I’ve been reading adventure books lately. I started with Coasting by Elise Downing and yesterday finished Pants of Perspective by Anna McNuff. It’s inspiring.
In fact, it’s almost as if I’m living the adventure, so it’s pretty hard to accept that there’s a significant disconnect between what my mind wants to achieve and what my body can physically achieve. Despite my grandiose plans to undertake a long distance run this weekend, I had to face reality: I had come down with a cold.
Though running was out of the question, I figured a long distance walk was perfectly acceptable. So we set off early Sunday morning for what would end up being 17km on the North Downs Way, from Headley Heath to Box Hill and back around.
The trail wasn’t particularly challenging, but the combination of sunny weather and beautiful views ensured it was thoroughly enjoyable. Add in a chance encounter with a former colleague and some quirky sights along the way – like Major Peter Labelliere’s grave, in which he is buried upside down – and we had ourselves a proper adventure.
We did struggle with one section, where we must’ve missed a turn, because the path rejoined the road, and we were forced to walk some distance on the tiny pavement, cars flying past and terrifying our puppy. But all things considered, it was fantastic.
The one thing that did surprise us is how exhausted we were by the time we got home – still lots of preparation to be had if we are to commit to walking the Coast to Coast in May!
I’ve almost got what you could call a running pedigree. My grandmother was a track and field coach. My mother jumped hurdles. And when I was a kid, I used to spend my mornings before school running hills with 1kg weights strapped to my ankles. Not by choice, mind you, which is probably where the love-hate relationship with running stems from.
Nowadays, running and I are casual acquaintances at best. Following my marathon back in 2018, I took a long hiatus. Then I found trail running, which reignited my enthusiasm, but not for long. Now I run sporadically. And only when I sign up for a race do I remember what it is I love about the sport.
So when a friend moved to London and mentioned she’d love to take part in a running event, I signed us up to the Hampton Court Palace 10k.
The route took us along the River Thames, turning at Kingston Bridge, and through Hampton Court Park to the finish line. It was a glorious morning. We ran the entire distance in good spirits, bathed in sunshine.
I had immediately decreed that we weren’t running for time, we were running to enjoy ourselves. My friend had actually worked with a running coach before, and she told me that the important thing was to keep your pulse low. So we ran slowly, chatting the whole way.
But here’s the snag. I’m a competitive person by nature. So even though I told myself to relax and enjoy it, I couldn’t help but cringe whenever Strava would tell me I was averaging seven minutes a kilometre. Towards the end, my friend took pity on me, and I sprinted the last 400m.
Final result? 01:11:35, a full 24 minutes slower than my personal best. I immediately downloaded two books on ultramarathon running and began looking up races to do in 2022. The most tempting at this stage is a half marathon that goes up Mt Snowdon. So all things considered, this has been a rousing success.
Despite living in Latvia for only a third of my life (and not speaking Latvian beyond “es esmu resna un pelēka pele mežā, kura ēd mārrutkus”, which means “I am a fat grey mouse in the woods eating horseradish”), I am proud of my homeland.
It’s a complicated relationship, fraught with the complex identity politics prevalent in the post-Soviet space. There are many in Latvia who wouldn’t consider me Latvian at all. And there are many others like me, who, when they go abroad, introduce themselves as “from Latvia, but Russian”.
Nine years ago, I published a post dedicated to the academic research I was doing at the time. It began with a photograph I’d taken with three friends. Though we’ve since fallen out of touch, it reminded me of my persistent hope that national history won’t define interpersonal relationships. And though the geopolitical landscape has changed significantly since 2012, with Russia acting increasingly as an aggressor, the optimism of my post remains relevant even today. I’ve reposted it in full below.
Though at first glance, [the photograph above] is a snapshot from any tourist album, it captures something important to Latvia’s future: the friendship between people who would have, at one point, been considered enemies simply by nature of their heritage. Two pairs of feet in this photograph belong to German girls, one pair to a Latvian, and one pair to a Russian.
In an email correspondence, Valters Nollendorfs, the director of the Museum of the Occupation of Latvia, summarised Latvia’s 19th-20th century master narrative as that of:
“…the small emerging Latvian nation under the rule of Germans and Russians. It has to use all its cunning and strength manoeuvring between both, at times collaborating with one or the other until it succeeds in establishing an independent sovereign state with the help of distant friends in the West when the warring German and Russian empires collapse and no longer can control Latvian aspirations to be free.”
In other words, Latvia has consistently been torn between Germany and Russia – at one point constructing the enemy of Germans, and now constructing the enemy of Russians. In the paper I presented at the Negotiating Ideologies II conference in Edinburgh, I argued that it is precisely this disparate construction of historical narrative between Russia and Latvia which continues to creates problems for the two nations. However, using the example of the Latvian-Russian border disagreement, concluded in 2007, I demonstrated that narrative can be deconstructed for the sake of compromise.
