Pen Trwyn Patrol....1983

John Redhead on Bittersweet Connection.Original Photo Keith Robinson/JR Collection.

When the rains came central Snowdonia might lay cloud banked and brooding for weeks on end. Its inhabitants displaying a type of innate pagan madness rarely seen in city dwellers; at parties people quasimodoed through slate lintelled lime washed doorways, questing along uneven passageways- searching out warmth from the hot knife stove.

Teams looking for rock action migrated from Llanberis to escape the debilitating drizzle, taking solace at Tremadog or Gogarth and whilst each of these enclaves retained a particular allure there was a growing realisation amongst climbers that the limestone crags surrounding Llandudno’s Great and Little Ormes situated within what Andy Pollit called ‘the rain shadow’, had slumbered largely unnoticed since the 1970s when some spirited exploratory probes where instigated by the Rev Bob Shepton and Rowland Edwards respectively. In particular Edwards’ routes on the Little Orme including Detritus and Wall of the Evening Light although largely aided, these where unquestionably big adventures. Out there on guano lashed 100 metre or more sea cliffs beyond the ken of twitching net curtains on local housing estates. At times alone except for the changing tide.

Looking in from sea it would become clear that the Little Orme crags rise dramatically from undercut caves towards grass embossed summit slopes reaching termination at a forlorn lookout bunker. They are, it would appear, colossal in comparison to the crags of the Great Orme maybe a mile a way to the right, yet this contradiction in terms is subdued in part when the eye rest on Castell y Gwynt nestling aloof in steepness sandwiched between almost vertical bank strata, off sided below the lighthouse.

Here Edwards embarked on a mostly free climbing campaign producing the spectacular New Dimensions with a few aid points before freeing it in 1976 at E3 5c 6A. Before this came Central Pillar in 1972, which eventually gave Ron Fawcett a testing E6 when he freed it in 1983. In 1977 with Paul Williams came Psychic Threshold. Again with a few aid points which when eliminated by visiting Australian Kim Karrigan in 1981 weighed in at E5 6b. Taking a continuously overhanging prow defining the edge of the buttress this phenomenally impressive route was thought E10 for position. For those who valued such positions the Gwynt exerted a magnetic pull drawing those with the necessary credentials in technique and psyche to further extend the Gwynt’s repertoire.

There is a photo a lean man in Helly Hansen fibre pile and EBs, bearded, his countenance reflects concern, the torso almost horizontal he is reaching over a roof high on the crag. Seldom seen, this image was taken in September 1979 by Keith Robinson and shows John Redhead on the second pitch of The Bittersweet Connection. That same autumn this team- on occasion accompanied by the Buddhist chanting of Malcolm Boater- also climbed Plas Berw another E5 on this steep testing ground which as the year rolled over into the 1980s firmly cemented the crag’s reputation as one of those places that went to the heart of the matter, which despite varying amounts of fixed gear could in any way be confused with a sport climbing venue. Such a factor could be easily discerned by standing shivering below New Dimensions in a light rain, taking care not to glissade wet grass slopes below the towering world of elephant tufas and confusingly angled grooves.

Such a slope, it should be mentioned, appears to end in an abrupt horror drop whose termination although concealed from sight nevertheless further imbues an all ready charged situation with an initial sense of lurking fear, especially if considering climbing here in less than ideal conditions.

If you were the type of climber daunted by high E grades but still comfortable within the VS range, it is likely you would ignore the Gwynt and gravitate towards The Little Orme’s great zawn in pursuit of imagined lengthy slab climbs (as long as Cloggy’s great slab it was said) since by the early 1980s Roland Edward’s interim guide, innocuous enough in it’s green cloth cover, presented such offers. One route, Rabble Rouser, involved the climber in depths of unstableness rarely plumbed, and after committing to marginal unpleasantness shared with the first few pictures of the great flake, becomes a sustained unrelenting grass nightmare where, despite it’s intention, the original description seems reluctant to divulge information. Looking up it could just be that the ground above appears so uninviting that it is difficult to match reasoned documentation with territory encountered by the eye.

