Blind summits are the worst. They offer up false hope of respite, only for the realisation to slowly dawn that no, this is not the summit – the gradual nature of that understanding makes it all the more crushing. You don’t think this at the time, though. It goes something more like ‘ow, ow, ow, bugger, ow’.
The non-summit in question was en route to the actual summit of Mam Tor, Peak District. We’d been running for some six miles, the majority of which had snaked ever upwards through the fields of sheep and bracken dominating this beautiful National Park. From Mam Tor, we would circumnavigate the peaks dotted around Edale, traversing open fields, rocky trails, boggy moorland and sharp climbs on our round route back to Hope.
No real…
