My alarm went off at 3 a.m… cry… and I rolled out of bed, got dressed in my optimistic shorts and T-shirt, then decided to put on waterproof trousers and my big, cosy waterproof down jacket for the walk to the village hall.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was already beginning to get light at 4 a.m., although it was still very windy on the walk into Broadford.

I felt sleepy and sluggish and was becoming increasingly nervous about what I was about to do.

I had arranged a lift with one of the volunteers up to the start, which was roughly an hour and a half away. However, some spaces became available on the minibus, so she sent me off on there instead.

Those who know me will also know that I get EXTREMELY travel sick on buses, so now I really started to panic.

Luckily, I was so tired that I managed to sleep for part of the journey, and we reached the start in what felt like no time at all.

We arrived at Duntulm in a farmer’s field, complete with plenty of sheep poo, and were given our trackers.

I tried to force down some oats, but the combination of the early morning and my nerves meant I didn’t manage to eat much. I felt pretty low on energy, considering I was about to set off and run some ungodly distance.

Standing in that field beside the sea with the wind blowing, I felt cold and apprehensive. I was extremely grateful when we eventually huddled together for a quick race briefing and were sent on our merry way.

I had done everything I could to prepare. I had everything I needed in my very heavy pack, and once I started moving, I knew all I could do was run.

Eventually, the coast turned a corner. After a big, fun descent, during which I only managed to fall twice, I reached Portree and the first indoor checkpoint, where I saw my mum.

I had managed to warm up after being able to run properly into the town, so I quickly filled my bottles, used the bathroom and chatted with Mum before setting off again.

The next section followed coastal paths and stretches of road, with plenty more undulating terrain, before reaching Braes Community Hall at 36 miles, where our drop bags were waiting.

Here, I took my time.

I changed my socks and T-shirt, ate some food and reorganised my pack. It was a lovely, warm checkpoint with kind and helpful volunteers, and it gave me a chance to chat with some of the other runners.

After around 15 or 20 minutes, I headed back out of the door with a piece of cheese on toast in my hand and trotted down the road.

The next section consisted of boggy tracks broken up by stretches of road and some very big hills. It eventually returned to a coastal path heading towards Sligachan.

The views down the sea loch were honestly stunning. Seeing the Cuillin for the first time that day was wonderful, and I began to appreciate where I was. I was beaming at the thought of being back on Skye.

I passed a few locals along the road, all of whom were friendly and encouraging. It really perked me up.

It was getting dark as I reached the hall.

When I saw Mum, I told her that was it. I wanted to quit. I was freezing, fed up and exhausted.

Thanks, Mum… not… for literally replying, “Okay, let’s go home,” when you were supposed to be encouraging me to carry on!

Once inside the hall, I changed into some warmer clothes and was given tea and pasta by the volunteers, who were local to the village and incredibly kind.

I was struggling to get warm and couldn’t eat anything, probably because of a mixture of fatigue and being so cold.

I ended up staying at the checkpoint for a long time, perhaps around an hour, although I deliberately avoided looking at the clock because I didn’t want to know.

It took a huge amount of mental strength to stand up in that checkpoint and say, “Okay, I’m carrying on,” before heading back out of the door.

I genuinely didn’t know whether I had made the right decision because I felt like death.

I had entered the checkpoint in third place, which had briefly lifted my spirits. However, after spending so long there, I think I had dropped to fifth before I had even left.

It is difficult to look around and see other runners appearing strong. However, if I have learned anything from long-distance running, it is that just because someone looks okay, it does not mean they are.

A few of the people who had looked strong inside that checkpoint eventually dropped out.

By some absolute miracle, I was found in the pitch black at around midnight by the loveliest man ever.

We found the path together, although it was now literally bog up to our shins. It was completely unrunnable and basically a death trap through sections of marsh and forestry.

Safe to say, I did not have a clue where I was.

The man I had bumped into was called Ady, and he is the reason I finished this race. That is a fact.