Experience on this territory requires a certain type of mindset and a great deal of steadiness by both members of the party lest the outcome descend into quagmires ordained by awkward retreat. It seems just to balance any merits apportioned during overall ascent if indeed they exist so that in so far that Rabble Rouser is concerned it might be said that all action takes place in a fantastic situation with degrees of exposure well loved by most exponents of this remarkable craft, yet here the plaudits end, and when embarking on pitch six I recall that we had recourse to using a peg hammer as if it were an ice pick, since in order to ‘send’ the last forty metres it seemed in survival’s best interest to treat the green severity now confronting us as a hybrid ice climb which when considered in the amber glow of hindsight, would probably benefit from the grade of hard very marvellous!

In essence it would be the places in between Little Orme’s adventurous great zawn and Great Orme’s wind blasted gothic sentinel at Castell y Gwynt which would receive most attention and occupy the thrust of much single pitch and new sport climbing on the Ormes in the 1980s. Entering climbers’ psyche most immediately in the form of Parisella’s Cave, Pen Trwyn and then of course the underworld in waiting hidden below the marine drive L.P.T..

“The Great Orme – with Pen Trwyn – is undeniably Britain’s most extensive roadside crag with nevermore than a five minute stroll to any particular buttress.” Andy Pollitt 1987.

There was however a toll gate at the beginning of the one way road Marine Drive so that if arriving by car a fee was extracted by eagle eyed attendants manning the booth who could rarely be persuaded to extend pity on impecunious climbing teams by waiving the extortionate ( as we saw it), levy of a few pounds. A few minutes after the toll booth was Parisella’s cave, then Mayfair Wall, which, containing some old bolts and pegs had obviously been the scene of practice aid routes before the appearance of Mel Griffiths and Lee McGinley in 1981 who started a new wave of free climbing with their now legendary Axle Attack at E5 6a. Prior to this, a couple of 16 year old schoolboys from nearby St David’s College had attacked the same wall by the line of a 1972 Roland Edward’s aid route, Mayfair, which they freed except for a couple of rests. Their names Andy Pollitt and Jerry Moffat. In July 1982 Pollitt would join forces with John Redhead for the D.S. Machine which they found right of Mayfair and on which they were forced to use one aid point until Pollit returned with master of ceremony’s Paul Williams in the next year’s boom to eliminate this slight flaw at E6 6b.

By 1983 there were people bivouacking in the caves then climbing all day, sometimes for weeks on end. Their yellow tattered karrimats adorned with names of their hitching destinations in big letter black and red marker so that one side might read Llandudno, North Wales, Llanberis, whilst the reverse, revealing their supersaver return choice typically signalled Sheffield or Leeds. Fully extended these scrolls often contained evidence of climbers pilgrimage and, if you understood the hieroglyphics that read Boux, La Pallud, Provence, their names might trigger memories of wine soaked toking scenes in star swept croissant mooned camp sites after days spent in opera vertical Edlinger dreams, pumping sun bleached white stone, Luna Bonged under the Ctullah cool Necronomicron rim. 

The thousand mile of roads leading to continental lavender scented Nirvana did not come with a guarantee of safe passage and indeed might involve hitchers in realms of hassle rarely imagined before setting out, including bizarre sexual interviews whilst drivers ascertained their chances of re-enacting subtitled Midnight Cowboy scenes behind lonely Autoroute du Soleil services beyond the glare of heavy goods wagon trains. Then there were tales of cruising Mrs Robinson style femmes fatales seeking favours from robust youths and hasty marches via wrong turned slip roads escaping Moroccan sailors after dope deals gone wrong on the outskirts of Marseille. Such episode were not of course the special preserve of Europe and whilst relatively rare, incidents of a similar ilk also occurred or were alleged to occur in the UK.Presenting hitchers in general with greater or lesser degrees of inconvenience in their time on the road.

Whatever the travel arrangements, by 1983 Pen Trwyn’s growing reputation as a hard climbing venue with plenty to go at together with it’s alternative status to Gogarth or Trem, drew various teams to what Paul Williams dubbed ‘ the Pen Trwyn patrol’, as they walked the ten minutes or so back and forth along the Marine Drive for rendezvous or refreshment at Parisella’s café where in their Italian welsh glory Mrs Parisella and her twin daughters were to become part of the scene and that least as sought after by some protagonists as the harsher technical challenges encountered on precipitous unstable top out limestone.

