I wasn’t supposed to run my first marathon in Bethlehem. My friends and I had originally planned to run the Gaza Marathon to raise money for summer camps for the children who live there. Our places were given to us by the Amos Trust, a human rights organisation.

That was until Gaza was cancelled and we needed a replacement 26.2 miles at short notice. We found it in the shape of the inaugural Right to Movement Marathon to be held in Bethlehem, just 11 days after Gaza would have taken place.

The brainchild of two Danish women working in Bethlehem, the event (also referred to simply as the Palestine Marathon) also offered 5k, 10k and half marathon runs to encourage as many locals as possible to join us on the start line. “We do run,” our guide told us, “but usually away from something.”

Once out there, we realised it had grown into something extraordinary, embraced by everyone we met. Half of Denmark seemed to have flown over to help: the streets thronged with strapping Vikings with huge backpacks and amazing teeth.

The Scouts and Guides were supplying 100 boys and girls to hand out water, dates and bananas at the aid stations. The women of the Dheisheh refugee camp would later cook a meal for hundreds of runners, hosting a party for us all in their community hall that night.

Travel restrictions on Palestinians meant that it was impossible for Bethlehem residents to run a conventional marathon route. So we would run a 10.5k loop out, then back – and then do it again.

The outward section was a slow and steady upwards climb, and “hot and dusty” – possibly as hot as 30C – we were told. As far removed from our own lush, mild north Devon as we could get. Or so we thought. In fact it rained steadily all morning, the wind picked up and the temperature dropped to an unseasonable 12C. As we stood excitedly on the start line at 8am, about to run up a very long hill, we were practically on home turf. The shivering Palestinian runners all around us didn’t know what had hit them.

Seven of us had planned to head out together for at least the first mile or so. We reckoned a nine-minute mile pace would give us chance to find our feet. In the event, as soon as the race started each of us scattered.

Very quickly I began to settle into my pace. I realised (with some shock) that I was loving every minute. As my boisterous playlist started and the Beastie Boys kicked in, I started high-fiving the children who lined the streets. As they waved shyly at the rain-soaked idiots surging through their streets (some children ran whole stretches of it with us) I began to grin like an utter loon.

It turns out I was in for the most enjoyable half marathon I’d ever run. Unfortunately, I was running a full marathon.

As I came back into the heart of Bethlehem to clock up mile 13 I was comfortably under two hours, but feeling the first twinges of cramp. It came on with a vengeance at mile 20, all spasms and twitching fury, and the rest of the race was spent trying to find positions that kept it at bay – to no avail. It was like trying to put out a forest fire with a watering can. I pulled up so quickly at one point, and with such bad language, that a worried policeman offered to drive me home.

The children whooping and cheering us on from the windows of the Dheisheh school didn’t know about my legs of fire, of course, and so I gritted my teeth and carried on. Nothing gives the cramping runner better perspective than being cheered on by children whose home is, and always has been, a refugee camp.

It wasn’t just the children. All of Bethlehem had never seen anything like this before. Halfway round, a friend was offered a cigarette by a well-meaning spectator. It meant something to all of us to be among the first people to run 26 miles there, and plenty of first-time runners joined the 600 or so of us fighting our way through this wet, sweaty, brilliant morning.

I had always said I would never run a marathon. Too much road for a tall man’s knees. But it was an unforgettable 26 miles, which I ran in 4hr 15min, capped off by being pulled across the finish line by two laughing children. I grabbed their hands again in thanks after I had finally, thankfully stopped running, my eyes shining from the rain and the run and the moment.

• Paul and his friends were all running to raise money for UNRWA summer camps for children in Gaza. You can donate at their charity page here.

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