Remember school geography trips? Those blissful days during the summer term where you’d be released from school to go and collect test tubes of river water, stare at different coloured rocks and generally traipse about in a field?
Well, I was lucky enough to grow up on the Jurassic Coast in the South West of England and our geography field trips were numerous. They included one particularly memorable outing to Durdle Door in 1996 – a time when I was more interested in boys than I was in coastal erosion (now it’s probably the other way around, sorry chaps).
Though I don’t recall much of what we learned that day (let’s be honest, longshore drift is one of the most boring topics in geography) I do remember being blown away by the beauty of the place and feeling lucky to be there on a hot summer’s day during the school term.
22 years later (yikes!), in June 2018, I returned to the very same stretch of coastline for one of the most gruelling uphill struggles of my life thus far – the Jurassic Coast Mighty Hike.
The Jurassic Coast Mighty Hike is an annual charity event run by Macmillan Cancer Support that attracts hundreds of participants (around 1500 in 2018). They do them in various locations – the Peak District, the Lakes, Hadrian’s wall – but I felt compelled to try out the route near where I had grown up, knowing it would be a tough challenge. It involves hiking 22 miles along the South West Coast Path between Weymouth and Corfe Castle – not something to be taken lightly.
In the spirit of uphill struggling, I signed up for the event in January as a kind of New Year’s Resolution. I vowed to go it alone too, without my trusty Passepartout to spur me on or deal with my Wainwright wobbles. No doubt I was curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine at the time, imagining the romantic scenario of a long summer hike that you only dream of in the depths of winter when you’ve forgotten just how irritating and uncomfortable it is to be very, very hot.
June came around quickly and I realised I was underprepared.
Feeling nervous, I dragged Pete on a training hike a fortnight before the big day to experience some of the route. It was a windy and rather drizzly Saturday and we walked from Osmington Mills to Lulworth Cove and back again – a mere 14 miles of the 22-mile stretch I would be walking from Weymouth to Corfe.
I felt much better after the training hike.
I knew that 22 miles would be tougher than 14 but I’d convinced myself that we had trudged along the *worst* part of the walk.
I was wrong.
Shortly after our initial visit to the coast, a heatwave began – the likes of which the UK hadn’t seen since 1976. The forecast for the day of the hike was 27°C (80°F) with a light breeze. This might not seem too bad, but when you are walking 22 miles along an exposed coastline for an entire day then, believe me, it’s bad.
I hadn’t banked on walking in heat and had to rush around at the last minute buying various things to make sure I didn’t dehydrate or get too hot – this included a 2L bladder, which turned out to be absolutely necessary and made me feel like I had levelled up from novice to amateur hiker.
Here’s a picture of my kit:
With my little Berghaus rucksack packed to bursting, I arrived in Weymouth at early-o’clock on the day of the event where I was greeted by the shrill, overly effusive tones of a Zumba warm-up (why? Macmillan, why?).
It was 7 a.m on a Sunday morning and I was, to put it mildly, anxious and crabby.
Still, the atmosphere was encouraging and it felt fantastic to be part of the sea of green Macmillan t-shirts that set off from the seafront.
To begin with, the route was nice and easy, ascending a few small hills as we made our way to Ringstead Bay.
It was five miles to the first pit stop and I spent it intermittently sucking warm, plastic-tasting water through the large straw jutting out of my pack. I overtook many people and, I have to admit, for the first time in my hiking life I felt like I might actually be relatively fit.
When I reached the pit stop it was 9.30 and starting to heat up.
Macmillan put on an excellent spread and there were gallons of water, tea and coffee, muffins, cakes, Kitkats, crisps, fruit and various other welcome treats. I snaffled the last chocolate muffin in the tray and refilled my water bladder, having already drunk 2 litres (which is more than I’d usually have in a whole day, let alone by 9.30am).
The next section of the hike was the one Pete and I had traversed two weeks before, though the heat now made it ten times harder.
Here we are heading up out of Ringstead Bay via White Nothe:
White Nothe is the first in a series of relatively modest but steep hills that I’ve since christened ‘the Rollercoaster’:
The pictures do not do justice to the steepness of these hills but I can tell you that everyone was struggling now and we were all wondering what the hell we’d got ourselves into:
Descending was just as bad and had to be done very carefully:
As soon as you reached the bottom, it was time to repeat the process. Up …
… and down.
By the time I got down to Durdle Door, I was hotter than a McDonalds apple pie.
I knew that lunch was waiting for me at Lulworth Cove, just on the other side of the next hill, but I’d run out of my disgusting warm water (that’s 4L down) and was sucking on the last few drops of a Lucozade Sport drink to keep me going.