In contrast to generally secluded climbing experience within Llanberis slate enclaves, Pen Trwyn rendered climbers’ actions continually open to public scrutiny so that dog walkers, courting couples, strolling pensioners and bored children strapped back seat in curb crawling family saloons regarded or ignored climbers antics with equal measure. Such exposure led at times down roads of fanciful interaction, ‘why are you going up that rock?’ Reply, ‘It’s the first step in our Everest training’. Ludicrous and amusing as these interludes might be, all routes climbed or attempted above Marine Drive place onus on climbers to maximise extreme caution when encountering any loose rock or vegetation lest passers by suffered unexpected bombardment a scenario inevitably resulting in an all out climbing ban, Everest training or no, initially many lines were done without lower offs , involving leaders in heart stopping finishes over treacherous grassed mini tiers seldom less than ninety degrees with poor on non existent protection and inventive belays well back.

Once atop the cliff, teams either abseiled down or walked a ways off to find convenient descents which in the Trwyn enclave were unfortunately a rare commodity. This time consuming procedure pointed towards climbers’ traditional backgrounds where these tactics represented the status quo, so that for reasons best left to psychiatrists, lower offs either from makeshift loops in abseil ropes ( the cleaning of routes from the top down was not unusual) or strategically positioned bolts did not become the norm until a major crag overhaul spearheaded amongst others by Steve Mayers in the 1990s. Some early routes did however benefit from the odd bolt runner which marked a departure from purely traditional values whilst at the same time providing quality climbs where leaders still generally relied on natural ‘pro’ and personal involvement on Firefly in March 1983 proved this to be so.

Paul Williams

Having made initial Trwyn acquaintance with Mel Griffiths, where after discussing bolt strength under various forces, we had conducted an experiment whose simple principle relied on clipping a 50 metre rope to a bolt on Mayfair before attaching its free end over a tow bar then driving off along Marine Drive so producing a sort of high tension catapult which amazingly did not pull out and decapitate onlookers- it was with some relief that a far less dangerous enterprise later that day culminated in an ascent of Plumb Line. Prior to this two climbs with John Redhead, the first an unusually loose flake line in a sheltered cave complex, The Separate Elephant would, I speculated, be rarely repeated and another all together more conventional though excellent quality fingery E5 6a near the remains of an old pillbox. The Homspunk was a ground up stamina test forced in bitterly cold January conditions when, on a day remaining strange from sunlight, a severe wind had chastened the crags which had unsurprisingly become our sole preserve.

Born on a steel blue sea these gales soon blew in the Ides of March and once subsided allowed hibernation release for candidates suffering winter withdrawal symptoms from the cult of the steep. Dave Towse had already placed a bolt on a line that cuts through overlaps and headed towards a fascinating groove which looked possible to fill with good wires. In exchange for belay penance on another project merely a two minute walk along the same terrace, Dave handed me the lead on the one bolt eyed undercut groove. Fantastic was the undercling that a climber could grasp, bouldery and bunched up at first but with just enough edge where it mattered. The rough limestone could be trespassed, despite initial seepage, by forceful pulls and careful foot tricks so that once beyond the double shot espresso start, a sort of swaying movement twisted sideways and reaching up as if to layback, found holds better suited for simple pull up, which drew me into the shallowness of the groove’s narrow finale. Here after placing bomber runners amidst the faintest hint of a pump, I carried on in finishing mode just as a car drove by, it’s stereo maxed out with Spandau Ballet’s Chant No1, such was the scene on Firefly which opened an account soon swelled by a gathering pace as teams keen on crimping down hard began making their mark.

Dave’s new line Flakeaway at E5 6b could be found on the wall right of Plumbline and involved tenuous climbing on roughly the same micro edges as those used for footholds. Harsh though this proved, we had far more trouble on it’s sister route which defined by a squiggle shaped groove,halfway, also attacked the wall right of Plumbline but this time starting only a few metres from it’s parent. Rappelling the line I took advantage of a small thread in an undercut flake and equipped it with a yellow taped sling (the canary’s tail). Kev Howitt had joined us in Bangor then had driven to the Orme as if an invisible lead weight was somehow gluing his foot hard down on the accelerator and though climbing well, neither he, Dave nor I could fathom out shapes required on the wall above the midway groove cracks. Lowering off small wires each climber in turn supported by shouts of encouragement and banter during their attempt, found themselves back on the ground. Desperate for a brew I resolved for one last try before café break and dispensing with the now practised lower section more easily found myself eyeing the thread with triple paranoia ( from the safety of the ab it had looked quite decent).

