What it was like taking part in the Keswick Mountain Festival adidas Terrex 10k Trail Run over Cat Bells and along Derwentwater.
There are easier ways to start a Sunday in the Lake District, but few that feel quite as gloriously outdoorsy as sitting on the deck of a boat, watching rain clouds gather overhead while Cat Bells emerges from the mist like a challenge issued directly by the weather. The Keswick Mountain Festival adidas Terrex 10k Trail Run had been circled in my calendar for months – a promise to myself, a nudge to keep moving through a difficult winter, and, if I’m honest, an excellent excuse for a boat ride.
I’d signed up at the encouragement of my friend Fiona, a real runner, the sort who actually trains. I know that having semi‑regular running events in my diary is good for me, and after the relative success of the Westonbirt 10k last year, the KMF 10k Trail Run became my 2026 event of choice. Sadly for Fiona, there was no race for her this time thanks to an unfortunate series of events that left her both injured and sporting a very burnt foot. You’ll have to ask her about that one.
And just like Westonbirt, my training was patchy at best. This time it wasn’t a cracked rib derailing things, but grief – heavy, lingering, and often making motivation feel like wading through treacle. Even so, I knew I could cover 10km. I knew I could run it slowly or hike it quickly if my stamina ran out. And I knew the terrain: Cat Bells and Derwentwater have been familiar companions over the years. Running them as part of an organised event felt like stepping into a familiar story told in a new way – the same beloved landscape, but with a different kind of purpose.
Starting with a Boat Ride
The boat ride to Low Brandlehow was an excellent way to begin. I was in the 10am tranche, so by 9.30am I was at the Keswick boat launch with my fellow runners, all of us huddled under waterproofs and swapping nervous jokes. I felt that jittery mix of nerves and excitement: the awareness that I hadn’t really trained properly (whatever ‘properly’ means), balanced by a quiet confidence that I’d finish. More than anything, I wanted to enjoy it, to run along the Cat Bells terrace with views sweeping across to Keswick, to feel the rain on my face if that’s what the day demanded, and to cross the finish line with some energy left.
The start line was a blur of colour – jackets, hats, and one very committed fancy‑dress costume. The organisers told us this was the first year a dinosaur had taken part, and he proved it by roaring periodically, which made every runner smile. After a quick pep talk, the horn sounded and we surged south into the woods, a river of runners threading through dripping branches.
The rain thickened as we ran, turning the path where it was exposed to the sky into a slippery ribbon of mud. Even so, the woodland was beautiful in that atmospheric Lake District way: wet earth, green leaves shining, Derwentwater glimpsed through the trees like a sheet of hammered silver. It felt wild and wonderful and exactly the kind of setting that makes a trail run feel like an adventure rather than an athletic endeavour.
Somewhere early on, we passed the famous Ted in a Shed, a local legend who sits in his tiny lakeside hut. I once did a whole walk this way just to meet him, so spotting him mid‑race felt like a small and joyful bonus.
Views from Cat Bells
Here and there the path narrowed, forcing us into single file, and I found myself more than content with the pace of whoever happened to be in front of me at the time. The pack had already begun to spread out – the faster runners already well ahead, the rest of us settling into our own comfortable shuffles. It was oddly nice to be swept along by the small cluster I’d fallen in with. Including our friendly roaring dinosaur.
The climb onto the Cat Bells terrace felt long, asking for endurance I didn’t really have enough of. My uphill hiking was faster than other people’s running where I resorted to it. Not by much, but enough to give me a tiny spark of enthusiasm. My calves burned, my jacket clung cold against my arms, and yet I felt calm. This was familiar terrain, even in unfamiliar form. We paused briefly to let a group of KMF mountain bikers pass – a reminder that the festival is a glorious jumble of events all happening at once — and then continued upwards.
And then the terrace opened out, undulating just beneath the back of this famous hill. Even under cloud, even with rain sweeping across the fells, the view was spectacular. Keswick lay softened by mist, and Derwentwater stretched out in shifting greys. This was the moment I’d imagined; running along that ledge, feeling the height and the space and the weather all at once.
Somewhere along the terrace, the official race photographer stood stoically in the rain, capturing every soggy runner who passed. My photo, included in the event fee, turned out brilliantly I reckon. A small, joyful souvenir of a very wet adventure.
Fuelled by Crisps
The descent to Hawes End was slippery – not a full quagmire, but a wet, root‑strewn, gravelly path that made me slow down for fear of an inelegant slide into the undergrowth. I’d chosen not to carry water, knowing there’d be hydration midway and at the finish, and because I never take water on 10km runs at home. So the sight of the aid station was very welcome indeed.