Without his kind words to distract me from the suffering — and his even kinder support crew, who bundled me into their warm van and fed me throughout the night, which is not something I would recommend in any other circumstances — I don’t think there would have been much chance of me reaching the finish line.

We ran together to the final checkpoint at 64 miles.

I repeatedly told Ady and his crew that I wanted to quit and go home, but deep down, I knew I was going to finish.

Once we left that checkpoint, there wasn’t really an option to quit. The route followed coastal paths through some of the most remote parts of Skye, and it would have taken hours for anyone else to reach us.

We were committed, whether we liked it or not.

At several points during the night, I became convinced that I could hear a dying wild animal somewhere nearby. I asked Ady whether he could hear it too.

After looking around, we realised the noise was actually coming from me.

My chest was wheezing.

Not a great sign, I have to say.

Once again, the path was far from flat. There were big climbs and steep descents.

At one point, I even shocked Ady by proclaiming, “F*cking hell!” when I saw one of the descents ahead of us, which gave us both a good laugh.

After leaving the final checkpoint, we effectively death-marched for seven hours through driving rain.

We shared stories, discussed our plans for future races and talked about the places we hoped to visit.

I generally enjoy running alone and being in my own company. I often avoid conversation during long races, but Ady and I just clicked.

Whether that was because of our shared suffering or common interests, I don’t know. What I do know is that I have found a friend for life who I will hopefully share many future adventures with.

Buckle up!

The Skye Trail is an 80-mile, or 128 km-ish, long-distance hiking route that traverses the entire length of the Isle of Skye. It crosses the hills from the northern tip at Duntulm to the southern town of Broadford.

It is usually completed over seven days or, for slightly unhinged people like me, in one.

I had my eye on this race for a while. I spent a year living on Skye while working as a shepherd, so it is a place very close to my heart, and I needed a good reason to go back for a visit.

For those who don’t know Skye, on a blue-sky day, I don’t think there is anywhere better in the world you could be. For the other 99% of the time, it is bleak, remote and normally shrouded in fog.

I set off on the long journey north with my mum as support on Thursday morning, stopping halfway at Loch Lomond for the night. We completed the drive to Skye on Friday, arriving in the early afternoon to be blessed with wind and rain.

I was trying to remain optimistic, but I had started to stress a little by this point. I am well known for always being cold, especially when wet, and had literally been praying to the gods for dry weather for the entire month leading up to the race.

It was absolute madness that this was the weekend the rest of the UK reached temperatures of more than 35°C, while Skye was blessed with 60 mph winds, heavy rain and temperatures that didn’t rise above 10°C.

But that is western Scotland for you!

I registered at around 4 p.m. on Friday evening at Broadford Village Hall, where I collected my race number, left my drop bag for the halfway checkpoint and met the team from GB Ultras, who are always incredibly supportive, kind and helpful.

Mum and I then set about trying to find somewhere to eat. We ended up waiting around an hour for a table at the pizza restaurant in Broadford, but it was completely worth it. The food was amazing, and my carb load was now complete!

We walked back to the hotel in absolutely POURING rain, and I was beginning to question my life choices before the race had even started.

I got into bed at 9 p.m. and, by some miracle, went straight to sleep. I occasionally woke to the sound of rain and hail hitting the roof.

“Oh my God,” were my exact thoughts.

My alarm went off at 3 a.m… cry… and I rolled out of bed, got dressed in my optimistic shorts and T-shirt, then decided to put on waterproof trousers and my big, cosy waterproof down jacket for the walk to the village hall.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was already beginning to get light at 4 a.m., although it was still very windy on the walk into Broadford.

I felt sleepy and sluggish and was becoming increasingly nervous about what I was about to do.

I had arranged a lift with one of the volunteers up to the start, which was roughly an hour and a half away. However, some spaces became available on the minibus, so she sent me off on there instead.

Those who know me will also know that I get EXTREMELY travel sick on buses, so now I really started to panic.

