A running pilgrimage across Dartmoor

Our annual run across Dartmoor is becoming something of a ritual now, a pilgrimage, a homage to this wild, barren landscape, a celebration of its desolate hilltops, its bluebell-strewn woodlands, its river crossings and craggy tors.

I love bringing new people on our yearly journey from one end of the moor to the other. England rarely gets this wild, but when you live here you start to take it for granted. It’s just Dartmoor, it’s hardly the Alps. But then people from London, or even Sussex, or Hampshire, turn up and suddenly you see it anew through their eyes; such a sweeping majesty of silent, uninhabited land, dotted with rocks, clapper bridges, unexpected stone circles, and then those gnarly descents that go on and on. And all the while, barely a soul in sight, until you pop out at one of the few road crossings, to find a little cafe, or coffee truck; a welcome slice of the modern world, before you haul yourself back to your feet and carry on, heading back out, like intrepid explorers, to the wilds again.

It’s always tiring, running over 50km across such unforgiving terrain, that pushes and pulls you from side to side, constantly trying to tip you up, or suck your feet into its boggy traps. To run on it takes practice; somehow you learn to be loose around the ankles, allowing yourself to rock and roll as you go, embracing the unevenness, enjoying it, even, rather than fighting it.

Over the years I’ve definitely adapted to it. Back when I was mainly a road runner, I used to think running over these Dartmoor hills was stupid. This is not running, I’d think to myself as I’d nearly trip over again for the millionth time. But now I love it, the rattling, roller-coaster ride of it.

Of the six or so full crossings we’ve done now, this weekend’s felt the easiest. Even though I haven’t done many long runs in the last six months, I feel that ever since Ireland my body has been able to cope with the longer distances more easily, as though once I get past a certain point, some sort of muscle memory kicks in. Ah, yes, we know this. It’s OK, we’ve been here before. No need to panic.

In the past, by the time I got to the Avon dam and I was running down to Shipley Bridge - about 42km in to the run - I would be wishing I could stop there, at our final checkpoint before the finish. I would have to have a talk with myself, telling myself that I was the run leader, that I couldn’t be the one to skip out early.

But this year I was surprised when I saw that we were there already. That was quick, I thought.

(Saying that, after our stop, we set off again as a group, walking for a short section before everyone started running again. I was at the back of the group, with Dan, and as we tipped into a trot, my legs didn’t want to play - they were as stiff and creaky as boards. As we started running, Dan - clearly feeling the same - let out a loud groan and an “oh my god” that captured how I felt so completely it made me laugh. At least I wasn’t the only one, I thought.)

But the legs soon loosened up, as they do, and down the final hill, spurred on by Colin - our guide - telling everyone how I loved a fast descent, I started to motor. Two of the group, Dan and George*, buckled in for the ride, tailing along just behind me. Let’s see how fast this thing goes, I thought, letting the legs go, even faster now. The two of them sped up to match, and it felt like we were sprinting across the soft, expansive carpet of grass, barely touching the ground.

My left calf started to wobble. Was this wise? I held back a tiny bit, but then, perhaps sensing a hint of weakness, Dan sped past me. I cranked it back up. To hell with it. “Let’s go!” I wanted to yell. We were flying now. After over 30 miles of running.

But Dan was too fast, I couldn’t reel him back in. George gave it a good go, motoring past me at the death. And then we stopped, grinning ear to ear, at the final gate off the moor. What a day. What a ride.

It turned out when I uploaded my Strava later that I’d completed that final descent in the third fastest time ever (of all the people who have ever recorded it on Strava). Luckily Dan wasn’t recording it, or I’d have been fourth. Somehow George, despite overtaking me, was sixth on the all-time Strava leaderboard. My watch must have been a little more generous on the split, somehow.

In any case, it was fast. And the calf didn’t blow. I was just happy that at the ripe old age of 52 I could still run across Dartmoor - and still sprint like a loon at the end.

We regrouped and jogged the last section to the pub in Ivybridge, where we toasted a wonderful day out. Someone in the pub asked us where we had run from. Ah, what a great question, we all beamed. “Okehampton,” we said. That word alone was enough to strike bewilderment in the man’s eyes. Yep, we run all that way. And we had loved it.

* Dan and George, incidentally, are two of the other members of our relay team for the Classic Quarter in Cornwall next month. Oh, and we’ve decided to call ourselves The Dashing Dandies of Dartmoor.

***

This week I did something that felt nerve-rackingly risky. I recorded myself reading a poem and then posted it online. Despite the fact that I regularly and happily over-share details from my life - both on here and in my books - somehow sharing a poem feels far more revealing and presumptuous. It’s like I’m somehow revealing my soul. And at the same time, I’m presuming to be a poet, and taking on all that comes with such a loaded title - a thoughtful soul, someone with the artistry to distill life into small lyrical moments.

These qualms were passing through my head as I sat there recording myself. What are you doing? This is ridiculous. Who do you think you are? But I pushed through. I’ve recently started following some poets on Instagram, and I enjoy hearing their poems read aloud. Poetry works much better, I find, when it’s spoken aloud. When I read poetry myself, I find it hard to grasp. I’m in too much of a rush to notice the rhythms, the subtle pauses. I’ve shared my poems on here before, in written format, but I knew they would work better if I read them aloud. But sitting there, with the camera turned on myself, reading out my poetry, felt crazy.

I posted it on TikTok. I only had 50 followers on there, and no one I knew - as far as I knew. So no one I knew would see it, at least. I could see how it was received without having to bare my soul to anyone from my real life. At least, that’s what I thought. Until, midway across Dartmoor on Saturday, Colin mentioned my poem.

“Wait, what, are you on TikTok?” He was. But he didn’t ridicule me. In fact, he told me he had also written a poem and was in the process of putting together a film to post online (of other people reading a line each of his poem).

Somehow that gave me the confidence to share my poem a little more widely. For now, just on here. So, if you have read this far, then here it is, a short poem about running: