Max and Sam tackle the OMM

Max and Sam at the start

I've spent this weekend in the Cheviot Hills as support driver for Max and Sam who have been tackling the OMM - the Original Mountain Marathon.

This is a two-day event over a cross-country mountain course requiring stamina and compass skills. It was Max's third marathon and Sam's first.

The event is held at a different place each year and the venue is kept secret until quite late so that people can't recce the course beforehand. It's always somewhere remote and you can pretty much guarantee that it will be cold and wet.

The starting point was a place called Clennell Hall. I'm sure that on a beautiful summer's day, Clennell Hall is like heaven on earth and I imagine they get two or three days like that each year. Every other day the wind will be howling, the clouds skitting over the hills and the snow falling, rain or hail lashing. Clennell is in the Cheviot Hills and there's a rule of thumb that says anywhere that has a breed of sheep named after it is likely to be cold and bleak.

Every stone and tree in the place is covered with lichen. It's a fine old stone-built house with an attached sheep farm and some byres which would have once housed cattle for milk I guess. There's also a static caravan site where folk can escape Newcastle or Sunderland for the weekend. We bumped into a couple from the caravan site; they had a pair of little dogs (furkids) so we got talking to them. They wondered what on earth was going on and when we explained, they couldn't believe so many people would want to run across mountains.

We had been keen to get to Clennell Hall before dark and despite a long diversion due to a landslip across the road, we managed to be one of the first there. I parked the car in a field that was soon going to be a quagmire and we got the large two-man tent pitched for Max and Sam (I was going to sleep in the car). Once that was done and they'd registered, there was nothing to do except have a little supper and a beer, then bed.

I was warm enough with a sleeping bag in the car, but I'd parked not far from a massive floodlight, so it was like sleeping in the middle of a football pitch. The floodlight was switched off about midnight and there were some beautiful stars in the dark sky. This part of the country has the darkest skies in England.

Next morning was cold and clear. The start was about a mile up a track from Clennell Hall, so we all walked up there for the off. Sam was feeling the cold, but Max seemed fine. They both had fell-running shoes, Lycra suits and warm clothing. They also have to carry all the gear they need, including a light two-man tent, sleeping bags, food and survival gear.

We had to wait around for a while, but then they were off, straight up a hill towards the tops. They'd camp out overnight and I'd see them next day around lunchtime. On the way back to Clennell Hall, I bumped into Toby and Charles Knights, who were also doing the OMM. We thought we might have seen them the night before, but they’d arrived really late – Charlie had flown from Bristol to Newcastle after work and Toby had met him there. Soon they’d be hot on Max’s tail.

For me, I had to amuse myself for a day and a night. I was booked into a pub called the Anglers Arms but I couldn't take my room up until mid afternoon, so I had plenty of time to kill. First job was to take down Sam and Max's tent and stow it in the car. There was a brisk wind blowing, so there were a few comedic moments, but I've taken down enough tents on windy days to know to keep the end pegged until you're ready to roll. I packed it fairly loosely as it would need to dry out back home before being put in store.

After that was done I went for a cup of tea and a bacon roll in a couple of big tents that had been erected as a canteen. I got talking to a middle-aged woman who was starting the OMM in an hour. It was her first OMM. Her partner had done quite a few. He looked about my age, but clearly much, much fitter. He'd also done the Iceland OMM a couple of years ago and had combined that event with his honeymoon. "Wow," I said to the woman. "How did you feel about that?"

There was an awkward silence before she said: "I'm not his wife."

Not his wife, but sharing his tent tonight ... there's clearly another side to the OMM!

After uncovering the OMM swingers, I drove back towards the A1 via a more direct route and saw the road-closed signs that had caused us such trouble the day before. It was on a road that cut across between two A-roads and, had I known, it would have been easy to just carry on along the main roads rather than the unclassified route we took. Later, in the pub, I heard that it had been closed for over a year.

Rothbury is the first large-ish place you reach and it's a nice-looking small town, but in autumn all towns in Northumberland look rather severe. I headed on until I reached the A697 and then headed south to Morpeth. This is a larger place, an attractive market town with a ring-road, a big supermarket and quite a lot of new development towards the eastern side. Its big attraction is free parking, but to park free in the main car park, you have to buy a card to stick on your dashboard. I got parked up, but didn't know where the place was to buy the card, so I drove on grumbling about unnecessary bureaucracy.

There was another car park about 200 metres further on and this was free with no card needed, so I parked there. It was a short walk into town. I thought I might do some Christmas shopping and have some lunch. Morpeth is a little like Stamford, although not quite as pretty, and of course they are both towns on the A1, so would have had plenty of inns and a steady flow of travellers to swell the coffers.

