THE GRASMERE SPORTS

New Zealand Listener, Volume 29, Issue 742, 2 October 1953, Page 6

THE GRASMERE SPORTS

by

JAMES

BERTRAM

They decide what is virtually a world wrestling title — but there are no foreign competitors!

HE English Lake Districtfamous for poets, for scenery and for rain- has also its peculiar place in the sporting calendar. Two years after Wordsworth died in his four-poster at Rydal Mount the first official Grasmere Sports were held at Pavement End. Every August since then (with breaks-~ for two world wafs) there have been sports at Grasmere, and there is nothing quite like them in England or anywhere else. For here the oldest traditions of Cumberland and Westmorland-one of the most distinctive regiona] communities in Britain, still bearing the impress of Norse conquest and settlement-find convivial and lusty. expression. The Grasmere Sports decide what is virtually a world wrestling title, but there are no foreign competitors. And the two most spectacular features-the Guides’ Race up Butter Crags and the 10-mile Hound Trail-are as local and traditional as John Peel. Even in a summer when England regained the Ashes and Foxhunter was at the top of his form, the Coronation Grasmere Sports were a major event. More to the point for the New Zealand traveller, and rarer still in this dampest corner of England, they were held on a day of sparkling Wairarapa sunshine that drew cars and motor-coaches from Cardiff Blackpool and Edinburgh. Nearly 10.000 people came to see the championships of old-style Lakeland wrestling, and what The Times with justice calls "the best fell runners in the world." I suppose the idea] route for Grasmere on sports day would be by Wordsworth’s path from Rydal, under the frowning face of Nab Scar. But a thunderstorm. that morning had deluged the hills and slowed up the going. So we arrived prosaically by bus, past Town End and Dove Cottage, at the field bevond Grasmere Church, where the head-

stones of Wordsworth, Mary and Dorothy stand facing outwards to the line of the fells. Superb Setting It is a simple enough sports ground -a large oval of turf, rimmed by wooden benches. But the setting is superb. with the hills rising steeply on one side, and the whole little valley of Grasmere shouldered in by the great pikes and the crags with famous names. Grasmere is "soft" rather than "sheer" Lake country, but the lush meadow-

grass and smoothly rounded trees are disciplined ~by the erey Cumbrian rock

‘ a that juts sternly from the ridges. Nearly a thousand feet above our heads, as we came into this green saucer crammed with folk and fair-booths and loud with the cries of hawkers and bockies, there fluttered the flag that marks the turning-point for the guides’ race. In Coronation year it wes the flag of the Stars and Stripes (which, as all Americans and few Britishers kfiow, is based on the arms of an old English family), while a Union Jack nearly 200 feet below marked the turn in the guides’ race for juniors under 17. All the way up the hillside were little knots of spectators scattered at vantage points; and amazingly, highest ‘of all, Jike a scene from The Borderers, the heads of a group of fell ponies with their -young riders looked patiently over the crest of Butter Crags. The sports begin at noon, with the tinging of a bell in the centre of the arena. And as they include most of the normal athletic events — foot-racing, leaping, and short-distance cycling handicaps as well as nor-stop wrestlingthe main oyal is kept busy enough for five hours or more. Conditions for com- petitors are hardly up to Olympic stand‘ard: A pole-vaulter in mid-stride may be staggered by tke blast froma shotgun starting a 100-yards heat for juv-

eniles just in front of him; if he still makes his leap, he lands on nothing friendlier than Grasmere turf. The cyclists get their noses to the wheel and sprint perilously over the same damp sward, a bare yard from the front line of enlookers and the resonant brass of the band of the King’s Own Royal Regiment. But nothing of this disturbs the wrestlers, who come into the-ring as their names are called with the imperturbability and shaggy independente of © pitponies.

