On Higger Tor at daybreak
Trail run or walk? You decide
It’s the first thing I hear as I open the car door and emerge into a world of thick fog and deep silence. The curlew piping up from somewhere along the dry stone wall, its song rising and then fading with the wisps of mist that reveal the path towards the top of Higger Tor.
It was 6.20am and the 15 minute drive from my new home at the very south of Sheffield had been nothing short of terrifying. I only got my licence in 2019, aged 37. Even then, I could only manage to drive an automatic. I failed my test three times. In short, I drive as if I am in my 70s, even slower when visibility is down to no more than three metres. The curlew, though, at least made it worthwhile.
In the days since moving north, I looked out onto the tops from the upstairs of my new home and decided that trail running was the thing for me. I had some half decent shoes, had pounded the pavements with regularity while living in Brighton (including one half and two full marathons in the city), and a willingness to get up at silly hours to avoid the crowds.
And so, here I was, kitted out as if it was deep midwinter, helpful seeing as the dawn temperature in early April was 3ºC. I passed through the gate from the road onto the muddy path, pressed start on my watch and pushed on. The route here clambers up a few shallow steps, with plenty of opportunities for ankles to turn. I set off at a steady pace, the air rich with the scent of peat and sheep shit. In simple terms, what I call the smell of a proper walk. Note walk, not run.
I have walked in the Peaks, Lake District, Yorkshire Dales and beyond since I was seven. While living down south I always found walks slightly disappointing, devoid of challenge and lacking in Type 2 fun, the kind where you question your basic faculties before raving about the day over a plate heaped with carbs once you get back to lower ground.
I reached the plateau of Higger Tor in a few moments and realised that, as a newbie here, this was not the time to try out new routes. For a start, I could hardly see a thing. And secondly, my map was back at home. Instead, I stopped and watched as the fog turned to mist and lifted enough for me to see the Tor’s mysterious slabs of rock appear and the valley below fall away in a smudge of browns, blues and greys. This, I realised, was why trail running wasn’t for me. When I am in places like this I have a preternatural urge to move as slowly as possible. To view it from every possible angle. Not to glide over but, in the words of Nan Shepherd, to go in.
By now, the sky was brightening, sunrise about five minutes away. It was, however, absolutely freezing and the only way to get warm was to move quickly. I ran a quick loop of the summit before standing atop the most prominent slab as the sun slid up over Burnage North. There was no great flood of light, rather a gradual reveal of the pine trees in the valley below, the stream white and silent at the bottom. The heat of the rays managed to briefly burn off the cloud. A solitary hiker stood silhouetted against the light, about 100 metres away, taking photos. We exchanged waves and I headed back to the car.
My run was over, but my day was just beginning. By the time I started the engine again, the fog was back and thicker than before. It made turning in the road edgy. I wound the window down for better visibility and there it was again, the curlew’s song. I like to think it was welcoming me to my new home with a special message: we don't do things easily here, but we reward those who put in the effort.
Thanks love x
gorgeous x