Cheese Or Glory, It’s Just Another Story - The Cooper’s Hill Cheese Roll 2024

ExperiencesTravelCheeseCrude Artist Interpretations by Ricardo Joeffrey

Jan 29

Written By One Man Underground

You’ve read about the rock. Now for the roll.

‘One Man Hit the Ground’ - artist interpretation - ©Ricardo Jeofrey

The Cheese - ©1MU

Cooper's Hill, Gloucestershire - ©1MU

Cooper’s Hill is a grassy 26.6 degree slope atop the Gloucestershire village of Brockworth. From a mile away, visible from the village pub, it looks like a tiny patch of green amongst the rolling hills. Up close, it is deeply imposing, a cliff face covered in grass and mud, flanked by dense trees. One local I spoke with recalled playing there in the 1970s, running up then rolling down, but clearly wouldn’t dream of doing such these days.

Every May since at least 1826, a few of the bravest and most foolhardy of the thousands who gather from across the globe, will attempt to win a 4kg wheel of Double Gloucester cheese, in a contest called the Cooper’s Hill Cheese Roll. They will do this by being the first to either scale the top or, more sensationally, reach the bottom of Cooper’s Hill to catch the cheese as gets thrown from the peak.

Techniques include running, falling, flailing, and tumbling.

27 May 2024. The Good Lady Punk Connoisseur and I battled torrential late-Spring showers in a pilgrimage (it was our Pilgrims Choice, you might say) to witness these titans of humanity battle against gravity and common sense in their quest for cheese. Trekking 2 miles uphill, we reached Cooper’s Hill, finally clambering through the trees and gathered thousands, finding a space near the finishing line next to a young family. A festival-like atmosphere was taking hold among the crowd, with ‘Sweet Caroline’ and Oasis singalongs, a Trump 2024 banner being trampled into the mud, and the lingering aromas of damp skies and overpriced burgers.

There would be multiple races (see picture below). Each downhill race comprised 25 participants; uphill races were limited only by space along a spray-painted line, serving as both uphill start and downhill finish line. A local rugby team congregated at the foot of the hill, preparing themselves to catch the heroic idiots in competition.

The Schedule, taken from the official Facebook page

The Warning - ©1MU

Moments before midday, as the day’s last showers fell, the PA crackled to announce the first men’s race. Tension hung in the air. There was good reason to be tense. Signs lining the hill insist that “all spectators and participants are here at your own risk.” It’s no secret that, over the years, people have left the hill with broken bones and concussion. Gloucestershire council won’t go near it, knowing they cannot stop it, without wanting to be held liable.

Records do not show any deaths. Yet.

As the clock passed midday, the Good Lady and I turned to the top of the hill. A small dot moved at great speed. As it approached, a horde of men followed at near-equal velocity. As they got closer, I noted the abandonment of all attempts at technique, as they sprinted, rolled, leapt, and generally careered towards the finish line, just as gravity intended. The first to cross the line, a light-haired German wearing a Hi-Viz shirt who seemed to remain upright for the entire run, legs spinning as though drawn by Chuck Jones, was handed the cheese, wrapped in white tape offset by a red and blue cross. The crowd roared as he held it aloft, beaming with obvious pride.

Emmental cases - ©1MU

Brie the best - ©1MU

This is what this event is all about – watching people risking life and limb, not for cash, but for cheese and glory. And it is a unique spectacle – a display of amateur acrobatics that is shocking, wince-inducing, hysterical, genuinely dangerous, and oddly wholesome. Truly, a (wheelchair-inaccessible) day out for all the family.

I watched as one of the daughters of the family we sat with, Jodie, made her way to the starting line for the uphill under 11’s race, dad apparently more supportive of her participation than mum. We saw that, where the downhill race was a sprint, the uphill required far greater endurance. Though a much slower race, it certainly gave the crowd far more of an opportunity to engage, with deafening cheers and chants from all sides.

