A winter's weekend in Buttermere

There are lots of things that Isaac and I agree on (Jimmy Perez being the best TV detective, 8pm being a perfectly acceptable bedtime and Crocs, to name a few). One of the main things we disagree on is what makes a good run.

I like hard-packed trails, solid ground under my feet, forest fire roads, walking up every single hill, long runnable descents, nothing too technical, knowing exactly how far we’re going before we set off and sticking as closely as possible to the planned route. Obviously my preference is to find all of this somewhere beautiful. Nice, hard Alpine trails are my dream.

Isaac, on the other hand, is a born-and-bred Cumbrian fell enthusiast. He likes to spend as much time as possible off-trail, soft and spongy ground under his feet, grass and mud, little techy paths, actually running up hills and then choosing a good line to fly down, setting off with only a vague plan and a loose idea of distance and navigating by (what seems to me as somebody with zero sense of direction) some kind of alchemy but he insists just involves using your eyes and your brain.

And, look, reading that back I realise I sound extremely cautious and uptight and Isaac sounds much more fun and adventurous and at one with the hills. Not untrue, I’m sure.

The result is that although we do like going exploring together, it’s very rare we both love a route. Most of the time we get back to the car, and one of us is saying “wow wasn’t that incredible” at exactly the same time as the other is saying “gross, horrible, never again”.

Living on the edge of the Lake District for the past few years, rather than say in the French Alps, I’ve had to adapt. I’ve spent a lot of my weekends wading through bogs, sliding up and down hills, navigating rights of way which absolutely do not correspond with actual paths, grazing my knees on a weekly basis and only averaging two miles an hour. Mostly I don’t mind this - it still feels good to be outside, somewhere with nice views - but only really if I’m plodding away, maybe by myself, zero pressure to move any faster.

And I clearly haven’t adapted enough - it brought me out in a cold sweat when Isaac asked if I wanted to go on a ‘training weekend’ with his fell running club. Every weekend they do exclusive hire of a youth hostel somewhere different and, although I was assured it was all very relaxed, I was just picturing trailing miles behind (probably crying) while everybody else flung themselves down sheer drops.