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HPH Billy Bland Relay – 13th June 2025
Introduction
What’s the Billy Bland relay I hear you say. It is the Bob Graham round, ran as a relay. The Bob Graham round is a running challenge in the lakes to complete 42 summits, with over 8,000m of ascent over 66miles. To be successful it needs to be completed in under 24hours.
This challenge has been over a year in the making, when Cara suggested it to Rich after they had both had a couple of beers. All the best things are suggested under the influence aren’t they?
Somehow I volunteered to help with logistics after organising Richard’s Bob Graham and the organising team of Cara, Rich and I (Laura) was born.
What followed was a year of organising recces, so that people who were interested could find out exactly what they might be letting themselves in for if they said yes. Sorting out who was running and road support for each leg. At one point I thought I was going to have to do all the driving, but thankfully James, Lou, Rich and James also volunteered.
Then finally the team was sorted, the road support was organised, the tracker ordered and collected, the day was here. Just the pesky weather to contend with, sorry all I forgot to organise that one.
Leg1 Keswick Moot Hall- Threlkeld 22.5km with 1676m elevation
Runners: Caite Burke, Paul Ramsden, Sarah Jewers and Chloe Wilson
Write up: Sarah Jewers
When you say the words “Bob Graham” in most circles outside the running world, you’re often met with blank stares and “Bob who?” but when you stand on the steps of Moot Hall, the people of Keswick know why you’re there. I can’t say that Chloe, Caite, Paul and I enjoyed our moment in the Moot spotlight but it was exciting to be surrounded by teams of people nervously waiting to start their attempt at the full whack. As we waited for our start, we knew we had a fairly dry evening ahead of us, hoping for a nice sunset and trying to suppress all bad memories of the ascent up Mungrisedale Common on our recce. 7pm hit and after letting a group go in front of us we were off, the sounds of cheers quickly muted and into the evening we headed.
The ascent up Skiddaw was largely uneventful and mostly unmemorable as expected – not to make legs 2 and 3 jealous. We made good time and reached the top of Skiddaw 15 minutes ahead of schedule in 1hr 36, having been treated to clear views over Keswick and its surrounding fells. On the summit we met a mountain biker who was marvelling at the people attempting the full thing, saying we had the right idea doing it as a relay. Paul jokingly said “who would be crazy enough to do the full round?”… I just don’t know Paul, can’t think of anyone!
Despite it being a non-descript lump, I’d say Great Calva was our highlight. After a very dry spring, I was even enjoying the bog between Skiddaw and Great Calva that had been a crispy crust on recce day. The feeling of damp feet felt more like being greeted by an old friend rather than an annoying coworker and I was glad the ground was being fed again. When we started to get on to higher ground, the orange horizon out at sea became visible and the higher we got, the more striking the sunset. We could see all the way out to the hills of Dumfries and Galloway, silhouettes against the sun’s residual light. For a moment, Mungrisedale dread was quashed. But even the highest morale couldn’t hold it back forever.
As if the weather gods knew, we started to feel drops of rain on our approach to the ascent up to Mungrisedale Common. Since the start, Chloe had been assuring us that she had ‘conversation starters’ to get us up the hill and it was time to put them into use – especially as the rain seemed to be getting heavier. I’m not sure if there were actually multiple but the main question was “what are your four favourite things?” They can’t be things like friends or family, they’ve got to have a bit more to them than that. Whilst pulling myself up the hill, I decided on post-parkrun coffee and pastry, the feeling of getting into bed post-shower after a big hill day, my monthly playlists and I replaced going to the pub with a friend you haven’t seen in a while with being part of a standing ovation at the theatre. I will give credit where credit is due, time flew by – all of a sudden the hill crested and we were on top of everyone’s least favourite Wainwright: Mungrisedale Common.
The rain had stopped, the light was starting to fade and we had about an hour and a half left of our predicted time of 4hrs 45. We kept powering on, pausing only to get our headtorches out on the scree path that traverses the side of Blencathra. A few minutes later, the remnants of the Blencathra trig came into view in our torch beams and all that was left to do was descend in the 55 minutes we had to do so.
