Salopians take on annual Scottish Islands Peaks Race

Another year, another ‘Peaks Race’ you may think, but there is never anything predictable about an event that is often described as one of the world’s great adventure races.

For a start, we had a whole new team: Fergus David (OS) our indomitable Adult Runner, Bob Stones our first class First Mate and our unruffled Skipper, Alasdair Darroch, upon whose generosity of spirit and competency this venture completely depended.

Watch their adventure here:

The long drive north saw us crossing the Scottish border in a heatwave; we just couldn’t get the minibus cool enough! Arriving late in Oban, midge capital of the world, we swiftly passed our kit inspections and headed to bed, praying for more wind in the morning.

Having brought the boat – a lithe Sweden Yachts 390 - round to the start line, Dom and Finlay were the Shrewsbury pair for the sprint start, a wee 4.5mile hill run. This was proceeded by the mass diving into the dinghies, a mad paddle through forty sailing yachts, to be finally heaved aboard by the cheering crew of Indigo! Squeezing past the narrow entrance, real wind was spotted up ahead; finally, the yachts could spread out, indeed literally in many cases as the cruising chutes were unleashed in a blaze of colourful glory.

Short lulls in the wind provided the chance for our crew to familiarise themselves with the yacht, swallow some sandwiches and drink plenty of water. By the time we hit the sound of Mull, the wind returned for real and all souls were commanded to sit out on the windward rail as we tacked in glorious sunshine alongside a sea of fellow competitors. Indeed, so fast were we that our arrival in Salen took us by surprise and it took us a couple of extra tacks to unleash the dinghy from the stern. Nevertheless, Sophia, Liv, Oscar, I, not to mention all the rucksacks, were soon dispatched, left to paddle ashore and then master staying dry-shod as we headed up for the obligatory five-minute kit check. With relief, we passed (failure means a long and lonely row out to the anchored yacht to collect the forgotten item…) and Team Shrewsbury soon headed off into what resembled an African savanna, such had been the strength of the sun in recent weeks.

Back aboard the boat there was a hive of activity in the galley as Bob served up chicken curry to his hungry fellow crew. At this early stage of the race there was little point in resting and so cards were played in the evening sun and the sheer splendour of the mountainous backdrop breathed in. Returning ashore to await our runners in the fading darkness, I was enveloped by clouds of midge as two by two the adult runners, head torches bobbing, returned from their 23 mile run up Ben More. The Youth Teams take an arguably more glorious circular route of 19 miles over Ben Talaidh and this year the sunset and surrounding scenery was just extraordinary. However, it was now 11pm and well and truly dark and so it was some relief that the shout ‘runners’ came through the dark and the heroes of the hour, Sophia and Liv returned, unscathed from their odyssey. Paddling out to the boat it became almost impossible for them to identify us, only cries of ‘Indigo’ from our exhausted dinghy ensured contact was eventually made!

It was now a long sail through the night in very light airs. Stemmed by the tide at Castle Duart, we worked the conveyor belt south when we could, but dawn broke with us in a soup, hardly able to see more than a hundred metres. The crew took to the oars, but this became a mere gesture as the weather seemed to be laughing at our desperate progress. But all of a sudden, as so often happens, the skies cleared and a terrific reaching wind blew us at great speed down the Sound of Jura, past the infamous Corryvreckan, George Orwell’s hideaway (Barnhill) and finally the Mordor-like Paps of Jura came into view, with the added bonus of a cloud inversion pouring its way between the imperious, Norse-like slag heaps.

At 6pm on Saturday, Craighouse was upon us, Alasdair took great delight in scaring us all as we crept inside the Small Isles, the hair-raising short cut saving us ten minutes on our rivals. Now it was the turn of Rowan, Archie and me to pass the kit check, pound along the turquoise bay and then leave all sense of civilisation behind as we took to the bogs, boulders, adders and tics that are the trademarks of a run on Jura! The tough terrain made it slow going, with ample time to take in the epic sights that enveloped us. Ashore, the rest of the crew went swimming, visited the local store and even the (closed down) distillery. Meanwhile we found ourselves on top of the final Pap in near darkness, giving us a truly hazardous descent (no paths on this run), before arriving bruised and battered onto the tiny tarmac road and the awaiting yacht.

Setting off once more, we were greeted by yet another of those seemingly once in a lifetime sights: ethereal images of headtorches pouring down the side of the final Pap as we bobbed on a flat, inky calm sea. It was now 3am on Sunday morning and an important decision had to be made. Knowing they had to be back in school for Monday morning, one by one the Youth Teams took to their engines with great reluctance. Even now, it was going to be a late Sunday finish and so it was with relief that we went around the major headland of the Mull of Kintyre without too much of the dreaded mal de mer that had so afflicted previous races.

Another beautiful day dawned and by 1pm poor Finlay, Dom and Fergus were back on again in the searing heat to tackle the mighty 19 mile run up Goat Fell and back. The rest of us took in the delights of Lamlash Bay, feasting on Bob’s ice creams, eating lunch in a civilized manner on deck and then deciding to jump recklessly into the sea from the boat – was this really Scotland? Like the weather, the boys completed their Arran leg in a blistering time, and we set of for the final stint, arriving in Troon at 9.30pm, running up the pier and finishing our longest race yet.

As expected, without a fuss, everyone leapt into the minibus, arriving back in Shrewsbury at 4.30am, ready for 8.15am Call Over! Although we missed out to Windermere School this year, coming second ahead of Fettes and Glenalmond, it had been a truly magical weekend, blessed by the weather and a very compatible crew. Each one embodied the spirit of Kipling, indeed the race: ‘If you can meet with triumph and disaster. And treat those two impostors just the same.’

Sam Griffiths

Teacher i/c Scottish Islands Peak Race