From here perhaps driven by fear of taking a big lob and closing on quality first ascent I somehow fluked over less than easy exit ground that had it sustained itself longer, may have rewarded onlookers with the spectacle of a long plummet.  Easy to name The Scary Canary settled down at E5 6b and after several ascents it was perhaps inevitable that the thread runners holding power would be tested by flyers. In one such episode destruction was the result so that future ascentionists were rewarded with a more encouraging bolt runner in the placing of which our original team played no part yet hardly had cause to contest.

As the year wore on and the Pen Trwyn patrols extended their remit routes, doubled then tripled on both Ormes as climbers including the local Lyon brothers Dave and Chris, Norman Clacher, Jerry Moffatt, Ron Fawcett, Andy Pollitt, Bill Wyman, the Midlands based Crook brothers, Mel Griffiths and of course Master of Cermonies Paul Williams without whom no proper climbing scene in Wales during the 1980s could be complete, mingled with other brethren producing classics and pushing standards the likes of which had hitherto only been known in Roland Edwards’ dreams and as Menlove observed many years earlier, was in any case where all great climbing took place.

In a very real sense what few would dispute that great climbing took place that 1983 summer in a number of locations.Chief amongst these in Wales was Jerry Moffat’s solo visit to the ultra traditional walls on Dinas Cromlech in the Llanberis Pass the day after his contribution to the Master’s Wall saga on Clogwyn Durr Arddu’s hallowed alter. By the time Jerry descended the squeeze below the great open book on Cenotaph Corner he had soloed seven extremes including Right E5 6a and Left E3 5c wall, declaring that the Cromlech was ‘an old and outdated crag’.  Whilst such immodesty could be ascribed to the confidence of youth there was a portent in Moffat’s words, serious or not, that left those firmly entrenched in traditional values asking an obvious question. If the Cromlech was old and outdated how then was a new crag defined? For the answer apart from the man made quarry arenas, we had only to hop over the wall opposite Parisella’s cave in the June of next year, descend a steepish path at low tide then traverse the pock marked natural pavement below LPT where Ben Moon had recently completed his superb 8a project Statement of Youth.

Fully bolted, it was as if the cliff was made for such athletic action, where the climber could concentrate entirely on intense moves, clipping secure in situ protection on the way. Whether you valued such action or not, it was clear that to complete such an ascent without recourse to hanging on the rope, even after much practice, presented impressive rock climbing challenge for which severe training regimes would probably have to be undertaken.Realising that French style sport climbing had come to Wales we looked up and gazed into the future wondering what the rising tide might bring.

“If you know how to whistle just put your lipstick together and blow.” I had said in soliloquy.

Martin Crook:2015 (previously unpublished)

 

The Climber's plants of Lakeland

Nameless Gully on the SW side of Robinson above Buttermere.

 

THE experts will tell you there may be up to 18.000 varieties of flowers, plants, mosses and ferns growing in the Lakeland hills, but there must be very few people, if any, able to recognise them all. Once I sat down on a shoulder of Grasmoor one very hot afternoon to do a count and found about 30 within the space of a few yards, but I could only identify about a third of them. I wish I was a better botanist. One of my climbing friends fills me with envy by his ability to recognise mountain flowers, ferns—and even trees in their winter garb—without hesitation. He will sometimes pause on his way up a steep crack or chimney on a little-climbed crag to pick out of some crevice a tiny flower or bit of grass, telling me its name and perhaps tucking it away in his pocket for later study. A scramble up any fell side beck must give him much more pleasure than it would do those of us who move about with much less experienced eyes. But even a little knowledge about the flowers of the fells is rewarding, and fairly easily obtained by a little study and patience.

