"Beautiful Beyond Belief, Savage Beyond Reason" — Reflections from UTS Snowdonia 50K

Snowdonia 50K was far more than just a race for me. It was a challenge that demanded focus, commitment, patience, resilience, and belief — not only on the mountains themselves, but throughout the long months leading up to stepping onto that start line. Sixteen weeks, in fact, of structured running, strength work, careful eating, recovery, and the occasional dreaded gym session and weights — probably the most disciplined and focused training block I’ve committed to in quite some time. At times, it was exhausting, difficult to balance with everyday life, and mentally demanding, but looking back now, every mile, climb, and early-morning session played its part in preparing me for what lay ahead in the mountains of Snowdonia.

I enjoyed it, sometimes loved it, and I'm proud that I stepped up and did it after accepting the challenge many months ago. Proud that I committed to the training, trusted the process, and kept showing up even when life, work, tiredness, and doubt all tried to pull my focus elsewhere.

The course was everything people said it would be — beautiful, brutal, and at times genuinely intimidating. Steep, relentless climbs, slippery descents, harsh weather conditions, exposed ridges, technical terrain, river crossings, thick fog, and moments where you genuinely questioned what on earth you were doing there in the first place. And yet somehow… that was also where the magic lived, and where self-belief quietly began to rise to the surface.

North Wales has always had a special pull on me. I grew up fairly close by and visited often as a child, so returning there always feels familiar — almost like reconnecting with a part of myself.

There’s something about Snowdonia — or Eryri — that makes you feel incredibly small and insignificant in the very best possible way. The sheer scale of the mountains, the unpredictability of the weather, and the rawness of the harsh, demanding landscape constantly remind you that nature is beautiful and always in control. It is wild, untamed, humbling, and endlessly inspiring. Every time I return, I feel strangely at home there — a deep sense of comfort and belonging, even when the mountains are at their most dramatic and unforgiving.

Physically, I felt composed and strong for much of the race, even on the steepest climbs and descents. The training genuinely set me on the right path, and deep down, I maintained a positive mindset that I could do it. I always had the mantra "I can and I will" quietly repeating in my head.

However, one of the biggest lessons I learnt was around nutrition and hydration. Quite simply, I didn't eat and drink enough at important points, and eventually the consequences caught up with me. I rehearsed several scenarios beforehand, but on race day, things don't always go to plan. The climbs grew harder, the legs grew weary, and there were moments high in the mountains when I genuinely suffered because the body needed more fuel in the tank.

There were moments standing high up on the mountains, shivering in the wind and rain, quietly contemplating my life choices — but always holding onto the fact that I was getting it done, one step at a time. At one point, I even found myself buying two giant flapjacks and a cold can of Coke at the summit café in an attempt to ease the suffering. Probably not the most elite nutrition strategy ever witnessed in trail running, but at that moment, my body was craving exactly that, and honestly, it tasted like heaven. It was a tough lesson to learn in real time. I realised very quickly just how important it is to eat and drink properly when your body is working relentlessly for hours in such demanding conditions. The mountains have a brutal way of exposing weaknesses, and my fuelling strategy was certainly one of them. But perhaps that’s also part of the beauty of experiences like this — you learn, adapt, and come away understanding yourself a little better than before.

Then, with around 15 kilometres to go, I fell awkwardly in the woods and hurt my toe on an exposed tree root. One moment, I was carefully moving through the technical trail, surrounded by the deep quiet of the forest and the distant call of a cuckoo echoing through the trees — and the next, I was flat on my back staring up at the canopy above me, wondering what had just happened. For a brief moment, everything felt strangely still. Then the pain started to register. Blood slowly filled my shoe, my toe throbbed with every step, and suddenly the final kilometres felt a lot further away than they had only moments before. It would have been easy to let frustration or panic take over, but oddly, I felt calm. Tired, battered, and slightly annoyed with myself — but calm. I’d come too far to stop.

But strangely, I didn't want to stop. I felt locked into the process by that point — moving slowly but steadily towards the finish line, completely focused on getting there. The terrain already felt technical and unforgiving, and mentally it would have been very easy to spiral. Thankfully, kindness stepped in when I needed it most. A stranger from Ireland helped me through those final kilometres, encouraging me along even while dealing with his own pain and struggles. Such a simple act, but one that meant so much in that moment. It reminded me that events like this may appear individual from the outside, but these moments are often built on shared struggle, encouragement, humour, and human connection. So many people throughout the course were friendly, supportive, and open to conversation despite the conditions. It was genuinely special to be part of, and a reminder of what makes the trail running community so unique.

A massive thank you as well to Danyon, Mike, Matko, Thijs, and Johanna for being such a wonderfully supportive team throughout the whole weekend. Sharing experiences like this with others makes it all the more meaningful. Watching everyone battle through their own challenges while still supporting one another with positivity and plenty of humour was genuinely inspiring and heart-warming. Amazing people and memories I won't forget in a hurry.

And huge congratulations to the amazing Danyon for completing the utterly unthinkable 100 miler. This huge ultra race was his second 100-miler, following his completion of the Chester Ultra last year. Having completed only a fraction of that distance myself, I genuinely don't know how he managed it — but somehow, through determination and resilience, he did it again. This undertaking shows incredible commitment, and I have huge admiration for it. And I'm here and ready to help him write his book—the memoirs of a Belgian trail running Waffle, or something similar.

His parents were also absolutely wonderful company in our bunkhouse. They also were heading out into the depths of the night to support him however they could. Hearing their stories and witnessing that support firsthand was really special, and a reminder that experiences like UTS are always better shared than faced alone.

Right now, I'm tired, sore in the right toe, catching up on rest and sleep and still trying to process it all properly. But more than anything, I feel grateful. Grateful that my body allowed me to take on something so demanding. Grateful for the people around me. Grateful for the mountains, the lessons, the struggles, and the memories. And once the body recovers, I already know I'll want to keep building, keep learning, and keep searching for the next challenge waiting somewhere beyond the horizon.

Onwards. Upwards and onto the next one…