The Wrestlers Cumberland-Westmor-land wrestling may lack the fictitious glamour of more publicised professional sport, but it has the fascination (and ‘the pure style) of a primi,tive form. A _ grip is taken with both arms over the opponent’s body, left arm under and

Tight arm over the shoulders. Getting a satisfactory grip is often the longest part of the proceedings; when at last the fingers-are closed and the judge gives the signal to begin, it may be only a matter of seconds before one of the wrestlers secures a fall. A champion . by sheer strength may get his man off balance, lower him almost gently. to the ground, shake» hands, collect his ticket, and stroll back to the sidelines. But when two champions are matched, in the best of three falls, the excitement

mounts as every trick of the game is brought into play. Like steers or elks

" locked in battle, the linked bodies plunge and sway in a grotesque Danish upspring over the sundrenched turf. Miraculous recoveries are possible, especially in the light and middle weights; but in the heavyweights the result has usually the slow inevitability of a glacier calving. And when Ted Dunglinson’ of Brunstock beat G. Gelleburn of Catterlen in two straight throws to win the Grasmere title (and his eighteenth suctessive victory of the season) the cheers of the Carlisle contingent might have echoed as far as Iceland, and drawn grim approval from the shadowy elder gods. To the earth-bound straining of the wrestlers, the guides’ race is a perfect foil, J. Gibson, of Burneside, last year’s winner, had already clipped 9 seconds off his record in the junior race, when competitors lined up at 3.0 p.m. for the adult race-the main event of the afternoon. The sun was beating down on the arena, where a pathway had been cleared through the crowd to the ‘ steep face of the green hillside. To a pistol-shot the runners were off, a close bunch of white and coloured singlets; but the first stiff stretch of going soon sorted them out. as heads &nd arms came down and the sprinter’s dash settled into a shepherd’s lope. The knowing were quick to spot the leading figure in white, W. Teasdale, who last

year set a notable record of 13 min. 19 sec. for the course; but an orange singlet was pressing close behind him as the runners approached the’ first 10-foot stone wall. Race to the Crags No cross-country. race can be as clearly visible as this to a crowd of thousands, for you watch from below the runners going up a sort of summer ski-run, the incline growitlg steeper all the, way to the upper crags, which must be rounded by each competitor. And here he must hand in his ticket, before beginning the descent by a left-handed loop which brings him back to the stone wall and the last steep stretch of open grass. The going is of all kinds-rough, smooth and treacherous-and only the loca] sheep-farmers whose daily work breaks them in to such country have ever done well at it. The gruelling climb to the 966-foot fell would finish most conventional athletes; but for the spectator, it is the descent that is the real thrill."

For while the long line of climbers is still painfully winding its way towards the summit, a single figure-in whitesuddenly doubles the flag and shoots down the hillside at a pace that opens a gap of yards in the fraction of a second, The exhilaration of this change of tempo is irresistible: soon more and more of the climbing dots have become hurtling meteors, the band strikes up a quickstep, and the shouting rolls down the hill as the pace is really on. I had never known what "light foot on the corrie’" really meant until I had seen these dalesmen skimming the crags in _their headlong descent. Yet judgment, of course, is still more important than speed-one false step may mean disaster to a runner with a hundred yards in hand. Teasdale made no mistakes; the white was still well clear of the field as he came like a stag down the last grassy stretch, and the regimental band (well coached for these occasions) played "See the Conquering Hero Comes" with an appropriate flourish on the drums as the compact, swarthy little figure of Lakeland’s leading guide breasted the tape. Hounds Have Their Day . After this, one would have thought, anything must be anti-climax. But the Grasmere hound and puppy trails, the third major feature of this annual meeting, are hardly less spectacularthough, inevitably, less continuously visible. Originally planned as trials for the loca] fell packs of foxhounds, these races have now become coveted prizes for a special breed of hound — small, lightly-built, but full of dash and courage. It is on the hound-trails that the heavy betting is done and (if one may believe haif the local. small-talk) that the real dodees are worked. First, a trail is laid with a drag of aniseed by a team of fell-runners. I was told that the four men who laid the 10-mile trail got a pound each for their efforts; on that sweltering summer day they certainly earned it. As the last runner comes into the arena with the drag, the hounds are slipped by their owners or trainers, and they flow unforgettably in a low-toned wave through the crowd and out into the dale. There they vanish, for upwards of a quarter of an hour, with only a stray note of hound music carried on a gust of wind. Meantime the owners of field-glasses are busily scanning the crests of the neighbouring fells. for the last few miles ‘of the trail are apparently conventional, and bring the pack in full view across ; (continued on next page)