I think Chloe, Caite and I were all glad to be taking Doddick Fell down rather than Hall’s Fell like on the May recce (when we got slightly Garratted…) but it is unnerving to be on steep rocky ground in the dark and not enough HPH headtorch runs can prepare you for it. This is also when the heavens decided to open again and persistently so, wetting the rock and making sure our final descent was as spicy as possible. We all fell over at least once, maybe multiple times. On one of my slips, I fell into a gorse bush, some of the needles of which are still making a home in my hand. Thankfully, despite my hand being on fire, the A66 was getting closer and closer and all of a sudden the ground levelled out, we went through a gate in a field and we were running on tarmac. Hitting 5 minutes ks on our pursuit for our finish, our welcome party quickly came into view across the road cheering. One easy road crossing later and we’d made it in under time, ready to send Leg 2 along with who-would-be-crazy-enough-to-do-a-full-Bob Paul off into the night.
Leg2 Threlkeld- Dunmail Raise 22.5km with 1829m elevation
Runners: Paul Milligan, Chris Kemp, Cara Gates, Jonny Spain and Paul Ramsden
Road Support: Lou Gardham
Our leg 2 dream team consisted of Chris Kemp, Jonathan Spain, Paul Milligan, me (Cara) and Paul Ramsden – the extreme keeno who decided that one relay leg wasn’t enough. With road support from Lou Gardham.
We expected to set off just before midnight on Friday, fully aware of the forecasted heavy rain and thunderstorms on their way – but we’d seen such glorious sunshine through the day, I think we assumed someone had their predictions wrong.
After cheering the first runners off from the Moot Hall, we had four hours to kill which I tried to use wisely – bag faff, dinner and as much sleep as I could manage (none at all, as it happened). Having never tried an overnight run, I had no idea how I’d feel and prayed a couple of strong coffees would do the trick.
The rain arrived at Threlkeld cricket club bang on time for us, but the buzz in the air from supporters and other BG contenders coming through (and, it turned out, LOADS of midges) was adequate distraction. We didn’t need to wait long for our turn – we watched four lights from our teammates bouncing swiftly down Blencathra and in no time at all, the leg 1 champs were crossing the road to meet us. We managed to share in their elation at a successful leg while Paul repacked his bag, before heading off towards the first beastly climb on the route. The vibe was in jeopardy early doors thanks to the hammering rain and consistent pace up Clough Head, but we made it to the top in good time and felt great about breaking the back of the elevation. We ploughed on over some lovely runnable sections, but the rocks were jaggedy, the grass was slippery, the bogs were boggy, and I’m pretty sure we all took a tumble at least once – but apart from a few bruises and bloody knees we kept moving at a good pace. The mist setting in after the first hour meant we had to keep a tight-knit group to avoid losing each other in the dark, which I learned the hard way after trying to stop for a wee at a comfortable distance from the others.
No sooner had we tumbled to the bottom of Dollywaggon Pike, than the rain started to hammer down even harder ready for the steep climb up to Fairfield. Part way through the scramble, I saw a flash of light out of the corner of my eye and assumed my torch beam had caught something shiny. Then the thunder followed, and a few minutes later a very large fork of lightning struck the ground further down the valley. Somehow, we all managed to avoid screaming/crying/wetting ourselves in fear, but I’ll admit to having a couple of catastrophic thoughts about Paul’s hiking poles. Brains can do strange things when they’ve completely missed bedtime.
As we stomped up the final ascent, words of encouragement came in via the group chat from our relay successors who were watching our progress intently on the tracker from the layby at the bottom of Dunmail Raise. Chris kindly read out Adam’s message to “slow down, you b******s!”, and since we knew better than to ignore instructions from our team-mates, four of us obliged and took a wrong turn at the top of Seat Sandal. After a bit of a weird circular route back on ourselves we rejoined the path (and a very confused but relieved Chris), and found the cairn we were looking for.
Together we descended over more slippery stealth-rock grass to our rendez-vous point, ready to turn the Garratts’ support vehicle into a bath on wheels. Unfortunately it was consistently too wet and dark to take pictures on this leg, so we hope you enjoy the minimal footage we gathered from our little night-time adventure.