Luckily, I was so tired that I managed to sleep for part of the journey, and we reached the start in what felt like no time at all.

We arrived at Duntulm in a farmer’s field, complete with plenty of sheep poo, and were given our trackers.

I tried to force down some oats, but the combination of the early morning and my nerves meant I didn’t manage to eat much. I felt pretty low on energy, considering I was about to set off and run some ungodly distance.

Standing in that field beside the sea with the wind blowing, I felt cold and apprehensive. I was extremely grateful when we eventually huddled together for a quick race briefing and were sent on our merry way.

I had done everything I could to prepare. I had everything I needed in my very heavy pack, and once I started moving, I knew all I could do was run.

The race begins by following the road for a couple of miles before turning onto a track leading towards the Trotternish Ridge.

The Trotternish Ridge is an exposed, hilly, 22-mile-long ridge. It is normally absolutely stunning, with views over the sea and surrounding islands. On that day, however, it was completely cloaked in clag, and the first climb onto the ridge was a baptism of fire, to say the least.

My feet were soaked through within five minutes of leaving the road, which was always going to happen on Skye. What I hadn’t expected was for it to be so cold as well. This was something I would have to contend with for God knows how many hours.

Once we reached the ridge, we really began to feel the full force of the wind. It was fierce and cold, with gusts reaching 60 mph. Combined with the driving rain, it was pretty damn grim and not exactly my idea of a good day out.

Looking back, the first section of the ridge was actually the easy part. There were proper paths, and I could run along them to keep warm.

The next section demanded much more time exposed to the wind and clouds, and it absolutely zapped me of energy.

I am normally a strong descender, so I had been looking forward to the undulating terrain along the ridge. Instead, I ended up on my arse more often than I was on my feet and, after only a few hours, was already completely soaked to the skin.

Fell shoes required!

I dragged myself across the rest of the ridge in what I would describe as pretty dangerous conditions, even for someone like me who is used to being in the mountains.

Eventually, I reached the tourist hotspot at the Old Man of Storr, where the visitors were out in full force.

I dodged my way through the crowds to the checkpoint in the car park, filled my bottles and briefly chatted with the volunteers.

I was naïve enough to think that now we had left the ridge, the wind would die down.

BOY, was I wrong.

We then had to follow a path, and by “path”, I mean a faint trod through a bog, while running due south, directly into the bloody wind.

I felt as though I was barely moving. I didn’t dare look at the pace on my watch because, for every step I took forwards, I seemed to be blown backwards.

Eventually, the coast turned a corner. After a big, fun descent, during which I only managed to fall twice, I reached Portree and the first indoor checkpoint, where I saw my mum.

I had managed to warm up after being able to run properly into the town, so I quickly filled my bottles, used the bathroom and chatted with Mum before setting off again.

The next section followed coastal paths and stretches of road, with plenty more undulating terrain, before reaching Braes Community Hall at 36 miles, where our drop bags were waiting.

Here, I took my time.

I changed my socks and T-shirt, ate some food and reorganised my pack. It was a lovely, warm checkpoint with kind and helpful volunteers, and it gave me a chance to chat with some of the other runners.

After around 15 or 20 minutes, I headed back out of the door with a piece of cheese on toast in my hand and trotted down the road.

The next section consisted of boggy tracks broken up by stretches of road and some very big hills. It eventually returned to a coastal path heading towards Sligachan.

The views down the sea loch were honestly stunning. Seeing the Cuillin for the first time that day was wonderful, and I began to appreciate where I was. I was beaming at the thought of being back on Skye.

I passed a few locals along the road, all of whom were friendly and encouraging. It really perked me up.

I reached the campsite at Sligachan at 42 miles, after ending up waist-deep in a bog just before it, probably to the amusement of every camper nearby.

Once again, I filled my bottles and saw Mum, who was waiting for me with extra clothes and, best of all, dry socks!