Pyramedal Bugle:Kentmere.Photo Cumbria Botany

It is important, however, that the locations of the rarer plants should not be revealed for depredation is an increasing menace, and climbers and walkers should never dig out specimens and should restrict their picking  for identification purposes to the minimum. Lakeland's rarest flower, the red alpine catchfly, grows on the steep face of Hobcarton Crag, but it is not easy to find unless you know the exact spot.

The only other locality in Britain for this rare plant—apart from a reported sighting on Coniston Old Man—is said to be high in the hills at the head of Glen Cova in the Highlands. Hobcarton Crag was bought by the Friends of the Lake District many years ago because of its importance as a botanical treasure house and presented to the National Trust. Alpine Campion is also said to grow on the crag, but this shattered pile of blue grey Skiddaw slate is chiefly remarkable to the casual visitor for its bright green hanging gardens of bilberry which grow here in greater profusion than I have seen elsewhere.

A favourite mountain flower of mine is the tiny eye-bright and I have heard that the Lakeland variety is also found in Snowdonia but, so far as is at present known, nowhere else in the world. Probably the highest growing plant in Lakeland must be the dwarf willow—the smallest British shrub, often barely an inch high. This can be found on the top of the Scafells and on other high peaks, including Helvellyn, while comparatively rare plants grow in some of the deepest ravines in the central fells.

Classic Lakeland Gully. The G3 scramble 'Lorton's Gully' 

These include alpine Saw Wort (Saussurea alpina—named after de Saussure who inspired the first ascent of Mont Blanc in 1777) which may be found around Pillar, in Piers Gill, and among the rocks of Striding Edge. Botanists will tell you that among the rarer plants of Lakeland is the shrubby cinquefoil, the only mountain plant, outside the eyebright and the hawkweeds, which is not also found, usually in much greater profusion in the Highlands. They say you will find it on The Screes above Wastwater and also around Pillar Rock: at one time it was found on Red Screes but has not been seen there for some years. Moss campion used to grow near Grisedale Tarn although I doubt, with the tourist traffic around there, whether it still survives.

Many of the coves under the summit ridge of Helvellyn used to contain several comparatively rare plants but many have disappeared during the last half century. The lovely pink cushions of moss campion are also found near several of the least visited crags and purple saxifrage sometimes hangs in festoons around the Helvellyn ridges. Climbing up a mountain beck towards the ridges the walker may encounter many typical Lakeland plants, each one growing at more or less its most suitable height above sea level.

Euphrasia rivularis: Keppel Cove, Helvellyn.Photo-Cumbrian Botany

The common ladies' mantle of the meadows is also found in at least two species above 2,000 feet, the alpine variety being smaller with beauti-fully shaped leaves and an underlining of shining silvery hairs. The yellow saxifrage and star saxifrage, which are found in the wet ground lower down the fell, may also be growing in the gills, the former with its bright yellow flowers and deep orange stamens and the latter with its white star, crimson stamens and a yellow spot on each petal. The cut leafed saxifrage with its creamy white flowers may also be found near the mountain becks. The bilberry or blaeberry with its pretty pink flowers will probably also be growing nearby, while on the banks and along the lower ridges will be the little flowers that can bring so much colour to a June walk in the hills—wild thyme, heath bedstraw, common speedwell, some of the hawkweeds and the tormentil, the last named also being found near the summits.

And also mountain sorrel, dog violet, angelica, butterwort, alpine meadow rue and the lovely harebell. The hawkweeds of Lakeland are interesting. More than 70 years ago a clergyman botanist found two species of hawkweed for the first time in Britain on the side of Kirk Fell and they were not reported again until found in the same place 65 years later.

For a lifetime these two rare species—two plants of each—had apparently remained in this one wild spot in Lakeland, and nowhere else in Britain so far as is known. The crowberry will be found flowering n the fells in May or June and even buttercups sometimes survive quite high up in the mountains. The cowberry may sometimes be seen, often growing among the bilberry, and recognisable by its pale flesh coloured flowers and, later, its red berries. And then there are the juniper, the ling and the bell heather—indeed, many varieties of heaths and heathers—and a long list of berried plants, and the ferns and the mosses and of course the bracken —a menace to the farmer, but a beautiful changing carpet of colour, especially in autumn. One of my favourite flowers of the mountains is the delicate Grass of Parnassus, with its beautiful little petals, rather like a bleached buttercup but the flowers faintly streaked, almost like watermarks on writing paper.

