Our Communications and Partnerships Manager Laura Briggs took the TGR Badge Bimble to the next level as she tackled Exmoor and Dartmoor alone. Here’s how she got on.
There are three things that stand out as I reflect on my solo run (read *shuffle*) across The Two Moors Way.
The hot pink foxgloves adding pops of colour against a verdant landscape, the 13kg of backpack digging into my left rotator cuff for more than 12 hours a day, and a constant worry that I wouldn’t make my goal destination before nightfall.
A whole life can be condensed swiftly into just a few repetitive thoughts when you have nothing but yourself to worry about, and with the big world worries behind you, you can really start to agonise about the minutiae.
Leaving behind responsibilities – children, dogs, work, and swapping the mental for literal baggage, trying to complete 100-ish miles over Exmoor and Dartmoor, and carrying EVERYTHING I needed on my back, meant I could worry about stuff like whether I had enough water on me, how many gummy fruits I had left at any given time, and how I would deal with the frisky bullocks, all too keen to follow me for miles along the moors.
A solo adventure as a woman feels very different to one that a man might take on. I’ve not yet met a male runner nervous of running as night fell or who gave a second thought to running alone. When my husband says he’s off for a run, he gets a “have a good one”, when I go out, I get a “be careful”.
But this was never about proving that if a man could do it, I could.
I was tackling some of the most remote trails across South West England alone for other reasons.
Let’s take it back a step.
My calendar was blocked out from June 1 until June 9, for a run across Northern Spain with three fellow runners – we coined ourselves Eco Pilgrims. We’d run the Camino the most sustainable way we could. No fly – no new kit (within reason), it would show that runners can be responsible, reduce, reuse, leave no trace, all that jazz.
Only, two of the team picked up injuries and we had to postpone the trip (for those interested, it should be next March!)
With holiday booked, I decided that I would put my training to use, but I could also show my tiny audience of followers within the ultra-running community that you really don’t have to have a crew, stashes of expensive new kit, heaps of dosh, and regular pit stops, to experience life-affirming adventures.
In my bubble I work for The Green Runners, I advocate sustainability and veganism through my own platforms and I have a podcast where I talk to elite runners and amazing endurance athletes.
I’m witnessing first hand the rise of adventure travel, more elaborate and challenging running events, and seemingly more out of reach records. It got me thinking.
Was it starting to put people off just enjoying a run for running’s sake? Did everything now have to be an FKT, or higher mileage/altitude/distance than everyone else? Would there be anything left to aim for after that?
I suppose I wanted to bring it back down to basics; to run for the fun of it – to do it without burdening anyone else – to be responsible, and enjoy nature without impacting it detrimentally.
So off I headed, up to Lynmouth in Devon, with a cheap room booked for the night before the start of my journey which would see me run all the way to Ivybridge.
The morning began bright, and I set off from the sea wall at 6.30am following the double M signpost, that signified the Two Moors Way and that would become all-too familiar and comforting for the next 100 miles.
Two miles in and I realised I had been hugely overenthusiastic about “running”. The vertical slope leading up and away from Lynmouth had rivers of sweat dripping down my waterproof-clad back, and even walking with the deadweight on my shoulders was like wading through treacle.
My first sightings of the foxgloves came early on, and would pepper the entire route, hinting at a brightness when I started to feel overwhelmed.
Skylarks hovered overhead as tree lined paths opened up to vast moorlands along the exposed Cheriton Ridge, and the Exmoor ponies would come into view on the horizon as the sun came out, before being shrouded in cloud again, and the coat would come off, before going back on again. Constantly. On. Off. On. Off. Infuriating.
I came down into Simonsbath quicker than I had expected, but from then on everything started to go in slow motion. This bag was too heavy. Like, way too heavy. I’d never run with this much weight before, and I gave into fast hiking. To Withypool, Hawkridge, and then climbing up, up, up, into more wind and a sudden overwhelming feeling that I had bitten off way more than I could chew. I rang my husband. He was out having a roast dinner in the local pub, talking was difficult. He said I sounded intermittent. I choked up, swallowed down the tears. Told him I’d ring later.
Two miles or so later and my spirits soared again as I realised I had around seven miles to reach Creacombe where I’d booked a pitch at a naturist retreat. Wild camping on Exmoor is illegal so I toed the line and booked ahead at the naturist spot – the only campsite on the trail in Exmoor. I used the pitch to literally cook my dinner – thanks to Huel ration packs and some hexi blocks, and to sleep, and I was packed up and gone again by 6.20am the following morning without witnessing an inch of nudity. I’d covered 34 miles.
The first night taught me that my tent (without an inner – figured that was just extra weight) was completely sodden and no match should it rain.