Leg3 Dunmail Raise-Wasdale Head 26km with 1981m elevation
Runners: Richard Garratt, Adam Lomas, Toby Adkins and Callum Smith
Road Support: Laura Garratt
Write up: Toby Adkins, Sca Fell by Richard Garratt
“Gosh.” I thought to myself. “I do hope none of my friends are currently on fire.”
It was 4am and the Leg 3 team were being ferried to our handover point at Dunmail Raise by Bob Graham organisational supremo Laura G. The Leg 2 gang had royally screwed us over by smashing their anticipated schedule but, as we traced the edge of Thirlmere, I was willing to forgive their haste. Far above us, the clouds had decided to throw a rave, complete with thumping bass and incandescent pink glow sticks. Our Leg 2 runners had been caught in the mosh, but very soon they would escape. And then it would be our turn…
Dawn approached, then swiftly ran away in tears. The Leg 2 squad approached even quicker and, with the words “it’s your problem now!” ringing in our ears, we set off up the Wall of Death affectionately known as Steel Fell. As “first-kilometres-of-big-runs” go, this was about as welcoming as a doormat made of sharpened porcupine. As we neared the summit, the storm extended spindly purple fingers, inviting us to join the party. The lightshow was perfectly in sync with the sound system, indicating that our chances of being flash-fried were somewhat higher than my usual preference of zero.
If you’ve never found yourself crouched atop a lesser-visited Lakeland fell at 5am on a Saturday morning, trying to ensure that your head is less prominent than that of a Herdwick and wondering whether sheep horns are more electrically conductive than human skulls, can you truly say you’ve lived your life to its fullest? It’s an experience only heightened by watching Adam L put on, and then remove, a pair of waterproof trousers, like a burlesque dance routine themed around the concept of robust pragmatism.
The storm eventually sloped off and we started to make up for lost time. We quickly and efficiently established our team roles:
- Rich: fearless leader – wayfinding and setting the pace.
- Callum: scout extraordinaire – spotting shortcuts and optimal paths across the trickiest of terrain.
- Adam: morale booster and shepherd – keeping us together and lifting our spirits.
- Toby (AKA your humble scribe): ballast, deadweight and a means of preventing the other three from having too much fun.
Summits came and went like Uber bikes at McDonalds, with approximately the same probability of a bone-breaking accident. Visibility was poor to destitute throughout but the Leg 3 fells have a real knack for up-cycling their home decor – an avant-garde mix of waterbed-like grasslands, footpaths disguised as raging rivers and, of course, the all-purpose extremely spiky rock.
Our friendly stormclouds couldn’t bear to leave us alone for long – they developed a game of hiding behind the nearest fell and jumping out as we neared the summit, yelling “Boo(m)!”, “Crash!” and “I’m sure I just made the blue-coat shit himself!”
As we approached the final stretch, climbing into the Scafell range, I knew I was in trouble. Technically speaking, I’d known this for over a year, since the day I’d agreed to take part in this crazy venture, but now I was in the kind of trouble you really feel someone should tell your parents about, even when you’re in your mid-thirties. My pace was slowing to that of an early 2000s modem, I’d had a couple of falls that left me feeling like James Bond’s favourite martini and I knew that Leg 3 finished with a massive descent via the Sca Fell scree slope. I also knew descending was my biggest weakness, although by this point I’m not sure I’d have laid claim to any strengths.
Rich, Callum and Adam had shown superhuman patience and kindness throughout – I can’t thank them enough for not succumbing to the urge to roll me off the nearest cliff edge. It would have been perfectly understandable and, to be honest, I would probably have welcomed it. But now it was time to let them frolic and tumble over the final hill like the adrenaline junkie fell goblins I knew they could be. Wishing them the very best, I took my leave at the summit of Scafell Pike.
As I started my plodding descent down the tourist path, Sca Fell loomed across my view. I intently scanned the mountainside to see if I could spot my teammates but, as I did so, the thunderstorm returned, once more with feeling. Black clouds rolled across the fell tops, like the fringe of an emo teenager. Rain lashed out at everyone, like an insecure emo teenager. Lightning lit up the sky, like the cigarettes of a large crowd of peer-pressured emo teenagers. The sound and the fury definitely signified something.