I put on some blister plasters as a precaution because I could feel some slight rubbing, then changed into my waterproof socks. By this point, my feet had been wet for around ten hours, which is not the nicest feeling.

Anyone who knows Skye will understand how much I mean it when I say that Sligachan is beautiful.

Located where the Black Cuillin meets the western seaboard, this is where so many people come to see the famous view of the Red and Black Cuillin, with Glen Sligachan running between them.

I ended up doing quite a lot of daydreaming here, which was a welcome distraction. Having lived on Skye, I recalled the days I had spent climbing and running in these hills. It was nice to remember that I had made memories here that weren’t quite as grim as the present one.

No sooner had I set off running up the glen than the heavens opened again and thunder rumbled directly overhead. It was as though the weather had been perfectly timed for the start of my journey through the glen.

I thought it might be a bad sign.

There is a good path through the glen, but because of the recent heavy rain, most of it was completely underwater.

Even though I had put on my full waterproofs a few hours earlier, I was entirely soaked through once again.

It was nice to be able to run at a decent pace, even if every step sent water splashing all the way up to my head.

Eventually, the glen ended at the beautiful Camasunary Bay, one of the most peaceful and secluded beaches you could hope to find. A marshal was waiting there to direct us up and over the pass, as the route had been changed due to coastal erosion.

Although there was a proper track leading up and out of the bay, it was absolutely brutal. It was soooo steep and long, and my legs did not feel remotely okay.

After what felt like hours, which it probably was, I rejoined the road and headed towards Elgol.

You might think being back on the road for a while would be a blessing, but this stretch was ridiculously undulating. Once again, we were heading straight into the wind, and I felt exhausted and fed up.

Mum drove past me on the road, having been following my tracker, and said she would meet me at Elgol Village Hall, the next checkpoint at 56 miles.

It was getting dark as I reached the hall.

When I saw Mum, I told her that was it. I wanted to quit. I was freezing, fed up and exhausted.

Thanks, Mum… not… for literally replying, “Okay, let’s go home,” when you were supposed to be encouraging me to carry on!

Once inside the hall, I changed into some warmer clothes and was given tea and pasta by the volunteers, who were local to the village and incredibly kind.

I was struggling to get warm and couldn’t eat anything, probably because of a mixture of fatigue and being so cold.

I ended up staying at the checkpoint for a long time, perhaps around an hour, although I deliberately avoided looking at the clock because I didn’t want to know.

It took a huge amount of mental strength to stand up in that checkpoint and say, “Okay, I’m carrying on,” before heading back out of the door.

I genuinely didn’t know whether I had made the right decision because I felt like death.

I had entered the checkpoint in third place, which had briefly lifted my spirits. However, after spending so long there, I think I had dropped to fifth before I had even left.

It is difficult to look around and see other runners appearing strong. However, if I have learned anything from long-distance running, it is that just because someone looks okay, it does not mean they are.

A few of the people who had looked strong inside that checkpoint eventually dropped out.

Out I went into the night, battered by the wind once again.

By this point, the rain had stopped, and the sun was setting over the sea. It was a beautiful sight and made me feel much better about my decision to continue.

I phoned Eth, who was on Jura at the time after running the Jura Fell Race earlier that day. I told him about my plan to carry on.

As always, he was encouraging, but he told me to be careful going into the night, particularly with the navigation, which he knows is not my strong point.

After following the road for a while, the route rejoined a coastal path that was, once again, pure bog. The mud came up over my ankles, and I ended up on my arse multiple times.

I passed tiny cottages with their fires lit and began dreaming about being curled up on the sofa with a cup of tea. That image remained fixed in my mind for the rest of the race.

Two very speedy women then passed me. I thought it would make me feel worse than it did, but I actually felt incredibly proud of them and admired how strong they looked, especially knowing how terrible and exhausted I felt myself.

This section felt incredibly long.

I could hear the waves crashing against the rocks in the darkness, and I managed to take not one but two wrong turns, forcing me to backtrack both times.