(continued from previous page) three saddles and down the same route as the descent of the guides’ race. In the final stage the owners, standing behind the finishing line with a bow! of warmed-up food as reward, are allowed to whistle to their individual hounds (if rumour is true, there are more whistlers than these out along the Gras. mere hills; but the judge is the master of the Windermere Harriers, a huntsman is secretary, and they have a whole posse of assistants to see that the trail is fairly run.) If the guides’ race is supreme for human interest, the hound trails excel for the sheer poetry of motion out of doors. From the thrilling moment when the first hounds come in view over the crest of the fells three or four miles away, to the last triumphant dash down the hillside, over the stone wall, andin a babble of sound, "John Peel’ crisscrossed by shrill-pitched piping--across the road into the waiting. arena, where damp muzzles are buried gratefully in the inadequate bowls, this contest has the accumulated suspense of race, steeplechase and cross-country marathon. The "Old Dogs" are more expert and silent, and no doubt give greater pleasure to the connoisseur. But the unpredictable puppies, lunging, rolling about, and indulging in incredible and unaccountable spurts that keep the issue

in doubt to the last five yards, are the trail-runners for our money. It was inevitable, I suppose, that there should be an immediate appeal against the puppy winner, on the claim that he had not completed the course. But there was no doubt about Ranger’s fine win, in the old dog trail; and Ranger has already joined- the immortal company of Crafty and Cleaver and Coniston Hound, of Music and Smoker and Barmaid, of Icecracker, Echo, Roguery and Bouncer, and all the Grasmere winners of a hundred years. Embarrassing Epilogue This is the heroic side of the Grasmere sports, and long may it flourish. But I must add a line on the perfect poner ag to this battle of giants. which cdme (for us, at least), with the judging of wrestlers’’ costumes. This serious task was entrusted to three formidable ladies and a_ tweed-clad gentleman, before whom the wrestlers, victors and vanquished alike, were solemnly ranged on parade. : Lakeland wrestling kit consists of a short-sleeved white singlet and not-so-tight "tights" of the same material (both of which may be picked out, on chest and thighs, with small delicate designs) and matching trunks and heavy woollen socks, blue, green or crimson for prefer-ence-the trunks most _ elabgrately

worked in coloured embroidery. In the wrestling-ring the outfit is as simple and impressive as Hercules’ lion-skin. But when forty or so hefty young countrymen are lined up in this garb for the prolonged review of .a female inspection party, the whole thing is as exquisitely embarrassing as a public reading of "We Are Seven." Only the judges seemed unaware of the sullen mortification of their exhibits, as they pulled them out like heifers to discuss their finer points: we could not bear to wait for the final placing. Walking homewards again round the western side of Rydal Water, we flushed two middle-aged English tourists, remarkably like Naunton and Wayne. bathing in a sheltered cove. A kilted Scot, unable to resist the enchanted evening hour, was getting in some surreptitious angling in private water, And everywhere through the-rustling woods threaded the bare legs and bulging rucksacks of hikers er late amends for a rainy. August. . No doubt the English Lakeland has been tamed, shorn and trimmed to the greater glory of the diesel-ferry and the charabanc. But the challenge of the crags remains, and men still respond to it. This is a country made for heroes, and the Grasmere Sports-like Wordsworth’s ._poetry-are one of its lasting human monuments,