“Gosh.” I thought to myself. “I do hope none of my friends are currently on fire.”
I’ll pick up the story from Sca Fell Pike onwards, and in a surprising reversal of roles, it’s my turn to struggle following Toby!
It was obvious that Toby had made the sensible choice, and there was no shortage of volunteers eager to accompany him; from my new vantage point under the bus I couldn’t quite tell who’d pointed out that I had the tracker – leaving me no choice but to continue. Toby heroically declined all offers of company, mostly to avoid witnesses to his repeated trips to the ground.
With Toby cut free we headed to Sca Fell with the foolhardy gusto of a bird approaching a window. Ahead loomed Broad Stand – the rocky sentinel guarding of Sca Fell’s north ridge – standing grey and unyielding, like a massive rhino-esque bouncer, denying entry to anyone wearing trainers. But every fortress has its weak spot. At the base of this granite giant, we veered sharply right, aiming for the scree gully of Lord’s Rake (scree – the sound you make while traversing rocky gradients before being drowned out by yet another clap of thunder). While Lords Rake is more forgiving than Broad Stand, it still liked to toy with us, a literal case of allowing you one step forward before pushing you two steps backs, all while filling your trainers with small, jagged stones. Halfway up, it was almost a relief to turn left and scramble up the West Wall Traverse, another gully littered with bigger, teasing rocks. And then the thunder returned, this time accompanied by its friends—lightning and sheets of red rain.
Electricity and water famously don’t mix, but oddly, the shelter of the water-filled gully was a kind of refuge while the electrical explosions overhead echoed back and forth across the walls. Adam, ever the optimist, kept his spirits high, but as the storm lit up the darkness, even his grin faded to a wary smirk.
With heavy hearts we exited the gully and swiftly made our way across to our final summit. As the heavens exploded directly overhead, there was no time for an ill-advised celebration, with a cry of “F*** this sh*t, let’s get the hell of this hill!” we scarpered down from Sca Fell’s peak like a trio of cats startled by fireworks for the first time.
We tore down the scree covered upper slopes, gaining pace as this gave way to easy grassy running. The slopes were precipitous but now we were moving swiftly and easily; we were on fire! There was no let up as we careered towards the cliff face of Rakehead Crag and our final scree descent – knowing a fall might just be safer than staying still.
Clearing the scree, we faced one last obstacle: Lingmell Gill. Normally a benign stream, it had become a raging torrent, tumbling urgently down the slopes of Sca Fell Pike like an Adkins on wet rock. I paused to empty Sca Fell from my trainers while Callum and Adam found safe passage; our waterproof jackets had long since become merely decorative, but we may be the first people in history to dry off by wading through a stream.
Finally, safe from the weather and the scree, we negotiated the steady stream of cheap jackets and jogging bottoms to the National Trust car park.
“Gosh.” I thought to myself. “I do hope Toby’s not dead.”
Leg4 Wasdale Head-Honister Pass 18km with 1981m elevation
Runners: Richard Cartwright, Steve Worthington, Ed Shakespeare and Joe Lawley
Road support: James Tarbit
Write up: Ed Shakespeare
For those of us on leg 4, our morning began with a slightly nervy drive into Wasdale (thank you James!) where we saw the storm rolling over Whin Rigg and Illgill Head in front of us. With some careful radar checking, and fortuitous timing, we worked out that the rain, thunder and lightning should pass at around the same time that we were due to receive the baton and make our way up Yewbarrow – all that was left to do was stall when Adam, Richard and Callum arrived, so that we were barely onto the fellside before the air was clear and we were immediately regretting wearing our waterproofs.
You will be glad to know that this stalling was not due to jeopardise the team’s chances of a 24 hour finish though… the pace over the first few summits was pretty hot, gaining time on the schedule at every opportunity. The lines we had recced often resembled streams more than paths, but it only served to provide endless opportunity for hat dips – the secret weapon of a certain Steve Worthington. From Red Pike onwards, we were up in the clouds, with poor visibility and the occasional sharp breeze doing its best to slow the pace, but the knowledge that we weren’t having to suffer through the storms of the previous night kept us pushing onwards, with high spirits and beaming smiles (probably, it was hard to see each other at times so let’s just pretend about that).