It was stocked with water, coke, (damp) crisps, Haribo – elite fuelling by any measure. I let a woman borrow my cup as she tried to hydrate by scooping water into her hands, and somewhere behind us the dinosaur roared again, still going strong. People grinned at each other through the rain, sharing that camaraderie that appears whenever strangers are doing the same thing at the same time, together but not together. I realised I was quite determined not to be beaten by a man in an inflatable costume, so once I’d inhaled a handful of crisps, and before I got too cold, I got myself moving for the final stretch.
Towards the End
From Hawes End, all the trail run distances merged, following the same route back into Keswick. The Cumbria Way (read my story about hiking it) felt like a homeward path; familiar, gentle, and lined with Sunday walkers who were wonderfully supportive. This wasn’t a closed route, so the paths were still open to the public, but there were no issues at all. People stepped aside with smiles, offered encouragement, and seemed genuinely delighted to see a stream of bedraggled runners trotting past.
The chatter that had filled the early miles had faded now; everyone was locked into their own rhythm, the soft thud of feet and the patter of rain forming a kind of collective heartbeat. I always knew I’d finish, but I wanted to finish well, with enough energy to run across the line rather than stumble. My legs were tired but not spent, my lungs steady, and the rain felt oddly therapeutic. Weather that doesn’t care who you are or how well you trained has a way of simplifying things. It just asks you to keep going.
Having run past Lingholm Estate (I knew I had a Fellside Sauna booked for the following week) and the marina, the route was pretty much flat. But as is always the case for me, the last couple of kilometres into and through Keswick felt like a very long way. The course was well signed, so I knew how far I had left – even without a watch or Strava – but the end took us on one of those looping detours that makes you wonder if the finish line is secretly being moved further away each year. Still, there was something reassuring about that winding approach: a reminder that even the drawn‑out bits are part of the adventure.
Across the Finish Line
Eventually Crow Park came into view, festival flags bright against the grey sky, the noise of the site hitting before the tents came into view. The last 200 metres were uphill on grass, because of course they were. A final, gentle sting in the tail. The finish line sat in the middle of the festival site, buzzing with music and chatter, and providing a little extra energy for those tired legs. As I reached the final incline, I heard my name being read out by the announcer, a man who seemed genuinely thrilled to welcome every single finisher. It was unexpectedly joyful, hearing my name carried across the rain and the crowd.
And then came the cheers. My friends – who I truly cannot thank enough – were waiting right at the line, shouting, waving, calling my name with the kind of enthusiasm that cuts straight through exhaustion. Another friend, volunteering at the event, had positioned himself perfectly to make sure he didn’t miss me. I crossed the line in 90 minutes and 38 seconds, soaked, muddy, grinning, and very pleased to confirm that I did indeed beat the dinosaur.
The hug I got immediately afterwards was warm enough to make up for the weather. I collected my finisher’s tee (superior to a medal, in my opinion), and wore it proudly as I wandered through the festival. I treated myself to a frozen smoothie (an odd choice given the temperature, but absolutely the right one).
Reflections on the KMF Terrex 10k Trail Run
Looking back, the run wasn’t just a physical challenge. It was a reminder that even in a year shaped by loss, there are still moments of movement, effort, and quiet joy. I didn’t run the whole thing; I hiked the steep uphills, took my time on the slippery descents, and settled into a steady run‑jog everywhere else. But I’m genuinely proud of the effort I put in. And while 90 minutes for a 10km isn’t going to impress any seasoned runner, I was happy with it. It felt right for me, for the day, for the weather, for the year I’ve had.
Running in the rain felt oddly therapeutic, too. There’s something about being soaked through, pushing forward anyway, that makes the world feel simpler. You just keep going. And finishing felt like taking something back: a small, bright achievement carved out of a difficult season.
I’ve done my fair share of city 10ks over the years, but Westonbirt last year and this Cat Bells adventure have given my running a quirky flavour I didn’t know I needed – routes with character, scenery that distracts you from your own legs, and a sense of story woven into every mile. I like that. I like runs that feel like little journeys rather than laps or loops. Next year’s 10km takes that even further. It’s already in the diary, and I’m already looking forward to it.
For now, though, I’m holding onto this: 6.6 miles, 825 feet of ascent, one very wet hiker‑runner, a finish line crossed with a touch of pride, and the knowledge that sometimes good things happen when you show up anyway.