Running with a headtorch can be tricky, particularly when you are trying to conserve the battery. I think my general lack of concentration, and lack of interest in the whole thing by this point, was costing me time.

My chest was also not in a good way, and I was struggling with my breathing. I guessed that my asthma was being exacerbated by the ridiculous length of time I had been running.

By some absolute miracle, I was found in the pitch black at around midnight by the loveliest man ever.

We found the path together, although it was now literally bog up to our shins. It was completely unrunnable and basically a death trap through sections of marsh and forestry.

Safe to say, I did not have a clue where I was.

The man I had bumped into was called Ady, and he is the reason I finished this race. That is a fact.

Without his kind words to distract me from the suffering — and his even kinder support crew, who bundled me into their warm van and fed me throughout the night, which is not something I would recommend in any other circumstances — I don’t think there would have been much chance of me reaching the finish line.

We ran together to the final checkpoint at 64 miles.

I repeatedly told Ady and his crew that I wanted to quit and go home, but deep down, I knew I was going to finish.

Once we left that checkpoint, there wasn’t really an option to quit. The route followed coastal paths through some of the most remote parts of Skye, and it would have taken hours for anyone else to reach us.

We were committed, whether we liked it or not.

At several points during the night, I became convinced that I could hear a dying wild animal somewhere nearby. I asked Ady whether he could hear it too.

After looking around, we realised the noise was actually coming from me.

My chest was wheezing.

Not a great sign, I have to say.

Once again, the path was far from flat. There were big climbs and steep descents.

At one point, I even shocked Ady by proclaiming, “F*cking hell!” when I saw one of the descents ahead of us, which gave us both a good laugh.

After leaving the final checkpoint, we effectively death-marched for seven hours through driving rain.

We shared stories, discussed our plans for future races and talked about the places we hoped to visit.

I generally enjoy running alone and being in my own company. I often avoid conversation during long races, but Ady and I just clicked.

Whether that was because of our shared suffering or common interests, I don’t know. What I do know is that I have found a friend for life who I will hopefully share many future adventures with.

The sun began to rise at around 4 a.m.

It wasn’t the beautiful sunrise I had imagined in the weeks before the race. Instead, it was little more than a faint glow appearing through the fog and rain over the sea.

Even so, it felt good to know we had survived the night and were moving ever so slightly closer to the finish line.

We passed a few people during this final section who were experiencing varying degrees of suffering, and we offered them words of encouragement.

Once again, I felt incredibly grateful to have been taken under Ady’s wing. I was so glad that I wasn’t out there by myself, alone with my thoughts and the horrendous weather.

Eventually, the path became a gravel track, and we knew we were less than five miles from Broadford.

I think this cheered us both up, and we smiled for the first time in a while.

By this point, I think we both knew, without even having to say it, that we wanted to finish in under 24 hours.

We picked up the pace as best we could.

We trotted along, edging closer and closer to civilisation, when suddenly I spotted my mum and then Ady’s support crew, who cheered us on.

We broke into a run, if you could call it that.

Our faces must have been a picture because, after that many miles, I can tell you that running does not come naturally.

We crossed the finish line together at Broadford Village Hall.

We were handed our medals, both of which were gold, as the first 25 finishers receive a gold medal.

Our finishing time was 23 hours and 54 minutes!

There were hugs all round, followed by a warm cup of tea. After that, all I wanted was to get back, have a hot shower and lie down.

Despite all the suffering I put myself through to finish this race, I can say with certainty that I will absolutely run another long race.

I seem to enjoy putting myself through difficult things simply to prove that I can do them.

I love the physical and mental challenge of continuing through the hardest moments, and the feeling of accomplishment afterwards is always worth it.

Distance: 83 miles / 135 km
Elevation: 5,563 m
Time: 23 hours 54 minutes
Position: 6th woman / 23rd overall
Falls: Unlimited
Thoughts about quitting: 1,000,000