During my research about walking in heat I’d read up on replacing electrolytes. A lot of people neglect this, thinking water will suffice, but losing salts can also be a big problem when hiking in heat (the first sign that you need to replace them is random muscle cramps). And whilst drinks like Lucozade Sport (or Gatorade in the US) do contain these vital salts, they also pack in a LOT of sugar so aren’t ideal in the long term.
I had tried an electrolyte tablet once before and found it to be utterly revolting. These are effervescent tablets that you add to water to help replace salts during exercise in warm conditions (or when you have the sh*ts). They claim to be ‘orange’ or ‘lime’ flavoured but really they taste like medicine and death.
Instead, I opted for crisps and bananas, which became my staple foods for the day. At Durdle Door I took a few minutes to gather myself and eat a banana before I set off up the steep hill to Lulworth Cove.
Soon, the lunch tents came into view. We were now 10 miles into the trek.
In my head I’d been dreaming (over-optimistically) of an air-conditioned lunch hall, complete with luxury buffet and free massages by Channing Tatum look-a-likes. But when I sat down sweatily on a plastic garden chair, inside a boiling hot tent, with a paper plate full of pasta, the reality of the situation hit me: I wasn’t going to escape the heat. I suddenly lost my appetite and started to feel very anxious, nauseous and dizzy.
I was sweating profusely (which is a good thing. It’s when you stop sweating that you should start worrying). I took off my hat and the mass of curly hair underneath stayed where it was, attractively plastered to my scalp. My face was covered in salty sweat and I felt like I was giving off as much heat as a 4-bar electric fire.
I had to get outside again and try and find some respite from the heat so I forced the pasta down and headed back out into the glaring sun.
There wasn’t any shade so I sat inside a hedge as far as I could get, not caring that there were brambles sticking into me. Suitably uncomfortable, I studied the statistics for the route, hoping that I could at least say I was over half way and that the worst was over.
Neither was true:
As you can see, Lulworth Cove was not even half way and the hills I had just climbed and descended were child’s play compared to what lay ahead.
I thought of quitting. I wouldn’t be able to do it all would I? I realised I was sitting by the medical tent, where it looked like two people were already hooked up to saline drips because they were overheating. That would be me soon, I thought.
I sat for about thirty minutes debating whether to go home. The temptation was great and I could see various people limping towards a sign that said ‘Shuttle Bus.’ The crazy over-reacter inside me told me if I continued I would die here, on the Jurassic Coast, where I once went on a geography trip. This would be it. I’d dehydrate myself to beyond prune-like desiccation and later collapse in a powdery heap over the edge of a cliff. There’d be helicopters. I’d be on the news. Cause of death: dehydration due to idiotic overdose of crisps and bananas.
I walked down to the beach thinking I’d have a look at the next bit and then decide whether to go home or go on.
Once on the pebbles, I followed the beach to the end, thinking ‘I can still turn back if I want to.’
Then I went a little further…
The adrenalin returned as I walked a little further still. Soon I felt determined to keep going. That is, until I saw this:
Sh*t.
A complete toddler-like stubbornness in my brain said ‘well, you’re not doing THAT!’
And it wasn’t just me. A lot of people were similarly gawping at the horror in front of them, congregating around a picnic bench (the picnic bench of turmoil) and debating whether to head back. Some were genuinely crying at the prospect.
I stood for a good few minutes at the picnic bench of turmoil, transfixed by this caution sign as my brain ran through scenarios involving helicopters and my melted body being scraped from the beach.
Despite the best efforts of my inner Wainwright wobbler, I decided to go on.
Halfway up the hill I regretted my decision.
Not only was it very steep, but the path was narrow and close enough to the edge to be vertigo-inducing.
Other people were really struggling now too as the midday sun beat relentlessly down on the backs of our necks.
I had to climb (politely) over those who had collapsed with exhaustion on the narrow path. It was like the opening scenes of a post-apocalyptic film. I sprayed some of them with Magicool (with their permission of course, not like some kind of crazed loon) and shared my sweets out to the conscious ones (jk, it wasn’t quite that bad).
As I neared the top, the path got narrower and there were more people to clamber over. Climbing around them meant getting closer to the cliff edge and, as I did so, I pointlessly clung on to tufts of grass that would not have saved me if I’d fallen. The grass was smouldering and burnt from the heatwave, giving off an acrid smell that filled your lungs and made the whole ordeal even more unappealing – it really was hell.
After a while I just stared at my feet and hoped that if I collapsed I would fall forward onto the path and not backwards over the edge of the cliff.
Eventually, I reached the top where the bodies of collapsed, knackered people were strewn about. I decided not to stop. The sun was at its peak and the burning stench made the heat even more unbearable.
Then, as you can see, the next hill loomed in the distance.
This hill, known as Bindon Hill, was not quite so steep and the path was nice and wide and away from the edge. But it did seem to go on and on forever and everyone was knackered with no escape from the sun.
At this point, people were actively vomiting. I told you it was apocalyptic.
