25th May 2024

Seven summits, 2370m of climbing, 28km and only 250 places.

When I first heard about the Isle of Jura Fell Race a few years ago, I regarded it very much as one of those races for people who knew what they were doing. At that stage, I wasn’t one of them. Intrigue gradually turned into serious consideration when on repeated half term visits to Tayvallich, we would see runners returning from Jura on the Jura passenger ferry. I pledged to do it when I turned fifty, but my wife Martha encouraged me to stick an entry in this year. They only admit 250 runners each year and a place was not guaranteed on the first attempt. I went from 18th on the waiting list to one of the lucky 250 in a very short time. It seemed to be happening and I was pretty daunted.

For anyone unfamiliar with Jura, it is renowned for a few things: whisky, Nineteen Eighty-Four (which George Orwell wrote on Jura) and (if you read NME in the 90s) the KLF burning a million pounds there. It is also host to the annual fell race, a circuit of 17 miles and an eye-watering 2370m of ascent. The route takes in seven significant peaks, most notably the three Paps of Jura, which dominate the skyline. When the weather is clear enough to see them that is.

The adventure started with an early morning boat trip across the Sound of Jura from Tayvallich. The boat I was on was usually deployed for wildlife cruises, so the pilot couldn’t help himself pausing halfway there to point out a pod of porpoises, a welcome distraction from my pre-race nerves. The first sight of Jura from the ferry did nothing to ease my navigational anxiety. Low cloud hung like a wet dishcloth over the island, obscuring all but the lowest foothills. The forecast promised brighter skies later, so I clung onto some hope as I arrived on the island and looked for a tent-sized spot on the crowded (and midge-infested) campsite. It felt like arriving late to a festival.

Having distracted myself with pitching my tent, registration and kit check there was nothing left to do but soak up the pre-race atmosphere and try to contain my nerves. There was a real mixture of Jura veterans, relative newcomers and first-timers like me. It was comforting to have my NLFR vest recognised by another first timer and ex-NLFR member, Will, who cheerily confessed that navigation-wise, he was very much going to be winging it. Amidst the pre-race anxiety, it’s hard to get away from the feeling that everyone else seems to have more of a clue what they’re doing than you do. Maybe it was all going to be okay.

Amidst some signs of brightening weather and a stirring bagpipe send-off, the race got underway. The first couple of miles were fairly standard fell race fare: a steady, bog-ridden climb up into the aforementioned low cloud, which showed no sign of shifting. Descending out of the cloud after the second checkpoint though, the race began to feel like no other. Views opened up to the sea and the coast of Islay to the west and blue skies framed the route ahead. It was one of those moments of fell-running exhilaration when everything comes together. And it looked like I might actually get the clear visibility I’d been praying for.

The view couldn’t have been clearer as I headed towards what the route description bills as “probably the most intimidating climb in British fell running”, Benn a Chaolish (pronounced Hoolish), the first of The Paps. The glorious sunshine, surging endorphins and spectacular vista probably took the edge off the intimidation, but this was a monster of a climb nonetheless and I had to fight the urge to sit down for a rest half-way up.

The second and third Paps (Benn an Oirr and Benn Shiantaidh) are already a glorious blur in my memory, but each punishing ascent seemed to come far too soon after the last. The marshals on top of the third Pap were helping runners to celebrate the ascent by pumping out banging techno from a bluetooth speaker and plying us with wine gums. A bit on the chewy side for race sustenance in my view, but I gratefully accepted a couple.

After a horrible descent off the third Pap involving a scree chute and a very wobbly boulder field I was on track for the final ascent to checkpoint 7. Surprisingly, the bagpipers from the start of the race had also made the ascent and were piping runners up the last climb – stirring stuff! It was all downhill from here, albeit it on “awful trods across desperate bogs” as the race-map describes it. I was feeling pretty desperate by this stage and was struggling to get my head round the fact that I’d only covered 10 miles of the 17. I had, however, dealt with all 2370 metres of ascent, which my legs were painfully aware of.

Three Arch Bridge marks the end of the fell section, but not the end of the race. A three-mile slog along a flat tarmac (and in some sections aluminium) road completes the course. This is the longest flat three miles I have ever run. Craighouse was in view for much of the way but did not appear to be getting any closer. I was in no fit state to enjoy the view of white sandy beaches to the left, or the chocolate digestives that one supporter was proffering from the roadside. I finally made it to the finish, clocking in at 5 hours and 6 minutes. Respectable if not remarkable.

I’ve never been so relieved to have finished a race, but I was immediately sorry it was over. I spent the rest of the day and evening in a bit of a daze, so much so that I completely missed the prize-giving gathering. I did make it to the traditional fell race ceilidh, but I was happy to observe from the sidelines rather than attempt any dancing.

This was such a special race to take part in, not just for the race itself, but for the whole experience. I’d urge anyone who might have toyed with the idea of tackling The Paps to give it a go. It didn’t take long before I was wondering how I might fare in the V50 category next time…

Matt Calvert