Another beautiful little flower is the mountain or bird's eye primrose, which has pink lilac blooms with a yellow centre and leaves covered with white down. The mountain avens is also, particularly lovely flower. Its pure white petals is dark green leaves contrasting with the pink of the moss campion and the rich colour of the purple mountain saxifrage. The snow saxifrage has been found on Scafell, Helvellyn and High Street, while the alpine poa grass and black sedge are among the rarities seen in the eastern fells, and the common water starwort has been reported growing in Hard Tarn in Ruthwaite Cove. It is said that several carnivorous and insect eating plants grow on the western side of Derwentwater. One of these, the native sundew, is said to be capable of digesting meat as well as insect life, having perhaps acquired the taste in recent years from discarded sandwich fillings.

In the woods above Lodore grows, besides a very beautiful and comparatively rare fern, the yellow flowered cow-wheat which flourishes where there are plenty of ants. It is said that the seeds closely resemble ants eggs and that the ants, doubtless considerably baffled, bundle them about in all directions, thus spreading the seeds which quickly germinate. Also in the woods above Borrowdale may be found water and wood avens, goose grass, bedstraw, creeping thyme, burdock, snake weed, white and yellow water lilies, the giant horsetail, meadow sweet, ragged robin and the little eye-bright.

Grasmere is a good area for ferns while the limestone country around Kendal has produced the true maiden-hair. There's no doubt that the ability to recognise mountain plants can add immensely to the enjoyment of a day in the fells, in the same way as can some knowledge of mountain birds, the ways of sheep, the meaning of old tracks, the story of the old stone walls, the history of the miners of long ago, the movement of the clouds and a hundred and One other wonderful things that all help to make our mountains such fascinating places. But, most of all, we must learn to use our eyes for far too many of us walk to the crags or the mountain tops and see nothing, or at least very little that really matters.

A Harry Griffin: The Climber:September 1965

Joss Naylor: The Way of the Warrior

Surely, I thought, Joss Naylor's heart and ambition was too big for his spare frame and spindly legs. These days nobody knocks 30 per cent off a record — indeed records are broken by fractions of one per cent. So when he told me, back in March, that he proposed to run the Pennine Way -all 270 miles of it - in three days, I really began to think that he had taken leave of his senses. After all, the existing record for this mammoth solo trip was held by Alan Heaton, one of the greatest fell runners of all time, bringing it down from four days eight hours to four days five hours. That is a fair margin to break any record by - three hours or some 12 miles. Obviously, 100 hours (four days four hours) was possible — indeed that was the target that both Bill and Alan had set themselves. But now here was Joss proposing to set himself a schedule of 72 hours.

Three months later, at midnight on Friday June 21 — the shortest night of the year — I drove into our impromptu campsite behind the Border Hotel in Kirk Yetholm. There was a deep silence over the little group of tents and we tried not to disturb them as we hammered our pegs into the rock-hard ground. Hard because this spring and early summer has been one of the driest in human memory. Three hours later, as the church clock chimed three, Joss strode off up the hill towards the Cheviots, to begin his long journey. He is 38 years old now, nearly six foot tall, a mere nine-and-half stone. He farms on the north side of Wastwater in the Lake District, running his sheep over Yewbarrow, Red Pike, Haycock and Middle Fell. He and his wife Mary do all the work themselves, long days and long nights of work, lambing and gathering, sheering and gathering, dipping and gathering. No wonder he is fit. And yet he still finds the time and energy to maintain his record as Britain's greatest long distance fellrunner.

There are men that can beat him in the shorter races, which means, in this context, any race that can be won in under three hours. But in the long ones, like the Vaux Mountain Trial or the Ennerdale Horseshoe or that ultimate test of endurance the Lakeland 24 hour run, Joss is the master. Having studied his technique over many years, I have always been surprised by the lack of power in his frame. There are no big muscles in his legs, no piston-like thighs, and this is perhaps why he has so little speed. What he does have is an astounding ability to whisper over rough country without seeming to expend any energy. It is the supreme quality of relaxation.