The descent from Bindon hill was steep and it took a lot of concentration and time to get down safely. But the view of the bay below was incredible:
At the bottom I tried to find shade to rest for a minute but there was none.
I felt I was running on empty so I took a brief detour to the beach, where I dunked my white shirt in the freezing cold sea and put it on soaking wet. And let me tell you, dear reader, I don’t think I have ever experienced such bliss. I will remember that feeling for the rest of my life and I vowed at that moment never again to complain about being cold or wet.
For some reason – at what must have been a low ebb for most people – this is where Macmillan decided to position one of their official photographers and he snapped me in my now renewed state and soaking wet shirt:
The next hill wasn’t so bad as a light breeze was now blowing through my dampened shirt and acting as a most effective wearable air-conditioning unit. I followed the stream of people as we clambered to the top:
There are no pictures of the next section of the hike. My beautiful air-conditioning shirt had dried and I was too hot and too knackered (and had completely run out of water) to care about documenting my progress any more. I think I spent the next half hour staring at the red backpack of the person in front of me and dreaming of ice cream and cold showers.
The path began to curve inland at this point and when we reached the bottom of the hill we were greeted by a row of trees throwing glorious shade over the path. Everyone huddled together in the shade like cattle in a field and what had been a very quiet and solemn trudge through the blazing sun suddenly exploded into relieved chatter about whether we’d finished all the hills yet.
There was, however, one more to go. And it was a biggie.
But first the route took us through the shady ghost town of Tyneham.
Tyneham was evacuated in 1943 during WWII and taken over by the military for training. Much of the village is in ruin, the buildings have been used in military exercises since the 1940s and an eerie silence pervades. The abandoned schoolhouse, still with coat hooks labelled with the names of children schooled there in 1943, and the ruined cottages all added to the apocalyptic vibe of the last few hours.
Sadly, I was too far gone to appreciate Tyneham. All I could think about was how thirsty I was and that I had to climb a massive hill before I could refill my bladder. We were about 15 miles in with 7 to go but I knew that if I could just reach the top of the final big hill then I could make it to the finish line.
Again, there are no photos of this section. The hill was hard going but, at the top, like a mirage in the desert, I spotted the flags of the final pit stop. There was water … and fruit … and Kitkats … and crisps … and CAKE. As I approached, smiling faces congratulated us for making it this far. We were now at 17 miles.
I sat for 30 minutes in the shade eating my weight in bananas, crisps, muffins and other baked goods. I even popped a couple of those disgusting electrolyte tablets into my water and now, when my body needed them, they were delicious.
People were arriving here and there in various states of exhaustion. I saw someone who had collapsed being attended to by medics. Another person was throwing up. It was odd. This was only a hike along the Dorset coast after all – wasn’t it?
Feeling extraordinarily revived after my miniature feast, I practically bounded out of the pit stop and passed this signpost telling me our destination, Corfe Castle, was now only 4.5 miles away.
Knowing there were no more big hills to tackle, I finally started to enjoy myself and appreciate the beautiful views again:
In the distance I could see as far as Poole and an overwhelming feeling of achievement began to set in.
I had walked here all the way from Weymouth. I had never hiked this far in my entire life and to do so on such a hot day, with such gruelling hill climbs, wasn’t bad for someone who has wimped out of far less difficult challenges in the past.
By mile 20, I was feeling utterly brilliant as the ruined castle – our final destination – poked its head over the edge of the hill:
I’d bloody done it.
Although I didn’t have a fanbase waiting for me at the end, the atmosphere was incredible. As we crossed the finish line we were given our medals and a glass of Prosecco (which I threw away – it really was the last thing I wanted at that point).
I sat in the food tent eating pizza and contemplating what I had just done. I think there were tears.
Whilst 22 miles may not seem like a long way to some, it was a big deal for me and for many of the other participants that day. I’ve since found out that the Jurassic Coast Hike is considered to be the most difficult of all the Macmillan Mighty Hikes because of those hills. The fact that we did it during a heatwave makes it seem like even more of an achievement.
I walked for 11 hours (including rest stops), coming 692 out of about 1500 people. I later learned that around 300 participants dropped out, many of them at the final pit stop. But I was just glad to have completed it, something that would have been unthinkable the previous year. My uphill struggler adventures had primed me for this and my physical fitness and stamina have increased noticeably ever since. I learned a lot about myself – my physical and mental limits are far more flexible than I’d originally thought. I am stronger than I ever gave myself credit for. I did this alone. No-one forced me. No-one came along for the ride to help me along. I only had myself there – and a load of random strangers – to tell me to keep going. I purposefully made this a solo challenge to push the boundaries of my own self determination. And it worked.
Now the question is: what do I sign up for next year?
If you want to see more pictures and some video footage of the hike, I made a little vlog of my Jurassic Coast Hike.
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