Latvia and Russia immediately differed – and continue to differ – on their understanding of the Soviet Union’s legacy. When Russia accepted the USSR’s foreign assets and liabilities, it was perceived by Latvia to be a statement as to the Russian nation as a continuation, rather than a succession, of this entity – the difference being whether it also inherited the crimes committed by the former regimes, and must apologise for them.
Of course, the existing relationship between the two countries developed within a context influenced by history, memory, and by the unbalanced power relations of the past, and cannot be divorced from it. Because the Soviet narrative was – and is – often repeated by Russia, which has historically held the authority to speak for Latvia, the dispute between the two countries in regards to collective memory is intensified by Latvia’s national historiography having been repressed or censored within the USSR. Latvian independence, above all, meant the right to assert and seek recognition of its own construction of history and memory.
The main point of contestation was Russia’s insistence that Latvia joined the union voluntarily in 1940, as opposed having been occupied and its self-determination illegally suspended. Latvia’s historiography paints the interwar years as a flourishing, cultural awakening of the country and its people, whereas Russia continues to invoke the Latvian Riflemen’s role in the creation of the Soviet state – thereby challenging Latvia’s attempts to dictate its past.
Latvia’s government sought to establish a new identity, and to manifest and legitimise national aspirations and concerns internationally – an identity distinctly separate from the Soviet identity mandated previously. At the foundation of this identity lies the 1920 Soviet-Latvian Peace Treaty, which affirms Latvia’s grand narrative: the country was a modern, independent state, economically stable, with additional territory, and was betrayed by Soviet Russia, who went against this treaty in order to force Latvia into the USSR. In these terms, Latvia views its Soviet period as a suspension of independence, and the theme of its regained independence becomes the restoration of assets from this 1920 treaty. It is this document which Latvia attempted to justify, legally, in the physical manifestation of narrative incongruence.
The area which I refer to as Abrene-Pytalovo is the reason for the lengthy border dispute between Russia and Latvia. Though the territory historically belonged to Russia, in the 1920 treaty, it was signed over to Latvia and renamed Abrene. Shortly after Latvia joined the USSR, it was ‘gifted’ back to Russia. If Latvia were to win the legal case and regain Abrene-Pytalovo, it would go a long way in legitimising the Treaty, and hence its construct of identity.
Russia’s counter-argument relied on the 1975 Helsinki Final Act, and claims that the 1920 treaty was voided following Latvia’s entry into the USSR. As Russia believes itself to have inherited the Soviet Union’s treaties on the basis of succession principles, which simultaneously prompts Latvia to regard it as the continuation of the Soviet state, the 1920 treaty is arguably valid and applicable to contemporary Russia.
Stalemate, stemming from a confrontation of Latvia and Russia’s separate historical recollections and narratives and entering the physical realm through dispute over a territory which either are legally entitled to, continued. Latvia recognised its weaker position – both in the need to demonstrate to the European Union its ability for compromise, and through economic pressure from Russia – and officially renounced all claims to Abrene-Pytalovo in 2007.
Latvian political scientist Nils Muiznieks explains that, “politically, it was very difficult for the Latvian political elite to renounce all claims to Abrene, as this appeared to run counter to the grand narrative of restoration…it was only when the Constitutional Court engaged in some legal acrobatics and ruled that Abrene had not been a traditional part of core Latvian territory and that legal continuity was not at risk that the issue was resolved within Latvia and the border treaty could enter into force”.
Though, inevitably, the tensions arising from incompatible narratives will remain – Latvia and Russia, due to their reliance on these narratives as a means of national identity, may perhaps never agree on history – both have realised that relations must improve, and have used narrative compromise as a method of solving or bypassing these disagreements. The signing of the border treaty depicted a progression in how conflict is resolved between the two countries. Latvia demonstrated an ability to rework historical narrative for the benefit of improving foreign relations. If the improvement of this relationship is to continue, these compromises must emanate from both parties.
In retrospect, a 150km trek summitting two of the highest mountains in England over six days in the month of November was ambitious. I’ll attribute it to optimism. Or inexperience. So it’s not a surprise that it failed – or, rather, took on a life of its own.
Day 1 went exactly as planned. Starting from Ambleside on a rainy morning, my friend and I covered 20.2km on our way to Coniston. We followed the plan almost exactly, slight detour to climb atop Loughrigg Fell (336m) excepted.
It was raining throughout, but it wasn’t until we got past Tilberthwaite Gill Waterfall that we began to worry. Visibility was next to none, we hadn’t met anyone along the route bar an experienced fell runner, and the sun was beginning to set.
Still, our timing was nearly perfect. We got to our accommodation in Coniston just as dusk ascended.
If you had been watching the weather forecast, our Day 2 experience was to be expected. Our path was meant to go across the River Duddon, but once we made our way down, we realised that the water level had risen due to flooding.