A cheddar champion... - © J. Giffin

...flat on her arse - © J. Giffin

Upon her return, it was clear that Jodie hadn’t won. Nonetheless, she gave me and her now equally supportive parents a brief take on her experience – “fun, but very muddy”. (Maybe she should have written this article? – Ed.)

“Fun.” Not a word I expected to hear. So it was that, as we watched the other races, with winners from North Carolina, Australia and, finally, Brockworth itself, in the form of local lad Josh Shepherd, the alpha male part of my brain began taking over, in a deeply unhelpful manner. And it screamed,

“That little girl did the uphill race. Why can’t you?”

Clearly, I was not going to take part in the downhill race – that would be insane. The presence of a St. John’s Ambulance crew, who indeed had to tend to a competing YouTuber after the final race, further reminded me that this was a dangerous activity. But uphill…

Gruyère gazelle - ©1MU

Regg's akimbo - ©1MU

Before I could talk myself back out of it, with the Good Lady’s bemused support, I approached the starting line, under the illusion it seemed, “doable”. Yeah, how hard could it be? I’ve done a bit of rock climbing before, and that’s literally vertical. This shouldn’t be too hard, right?

One Cheese Chaser Underground, pictured bottom left - © J. Giffin

Reader. I hadn’t thought this through.

I failed to consider that the combination of rain and earlier races meant that Cooper’s Hill was now mostly mud. I only worked this out about 5 seconds into the race. It was in that same moment that I realised – I’m not winning this race.

There was only one thing left to fight for – glory.

Progress seemed painfully slow. While those around me seemed to leap like gazelles, I felt like an out-of-shape Sisyphus. I tried forming footholds in the mud, each only lasting a couple of seconds. The last remaining strands of grass would inevitably rip as I grabbed them for vain support, leaving my only option to grasp at mud, instantly turning my hands both brown and slippery.

Lactic acid filled my arms as my heartrate soared. How long was my struggle? Seconds? Days? Time ceased. Lifting my head, all was mud, rendering distance meaningless. Only voices of encouragement gave my goal proximity, until an angel’s hand gripped mine. With a final push, I lifted myself over a grassy ledge to complete my ascent.

I turned to survey my conquest, legs dangling over the precipice. From the summit, the sun finally visible, the sheer scale of what I had achieved hit me. From the bottom of the hill, it looked… well, not easy. Maybe achievable? But until one looks down, trying to ignore the thousands of spectators pouring out onto the surrounding roads and fields, its intimidating nature holds you.

‘One Man Up Hill’ - artist interpretation - ©Ricardo Goeffrey

That people looked at this topographical migraine and said, “let’s throw some cheese down here and chase it,” quite frankly, is the rare kind of thing that still makes one proud to be British.

Any sense of achievement or profundity I felt in that moment was quickly replaced by another thought, one I should have had sooner: what goes up must come down. And there is only one way down Cooper’s Hill.

With tenacious resignation and sheer terror, following in the footsteps of those plucky morons I had been cheering on minutes earlier, I tentatively made my descent. Knowing a snapped neck would make getting home that day tricky, I tried gently sliding down on my backside. But within seconds, I leaned onto my feet.

I had to roll with it.

With no choice but speed and indignity, I flailed arse-over-tit, desperately trying to avoid serious injury, in a way that only time now allows me to describe as hilarious. But in the moment, all I could feel as a profound sense of liberation. I had to let go. Resistance was futile.

Then a miracle happened. Halfway down, I suddenly realised that I was on my feet. I had stopped falling. I was crushing the shit out of that hill. The Road Runner has nothing on the speed my legs were moving. But wait. Were they even moving? I’ve never run this quickly before; surely my legs aren’t capable of this. Was I… flying?*

About 1 second later, I came face-to-face with one of the assembled rugby team at the bottom of the hill who decided to grab me by the ankles and hurl me over his shoulder. Bastard.