The biggest moment of worry came on the traverse below Black Crag, approaching Pillar, when Joe’s shoe – which began the day with the structural integrity of that pile of clothes in your bedroom that you really should have folded and put away by now – pretty much gave up on life, and required immediate intervention to stop the sole delaminating and tumbling, potentially along with Joe, down the long screes towards Mosedale Beck. A first attempt at a fix, with climbing tape, lasted 10 minutes; the next contraption with added K-tape lasted another 20: it was only once we were on Kirk Fell when Steve had the ludicrous yet inspired idea to pull his glove over the shoe and pray for a miracle. In the end, this decision allowed Joe to continue the whole way to Honister, albeit with severely compromised grip on one foot – some excellent problem solving shown there!
From Kirk Fell we commenced the steep climb up Great Gable, at the top of which we met the first non-runner of the day – having overtaken a Bob Graham contender with his support on the flank of Pillar. This walker remarked on our attire, which in fairness was rather different to his – vests and shorts, versus full waterproofs and a wooly hat. We were nearly caught out only minutes later, after navigating the steep runner’s descent to Windy Gap, when a shower blew past, prompting a brief pause to get jackets on, but with the final few tops visible at last as we dropped from the clouds, we kept moving at as quick a pace as our shoes and knees would allow, eager to give the runners on leg 5 a stress-free run back to Keswick. Despite our poor choice of line down from Grey Knotts to Honister (if you have two good lines to follow, it’s always best to just run directly between the two, across pathless heather and bog, right??), we arrived in the car park with enough time to exchange high fives with our successors, before gratefully scoffing the sandwiches brought by Rich T.
Leg5 Honister Pass-Keswick Moot hall 18km with 762m elevation
Runners: Amy Ramsden-Young, Jo Rhodes, Sarah Underwood, George Fidczuk
Write up: Jo Rhodes
Now, it’s time for Leg 5! The glory leg of the relay needed a glorious name and we were gloriously…”George and the Mums!”
Sounds like a rubbish band? Not us, we were gritty fell runners bringing it home on everyone’s behalf! Rich Tasker had made the journey up to Keswick to drop us off at Honister and there were plenty of nerves on the drive over.
After watching leg 4 descend the final hill down into Honister (top tip: wear white a la Steve – it makes it very easy to spot someone in drizzle!), we high fived and off we went! The weather didn’t seem too bad and we made a pact not to complain about it, we weren’t running in a thunderstorm, after all!
I am something of a fair weather runner though and I’d packed on Friday, when it was glorious sunshine. “Be bold, start cold” I thought, but it wasn’t long until I accepted defeat and on went my waterproof.
For those that don’t know, leg 5 has the least number of hills (and the most amount of road, with a good 7km at the end). It felt like we were cheating as we summitted Dale Head and ticked off a (collective) 40 peaks out of 42. Amy bounded on ahead through the cloud and the rain and the rest of us always knew when she’d reached a peak (because everyone was tracking us so the WhatsApp group went off excitedly!). We sheltered at the peaks or where the route split and then bravely soldiered on. Hindscarth passed in a blur and then before we knew it, we’d reached Robinson, the last of the all the hills!
After some celebrating and a rainy picture or two, off we went again to descend Robinson. It was…wet…and one or two of us (guilty!) might have slid our way down, but we made it and soon, we were excitedly picking up our pace again!
James organised a superb pitstop at Little Town (no one saw him dash back to the car to get the shoes out, I think he was just keeping them dry, sensible man) and then we were off again! Steve (father to me) was also en route shouting encouragement and trying not to knock us over, it felt like a real club effort!
Spurred on by the support at Little Town, we were on the final push to Moot Hall before we knew it! Unbeknownst to us, the others had sprinted out of the pub to see us in. We all sped up at the sight of them and then up the stairs we went, to rapturous applause, or something like that! What an adventure and a real team effort!