I had already removed my hiking boots to cross when reason kicked in – or maybe it was the hailstorm knocking some sense into me. I put my shoes back on and we hurried back up to the road.
To get to our lodging for the night, we needed to head up to Hardknott Pass. Incredibly steep, but worth it for the views. Making it up a mountain is half the trouble – it’s on the way down that your knees begin to give out.
The sun began to set as we meandered through sleepy farms on our way to the village of Boot. 25.4km behind us, we finally reached the guesthouse. After a short wait, the landlady came to pick us up and relocate us to an inn with a fireplace and a hearty pub meal. No complaints here!
We decided that nearly 50km in two days meant we were due a break. So instead of setting off early the next morning, we enjoyed a leisurely breakfast and dialled a cab to take us to Wasdale Head. The plan was to quickly climb across Pillar (892m) and take the path between High Crag (745m) and Haystacks (597m), past the lake, and into Buttermere.
Initially, the weather was beautiful, with a rainbow greeting us as we made our way into the valley. But soon the clouds accumulated and the rainfall began. Clouds appear and dissipate quickly in valleys, so we were in for a few more showers and a few more dry spells.
Luckily, when we encountered the Black Beck river, we were enjoying a dry spell, because this river we did cross barefoot. Soon after, the ascent to Wind Gap began.
Given the weather, the scramble across the volcaniclastic rocks was nerve-wracking. And as we made our way up, the clouds descended, covering us in thick fog. They were gone by the time we arrived at Wind Gap, so we were rewarded with stunning views.
But it would appear our luck was running out. The climb to Pillar was fairly quick, but soon the fog had again enveloped us, and the view was limited to a few confused sheep in our immediate vicinity. When we started heading down, we couldn’t have predicted the peril awaiting us.
In good weather, descending Pillar would’ve been thrilling. After weeks of downpours, it was treacherous. On one side, a steep cliff edge. On the other, the jagged mountain wall. And ahead, slippery rocks blocking our path.
My brain went into survival mode. It took all my concentration to avoid any missteps as I cautiously talked us, quite literally, off the cliff. But situations like these are all about teamwork. Once we reached the marshy grassland and I saw how far we had yet to go, my friend assuaged my quiet panic with calm, measured steps.
The path had been washed away by the rain, so we made it up as we went along, caring little for the water soaking into our boots. It was a race against the sunset, trying to make it through the dark woodland while some remnants of light remained.
By the time we emerged from the woods onto a gravel road alongside the River Liza, we were cold, wet, and tired. Weighing our options, we called 999. There was barely any reception, but we got through, and within an hour, Cockermouth Mountain Rescue were on their way.
For the next 40 minutes, we walked resolutely towards them. So much so, that when the jeep finally appeared in front of us, they double checked it was us they were meant to be rescuing. As the driver confirmed into his radio, “the casualties appear to be in good spirits”.
Turns out, we had done exactly the right thing. Minus having the foresight to pack a headtorch, that is. We were taken to the station, given tea, and eventually driven to the hotel – that’s not usually part of the package, but none of the nine local taxi companies were answering the phone.
We’d learnt our lesson, so Day 4 consisted of the most straightforward route between Buttermere and Keswick that we could find. No adventures, just stunning mountain vistas from the comfort of a paved road. Keswick was a nice (temporary) reprieve from the wilderness. We shopped for souvenirs and enjoyed a pint at the local hikers’ pub, The Wainwright.
Day 5 was exactly what Day 3 was meant to be, but after the drama of Pillar, it was disappointingly anticlimactic. We strolled along Derwentwater, turning off at Ashness Bridge to reach High Seat (608m), descend to High Tove (515m), and make our way into Borrowdale to stay at the local YHA.
Our initial plan for Day 6 was to climb Helvellyn (950m) via Striding Edge, but given our recent experience, we decided against it. Not to mention the weather, which had again turned overcast with the occasional shower.
Instead, we were initiated into the unpredictability of country buses. One chose not to show up, one didn’t stop, and the one we finally caught apologised for being half an hour late. Three buses and 12km on the Railway Trail across the River Greta later, we made it to the Patterdale farm in which we’d be spending the night.
I’d been tracking our trip on AllTrails, and by the time we made it to Patterdale, our total distance (minus the 17km we did in Keswick and the two or three kilometres we walked towards our rescue car) had exceeded 100km. Satisfied, I turned off the tracker and acquiesced to taking a bus to Windermere the next day.
And it was lucky I did, because rainclouds covered Red Screes (776m), which we had planned to walk on our way into Ambleside and, subsequently, Windermere. Nothing was visible. The downpour had begun. We spent our final hours in the Lake District dashing from café to souvenir shop and back, trying in vain to stay dry, before boarding the train to Manchester and heading homewards.
Swordfoosh 