I wandered around doing some window shopping, the sun had come up and it was actually quite a pleasant day. I wanted to find a nice cafe where I could have some lunch and read the paper and it took me a while to find the right place. It was through an alley and on the back of the main street, but I got a tight table for two near the window and ordered tea plus poached eggs on toast. It was about noon when I went in and, clearly, I had timed it just right because it filled up very quickly. As I was leaving there were around eight people outside waiting for tables. They were pleased to see someone leave, but disappointed it was just one person.

Warkworth castle

I'd pretty much done Morpeth, so decided to fill up with diesel and drive along the coast road towards Alnwick. I took the A197 to Newbiggin-by-the-Sea, but turned off on the coast road (the A189) before the town. The coast road is a disappointment because it is a mile or two away from the coast and there are no sea views - if you're expecting a Monaco style Corniche, you'll be disappointed. Despite the brown tourist signs, this is a dull featureless A-road on a wide flat plain away from the coast.

I should really have turned off and followed some smaller roads nearer to the sea, but the A189 did improve further north. At Warkworth, there is a well-preserved castle and the road winds up the hill past the castle and through a pretty little town. This part of England was border country in the Middle Ages and was fortified against those aggressive Scots. Warkworth was besieged twice by the Scots in 1327 without success. It was also damaged during the English Civil War.

Alnwick - once all traffic would have squeezed through this gate

From Warkworth, the road continues to Alnmouth and Alnwick. Alnmouth stands very prettily and before you get there, you’ll see signs for Shilbottle – the village featured in a Stewart Lee comedy routine. I was going to take a picture of the sign and send it to Tom, but that’s the sort of thing you do when there’s someone to egg you on, someone to share it with. When you’re on your own, you feel a bit daft standing there with your iPhone taking a picture of a road sign. Someone might pull up and say: “What are you doing?” what would you say ... hang on – I’m sounding like a Stewart Lee sketch!

Really nice ruin - Eldringham Castle

Alnwick is another town that the A1 has bypassed. Once all traffic heading north would have passed through the town gate. These days, traffic into the town can cause a bottleneck and on Saturday afternoon, there was nowhere to park easily. I followed a sign to a long stay car park, but like many of these signs it simply led me out of town, so I got grumpy with Alnwick and headed west on the B6341.

Things soon start to get bleak and threatening and after a few miles, there’s a lovely ruin to the north of the road called Eldringham Castle. This is worth a stop and detour. It’s the ruin of a fortified mediaeval manor and a reminder of how this country was raided and fought over by the Scots for a couple of hundred years. The Scots didn’t reduce it to its current state, however, that was plain old redundancy and neglect.

I carried on until I reached the A697 and if I carried straight on, I realised I’d come to Rothbury, so now I knew my way back. It was time enough for me to check into my B&B, so I drove to the Angler’s Arms, which turned out to be a very nice place on the banks of the River Coquet, which flows down to the sea past (and around) Warkworth Castle further east. My room was splendid and I spent the afternoon in the bar, drinking beer and doing my Spanish homework. I was spending a more comfortable day than Sam and Max, that’s for sure.

Whenever I’m on my own, I’ll always go for a steak and that’s what I did this evening. It was a really nice meal and for a treat, I had an Irish coffee to finish. It was a treat too far – Irish coffee in the north of England has gone the same way as hot chocolate and is topped with squirty cream! I was too shocked to complain, so spooned the cream off and drank the coffee.

Of course, my high calorie intake continued next morning with a full English breakfast and there were actually a few anglers staying at the Angler’s Arms. The Coquet is a salmon river, but no-one had managed to land one yet. It had been quite wild and windy during the night and there had also been some lashing rain. I’d arranged to meet Sam and Max around 2pm back at Clennell Hall, but I’d got nothing better to do, so I bought some papers and headed up there to see what was happening. I must have got there about 10am and a chap told me the event had been shortened due to high winds. Right on cue, the finish-line gantry blew over!

One or two people were already arriving, so I hung around the finish line to see if I could spot them. There is no mass finish, competitors show up in dribs and drabs and some of them were walking over the line, clearly struggling. I know it's a phased start, but I was starting to get a little worried that Max and Sam hadn't managed to get past some of these crocks!

There was no sign of the randy old git from yesterday morning - perhaps he was still zipped up in his double sleeping bag?

Toby and Charles arrived, sprinting over the line. They were hoping for a good position and finally finished eighth. They'd seen Max and Sam, but had taken a different route back - most people had gone through some woods and around a large hill, but Max and Sam had headed straight up it.