The repacking was a little clumsy, but that would get better the following night.
Day two, and I made it to the town of Witheridge pretty swiftly. Only today the weather was different. It was hot. Really hot. Any runner will tell you it’s harder in hot weather, and just when you think things are going well, inevitably they’ll then go really badly. There’s a new housing development being built in Witheridge. It means the trail is blocked, and I spent an inordinate amount of time walking up cul-de-sacs, re-tracing my steps, getting irate trying to find a way out of an urbanised area. Once I popped back onto the trail I started to consider where I could top up my water. I was aiming for pitching up at Drewsteignton, so I’d get around 30 miles in that day, but it was so hot and I was drinking fast.
A slog later I came across a couple clearing wood from their property and I asked whether they knew of any fresh water sources between them and my end spot. They offered me water from their tap. The kindness of strangers never fails to amaze me. The lady told me her mother had walked the South West Coastal Path alone with her dog. How she wished she could do something similar. How amazed she was with what I was doing and how she maybe would try walking more of the path one day.
At Drewsteignton I learned there was nowhere to pitch my tent. I had to plough on; to the deep sided ravines of Castle Drogo, the most breathtaking vistas. Onto National Trust property and the sudden realisation that camping illegally might now suddenly be my only option. I was on Dartmoor National Park, where wild camping is now legal, thanks to a ban being lifted in the last few weeks, but NT property is a different matter. I had no choice. Please don’t arrest me now.
I nestled into the hill snugly among the ferns, in a sheltered spot, where the sound of the wind was more fearsome than its actual impact on my tent.
At around 2.30am, however, a sizeable gust whipped the guide rope from out of the peg and half the tent collapsed on top of me. It wasn’t raining yet. Thank god. A swift nighttime modification had me back inside and into my bag and bivvy where I could cover my head and keep warm for another hour.
And then I was up. Packed up before the rains came. Walking out of Castle Drogo by 4.30am. I’d nailed it.
Until something almost catastrophic happened.
Funny that when you start to feel too smug, the universe has a way of bringing you back down to earth.
I’d reached Chagford, I could crack the back of most of Southern Dartmoor today, I was moving well, things were looking great. Until I slipped.
With sideways rain, I fell, lurched sideways, dragged by the enormous pack (have I mentioned how heavy that was?), and falling, my head struck a rock.
Bloodied knee, throbbing hand, blurred vision. I sat there for what seemed like minutes going over the potential outcome of this fall. I could be concussed. I was close to blacking out. But it was, after all 4.30am, and I was in the back end of beyond. I touched my face and felt the swelling on my cheekbone. But not blood. A moment later, I was compus mentus. The dizziness went. I counted to ten. I talked to myself to check I wasn’t concussed. “Come on girl, up you get.”
With the rain washing my bloodied knees I was pissed off, but I wasn’t down.
For the next six hours, up onto the exposed, bleak hills, I shuffled, ran, did everything I could to keep warm, moving continuously through knicker-soaking rain, knowing that absolutely everything I carried was now sodden through. I couldn’t bear the thought of another night camping, but I also knew I wouldn’t make it to Ivybridge that night.
Then, coming off the hills, the sun came out. And again my spirits lifted. I took some time to treat myself to lunch next to the most gorgeous river at Poundsgate – a village that had a feel of Tarr Steps, only ten times better.
I prepped my meagre rations on my little stove set up on a rock, while a couple of dogs came over to see what was cooking.
With a warm meal in my belly, I had renewed vigour, and despite a new adaptive way of moving – leaning slightly to the left to alleviate a non-compliant hamstring and an absolutely shot left shoulder, I shuffled up and up and up, over bog and tussocks, and onto the Southern part of the Dartmoor hills. A steep climb from Scorriton and some boggy walking and I started to wonder where I’d camp that night.
Then, I hit a farm track. I checked my map again. This couldn’t be the track that led the whole way back to Ivybridge, could it?
I’d miscalculated. Ivybridge was closer than I thought. This track was the easiest terrain I’d hit for the whole journey. I picked up my pace, running again.
And then then farmer atop a quad bike rode towards me, with his entire herd behind him.
A tiresome wait for wayward cattle to follow the farmer who was trying to go cross country to avoid me – with minimal success.
Eventually, as I started to shiver, I was back on my way. And the sun shone overhead and my ego was boosted as I suddenly realised, bloody hell. I’m going to make this in three days.
Sometimes when things seem bleak, there’s a blaze of hot pink just around the next corner.
- Three days – Lynmouth to Ivybridge
- 102 miles (ish)
- No new kit
- Leave no trace
- Unsupported
- Me, myself, and I
This article was first published on www.veganfitnessrunner.com