BOB GRAHAM ROUND
Fell running enthusiast and adventure photographer Matt Maynard tackles the iconic Bob Graham Round – a notoriously tough 66-mile off-road route in the Lake District – on a 54-hour weekend round trip from London Euston
The plan for the weekend, on paper, was simple. I would complete the classic fell running challenge known as the Bob Graham Round – and make it back in time for work on Monday.
In 1932, a seemingly equally time-pressed hotelier from Cumbria gave himself just 24 hours to tick as many mountain tops as possible, starting and finishing in Keswick High Street. Bob Graham left the mark at 42 peaks, including England’s highest, Scafell Pike. Since then, his ‘Round’ has become infamous in fell running circles, with aspirants vying to find ever-faster and often off-piste lines between the peaks, running approximately 66 miles and climbing the equivalent of 3,000 flights of stairs along the way.
In the modern era, on dry summer weekends around midnight, headtorches and short-shorts mingle with crowds outside The Round pub on the hallowed steps of Keswick’s Moot Hall. Only 3,000-odd runners have officially ever managed to make it back by last orders the next day – to claim their free pint and join the Bob Graham 24 Hour Club. Membership comes with an invitation to a biennial dinner. I waged that – lacking the fitness or familiarity with the Round necessary to bite off the challenge in just one spin of the planet – by packing a few extra Snickers, sourcing ultra-lightweight gear and recruiting a BG veteran pal to carry most of it, maybe I could sneak my Round in over a weekend.
On track
My train pulls out of London Euston at 5.30pm on a Friday in early July. Rain sleeks down the accelerating window of the northern-bound buffet cart. There are half a dozen sweaty, shrink-wrapped sandwiches to scoff down, but fortunately all sleeping bag stuffing and technical kit has been taken care of by my Cumbrian-based running partner, James.
By 8.11pm we’re in the hire van at Oxenholme station before revving through Kendal, coasting past tea shops in Windermere and gunning it along the northern shore of the lake to Ambleside. By Grasmere, we’re into serious hills and Round country. At a non-descript layby I’m told to throw some bags containing socks and yet more sandwiches beneath some indistinguishable ferns.
By 9.15pm, we’ve dumped the van in the Threlkeld Cricket Club public car park and jumped into a local taxi. Dusk falls as we drop down into Keswick. The driver has seen it all before and takes us straight to the steps of the Moot Hall.
