

I made the transition to a Kindle last year, or rather the Kindle app on an ipad mini. I had a 50 minute bus commute twice a day, got hopelessly travel sick when reading an actual physical book, but seemed to manage OK on the screen. The bus was meant to save me money on transport, but before long my monthly book expenditure was swallowing all the savings I was supposed to be making.

It has really changed how I read. I can have several books on the go at once, never losing my page. Best of all, my holiday suitcase is now much lighter. One holiday I took Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom, which is a huge book, and several others. I read three, but had been stricken by indecision when packing so I took everything I fancied.

As well as books, these days I love reading blogs. I have many favourites, but one I return to regularly is that of Alastair Humphreys, an adventurer, writer and speaker known for many things including his #microadventure concept.

His site is truly inspirational, with several main themes – finding adventure in small ways, not spending a lot of money, documenting the journey, making the most of life, and calling out excuses. His 20 questions post is probably the one I read the most.

A couple of days ago, he tweeted a link to a piece he had written on Medium:

I read the link, I loved what he had written and it resonated very deeply. I was also on the hunt for a new book after finishing one recently, so I decided to buy his book There Are No Rivers.

Yesterday morning, I happened to read a chapter titled Flabbiness, which he has also published on his blog as part of the serialisation of the book.

It’s about going from being a bit lazy to finding your life has slipped away before your eyes. It was a particularly powerful piece for me, and it reassured  me that a painful decision made recently was ultimately the right one. There have been a couple of big adventures since, there are more to come and I can’t wait to see how they pan out.

(this post is part of the DIY Creative Club September challenge, which I’m a bit behind on (!) but am using to get my writing unstuck and out of my head)


I’d arranged to go for a short and gentle run with a friend and her dog after work. The stitches had just been taken out of my leg the night before, and I was cleared to run if I wasn’t too sore.

It was meant to be a trot down the old railway path near my house, but it was a really beautiful evening, and as the nights were starting to draw in, I wanted to make the most of the remaining light up in the hills behind my house.

We ran, walked, skipped, jumped, waded and staggered 5 1/2 miles over tussocky moorland grass (chest height in places for us wee folk), mud and impressive bogs between the Crow Road car park and the top of Cort ma Law.

We were treated to a spectacular sunset on a clear evening, and we could see the peaks of nearby Ben Lomond and the Arrochar Alps. Further south, we could see the peaks of the island of Arran.

The setting sun caught the windows of the houses across Glasgow, and we saw the planes coming in at the airport.

It was tough going underfoot and we walked to start with up the initial steep climb. But after a while, I couldn’t resist and just wanted to run.

Despite the fall a few weeks ago, my feet felt secure underneath me and I bounced happily over the lumps and bumps that make up the Campsie Fells. There are no flat bits.

I jumped over the worst of the bogs as much as I could and even when things got steeper I just wanted to keep going. My legs felt strong, and my asthmatic lungs worked hard but somehow felt even stronger.

It won’t be long now before it will be dark when I get home. But there are big challenges ahead next year, including running in wild places and dramatic scenery in dark and potentially wilder even more dramatic conditions.

I have the perfect training ground on my doorstep and I can’t wait to make the most of it.

(this post is part of the DIY Creative Club September challenge, which I’m a bit behind on!)