Early that Saturday morning, we, his support troops, drove around the Cheviots and approached the old Roman Fort of Chew Green from the South. The sun was just rising, sending low shafts of light across the hills, picking out the Roman fortifications so that they seemed to stand as high and proud as they did those long centuries ago. Soon the stoves were blazing and the bacon sizzling. We breakfasted well, knowing that we had to stoke our bodies for the long day ahead. And then Jeff Bull (one of the Ranelagh Harriers team that broke the Pennine Way relay record in 1971) came flying down the hill to say that Joss wouldn't stop for breakfast. He would keep on the skyline and he'd like a drink and a biscuit. We tried to catch him but we couldn't — he and his pacer Graham Dugdale were specks in the distance, sliding smoothly over the hills towards Byrness. It took him just three and-three-quarter hours to run from Kirk Yetholm to Byrness a distance of 29 miles, including the 2,676 feet of Cheviot itself.

Wainwright in 'Pennine Way Companion' (the classic guide to the Pennine Way) says of this section: This is not only the longest stretch of the Pennine Way without a habitation but one of the toughest, a test of endurance. Gird up your loins as they have never been girded up before . . . . the casualty rate is high. Strong men take a long, long day - Joss traversed it before breakfast! We were worried about his speed. If he was going to keep this up, we wouldn't be able to drive around to the pacemakers' change-over points. Besides, what about Joss? No human being could keep up such a pace for three days. Mountain Life’s (Shay Gorman, our advertising manager, and myself) took over the pacemaker's job through Redesdale Forest and along the river. I was running ahead trying to snatch some photographs and two miles of that was enough to exhaust me. Over Padden Hill and Lord's Shaw through Bellingham and Wark Forest he went, down to Hadrian's Wall. There at the Peel Farm car park, Ken Ledward and Tim Walker, who provided the main logistical support from Ken's Transit van, were brewing soup for lunch – 62.5miles completed and it was not yet mid-day.

A quick photograph or two and I dashed off to recce my next pacing section. From Walltown Crags across the A69, over Black Hill to the Kellah Burn. Waiting for Joss, up there on Wall-town Crags, one could look down and across the Border country to the North and imagine the Roman soldiers — far from home, patrolling that empty land against the wild Picts. Now the only enemy advancing from the north is the regimented teenage conifers, a dense impenetrable monotonous jungle of foreign trees. Oh, where are our native hardwoods!

Joss was slower now, just slow enough for me to keep with him and chat. He has had back trouble almost all his life and recently it began to affect the feeling in his legs. I asked him how they were. 'Dead', he said with 74 miles behind him. 'But then they were dead when I started!' The pacing schedule was working well. Masterminded by Ian Milne (another Ranelagh Harrier who was responsible for much of the planning behind the record breaking relay runs on the Pennine Way and over Offa's Dyke) the pacers took over at regular intervals of three or four miles so that Joss always had someone to talk to, someone to carry his drink and food, someone who was certain of every turn and twist of the way. The weather was perfect: overcast to keep the sun off his shoulders, not too hot and with a light wind from the north east.

The Pennine Way itself was in better condition that I have ever seen it. You could run on top of the ground instead of half way up to your knees in bog. And in the three years since I was last on the Way, the boots of thousands of walkers have worn a definite path. Now there is little doubt about the correct route. Joss was living off rock cakes and apple pie (home made by Mary) and drinking Accolade (a powder which you can get in most big chemists and which contains all the salts the body needs) and a mixture of orange and lemon squash liberally fortified with glucose. He was eating and drinking wisely — which means a little and often instead of a lot at longer intervals. There were eleven members of the support team: Ken Ledward and Tim Walker, Peter Trainor and Alan Evans from the Lakes, John Offley and Graham Dugdale from Thames Valley Harriers and five members of Ranelagh, Ian Milne, Jeff Bull, Shay Gorman, myself and with Bill Bird keeping up the tradition that past record holders of the great fell-running epics always seem to turn out to help another fellrunner to improve the record.

