There were few spectators, and certainly not on the top of the fells. A few fans waited in the cold on the Lingmell Col with flasks of hot chocolate, and they cheered him on, but it was mostly family and friends. There was no TV coverage. Somebody sent the occasional drone above him to post the footage online later, and he’d got over a million views for one of them, but it was a niche sport, and he liked it that way. He settled his breathing and came off the path onto soft grass. It made his calves scream but at least it stopped the pounding in his bones. Occasionally he peered behind him, but rarely, because he could tell by footfall that he was alone.

He looked up ahead as he heard the chopper. It disturbed his concentration because it was a sound that sent shivers through anyone truly involved in the mountains. It usually meant that somebody was being rescued by the MRT. It certainly wouldn’t be a TV crew: they weren’t interested in grey days in Cumbria. Fell runners weren’t Usain Bolt and couldn’t command that type of hype or following. He looked up and saw it through the clouds. It was low and he shook his head: it wasn’t the normal red or yellow of a rescue craft and he assumed it was a sight-seeing trip; they’d surely get a good photo of him from that distance. He’d look them up later on. It would be a damn good photo. A group of people emerged from the misty remnants of this morning’s cloud inversion and they clapped for him, but stopped when the helicopter caught their attention.

It was coming up the valley, over Wast Water. Cortantes almost stopped when he looked back and saw the view. It was about as good as it got: the area’s deepest lake curling around between two magnificent geographical wonders; it was spectacular. There were some mountain ranges that made your heart stop in your chest and simply commanded your time, and this was one. The tiny Lake District in England. He laughed to himself. He’d competed in the Himalayas and there, the locals would see these fells as tiny mounds of dirt, not even making up the foothills of the mighty 8,000ers.

Steam escaped from his body as perspiration evaporated around him and the temperature rose with the parting cloud. It was a steady nine degrees, and the snowline had got higher this last week. It was better for running but not for photo opportunities or tourists who spent Christmas here hoping for snow.