They crossed the finish line about half an hour later, not quite sprinting, but at a good run and were placed 44th overall. The first time Max and Toby did the event they were 88th, so I think that was pretty good. The consensus was that the woods was a better route than the hill, but Max and Sam had got slightly lost in some woods the day before, so they had steered clear.

Sam was still cold and last night had been pretty miserable in the tent. We made good time coming back and Sam soon warmed up in the car. Both have vowed that this OMM will be their last.

Max and Sam at the finish

Let’s hear it for St Paschal – king of the graveyard

St Paschal, the King of the Graveyard
- $150 on eBay

I am much enjoying my U3A Spanish lessons. I wish I’d learned Spanish at school instead of French, it’s a much more fun language and probably a more fun people as well (sorry France – you do have some great ski resorts).

Today we were told that we should have a name saint and were set the task of choosing one.

There is a Saint Eric, but he’s Swedish, so wrong part of the world.

The old traditions give you a name day and Eric’s name day is 17 May. Next step is to relate your name day to a suitable saint and I have selected St Paschal Baylon.

He’s quite a guy, most saints are a bit dry and dusty - St Eric (a Swedish king) paid for the bible to be translated, lots more just got killed by the Romans, the Wenns, the Japanese ... in fact almost every race, when first faced with a preacher, thought it best to kill him.

Anyway, St Paschal was a bit more of an action man, especially after he died, when he became a walking, talking skeleton. He also cured half the sick in Villareal. Speech therapy and ophthalmology were among his many skills.

My name saint was born at Torrehermosa, in Aragon, on 24 May 1540, on the Feast of Pentecost, called the "Pasch" (passover) in Spain, hence the name Paschal.

His parents were peasants and he spent his youth as a shepherd. When he was 24, he joined the Franciscans. He chose to live in poor monasteries because, he said: "I was born poor and am resolved to die in poverty and penance." He certainly wasn’t a Tory voter!

He was a mystic and contemplative, and he had frequent ecstatic visions. He died on 17 May, which is his current feast day, in 1592.

His tomb is in the Royal Chapel in Villareal, in the old province of Valencia, where he died, and it immediately became an object of pilgrimage. Beatified by Paul V in 1618, he was canonised by Alexander VIII on 16 October 1690.

The best part about St Paschal is that 40 years before he was canonised, an indigenous Guatemalan who was dying of fever claimed to have had a vision of a sainted Paschal Baylon, appearing as a robed skeleton. The bony vision said if he was made a saint, he’s save the town from fever but the man having the vision would die in nine days. The sick man told everyone what he'd seen and it all subsequently happened – a classic case of “shooting the messenger”.

The event became the basis of the heterodox tradition of San Pascualito, a folk saint venerated in Guatemala and the Mexican state of Chiapas. He is called "King of the Graveyard."

His veneration is associated with the Latin American cult of death and may be related to the worship of a pre-Columbian death god. You’ll not be surprised to hear that none of this is approved by the Roman Catholic Church.

Sadly, the Catholic gift shop online has no memorabilia to offer for San Pascualito or St Paschal (St Christopher seems to have the market sewn up), but there are plenty of representations of SP available on eBay, usually as a skeleton, sometimes caped or wearing a crown.

His name is also used by a Mexican heavy metal band. These are their CD covers (below) and you can see/hear them on YouTube.

Bizarrely, there’s also a primary school in Liverpool devoted to St Paschal. The school’s website has a lot of information about the great man, but doesn’t mention the South American death cult. 

Apparently, after his death, sick people came in large numbers and many were cured. The official accounts of Paschal’s canonisation tell of no less than 25 miracles that were wrought during the three days that the body was lying in state before the altar!

A man who could not speak for 40 years began to talk; a blind man took the hand of St Paschal and touched it to his eyes and was cured instantly ... and so it goes on, one miracle after another.

Even the king of Spain shipped up to pay his respects (he knew a bandwagon when he saw one).

I don’t know why, but his tomb was opened several times to see whether decomposition had set in and each time it had not. At the Pope’s request, the tomb was opened again in 1611, 19 years after Paschal’s death, and still the body was well preserved! This fact is sworn to by official medical witnesses who conducted a scientific examination, although I’m not sure what scientific examination would have been conducted in 1611?

So perhaps we should open him up now and see whether he’s still in one piece? Sadly, during the Red Terror at the time of the Spanish Civil War (1936-1939), his grave was desecrated and his relics burned by anti-clerical leftists (bloody leftists!).

So this is my name saint, a living skeleton who can cure all ills, inspiration to Latin American rockers and a patron of English primary education. I’ll raise a glass to him on May 17th.