Stateside Joss

Already the support team were bonded together in admiration for this man Joss, who could run us all into exhaustion and then keep on for more. Through Slaggyford and Alston, over Crossfell and Great Dunn Fell he went, slower now in the evening sunlight, down into Dufton for a bath. We pitched our tents and invaded the Stag for pint after pint of well earned beer. We, the pacers, had run our 12 to 18 miles (except for Graham Dugdale who took the brunt of Joss' speed over those first 29 miles) but Joss now resting in his tent had covered 106.5miles in a total time of 18 hours 17 minutes — indeed, if you subtract his interim stops his running time was 16 hours 49 minutes, an average of between six and seven miles an hour. He stopped that night for five hours 48 minutes and at 0310 on Sunday, June 23, he was away over High Cup Nick bound for Cauldron Snout and Sour Hill Farm.

We waited at the farm for him to appear through the early morning mist. We waited and waited. And then Shay Gorman came running. 'He's pulled a muscle — he can't lift his left foot up properly'. While Ken and his boys fed Joss with breakfast, I got to work on the muscle. There was a spot high on the front of the thigh where it joins the body which when pressed sent spasms of pain shooting through his body. It seemed hopeless. The words formed in my mind: 'You've had it Joss — you won't get another 10 miles on that leg'. But I didn't say the words — not to this man! Massage and food, massage and food, and he was away again, picking up so much speed that he nearly confounded the pacemakers.

At Tan Hill Inn, the highest pub in England, he was still going strongly as Ken threw his Karrimor 'Instructor's Survival Bag' over him and fed him. Never has there been such a strange impromptu camp. Joss didn't want to sit down for fear of stiffening up, so tall men acted as poles, while the faithful Ken plied him with soup. I will always remember one section that bright evening — out of Gayle, past Gaudy House Farm and over the shoulder of Dodd Fell.The turf was green and springy, the sun was low and soft, and the wind whispered coolly. Wharfedale was behind us, Ribblesdale in front and all around is the incomparable Yorkshire fells. That is what the Pennine Way is all about — lifting fells and lifting feet, the quiet murmurs of the hills and good company.

I missed the last traumatic hours of that day as the pacers gathered around a tired Joss, reinforcing his iron will over Pen-y-Ghent and Fountains Fell, down to Tennant Gill Farm — 80.5miles in 21 hours. A long, long day. He was away late  at 05.10 on a bright and perfect morning with Malham Tarn and the River Aire glistening in the sunlight. Nobody, except Joss, will ever know how he kept going through that day. His left ankle was swollen, his feet half a size bigger, his lean face leaner still. We did mental calculations: he was still making four miles an hour including stops, and if he could keep that going  throughout the day and into the night then he could still — despite his injuries — arrive in Edale at 2.00 am on Tuesday morning and that would be the Pennine Way in three days.

Joss Naylor and friend oop on't fell

 

 But there has not yet been born the human being that could force an exhausted body beyond such barriers of endurance. At nine that night he came across Featherbed Moss (Wainwright: The place is a mess, a labyrinth of peat sponges that can be squelchily negotiated only by trial and error). Ahead was Black Hill....There is no foothold in this sea of ooze and the night. Six of us gathered around him as he set off across the peat — there was eight miles to go to the shelter of Crowden Youth Hostel and Joss now had the wear of 247 miles in his legs and heart. We blundered in the dark, missing the easiest route to the top of Laddow Rocks. One could sense the drop, one could feel the fatigue in Joss but not once did he stumble. And then there were lights, flickering up from Crowden.

I cannot name them all for I know not who they were, except that they were climbers and walkers and fell-runners come to assist this man, whose strength and will was as ten. 68.5miles, that was the distance that he walked and ran that third day in 18 hours and 35 minutes, and they were kind to him at Crowden Youth Hostel.He stayed there for a mere three hours 35 minutes, showering, eating and sleeping and then he was away at 03.20 on Tuesday morning. I last saw him at Snake Pass at five in the morning. Bleaklow behind him, Kinder Scout ahead. A mere eight-and-a-half miles to the finish.

He came down into Edale at 07.41 with 16 miles covered in four hours 16 minutes. Or, to put it all together, 271.5miles in three days four hours and 35 minutes. He had not done it in three days — but he had knocked 24 hours off Alan Heaton's record. No-one else could have done it. He ate and slept for a couple of hours, and then Ken drove him home to Wasdale......And there Joss milked the cows!

 

Chris Brasher: First published as ‘No one else could have done it' in Mountain Life Aug/Sep 1974