It's the middle of August. Theoretically by this time of the year, I'm usually sporting my best "fell walking" tan - a nice shade of brown which starts from midway on each upper arm stretching south to the fingertips, then from the knees to just above the ankle-tops, and finally rounded off with some lovely latte-coloured forehead and cheeks. The rest of the body however always remains a contrastingly, and somewhat embarrassing shade of pale magnolia. Strip me naked and you'd probably mistake me for a Mint Humbug.
But this year the tan-lines are pretty hard to make out. A combination of a spring/summer which has given us more than our fair share of the wet stuff, and also a significant change in my home life, has invariably meant that my strolls up the slopes of Lakeland have become more "occasional" rather than "regular".
Now don't get me wrong here. My 12-mile emigration south to the beautiful town of Garstang, in our wonderful new home has been a welcome distraction. Adapting to life in The World's First Fairtrade Town has been a great experience. And I now have a "real" house as opposed to living in a city-centre flat. And that means I can now, for the first time in my house-owning career enjoy that most modern of facilities - A Garden! Eager plans hatched in the latter days of February followed by an ambitious purchasing programme of "outside furniture" was invariably (with my luck) going to bring months of rain. So, beers in the garden have been as frustratingly infrequent as my Lakeland treks in 2012. Still, I'll hold out for this "Indian Summer" that Auntie Beeb promises us every year. Not quite sure what that actually means, so I'll go with 2-hours of un-broken sunshine on the second Sunday of September, scoffing down a Lamb Bhuna.
Another reason for this double-dip recession in my rambling industry has also been a noticeable lack of my annual charity challenge. As some of you may know, the last 2 years I've been training, blogging and waffling furiously about the 3 peaks, and, more recently, the unforgettable trek to the summit of Kilimanjaro. But no such target was set for 2012. And do you know what? I deeply regret that! But, all that will change soon enough. More about that in the near future loyal reader.
But despite the afore-mentioned factors, my craving to get into the great outdoors has, as always, been over-whelming. And my inner-voice has been steering me down a niche path that 5 years ago I'd have thought would have been verging on the ridiculous.
Now, its no secret that back in my earlier 30's, the prospect and reality of me actually camping was as distant as the dream of landing a craft on the surface of the moon. As a hotelier who has been used to years of comfy beds in wonderful locations across the four corners of our fair land, why...in the name of all that's Holy would I spend a night cocooned up under a dripping, drafty canvas roof worrying whether or not I was going to make it through the night without drowning? "Bit of an over-reaction Tim?" I think Not! Allow me to justify my irrational fears!
My last family camping trip at the age of 13, I recall very vividly watching my Dad at 3am in the morning fighting a loosing battle against mother nature's dark side. As quick as the pegs went it, the gale force gusts pulled them out again. There we were, in the middle of France, my Mum, sister and myself sat in a Yellow Toyota Corolla (with a Brown Cloth Velour no less) witnessing a broken man trying to save the big red tent. Indeed, it was our neighbour's tent too I recall. Hence the desperation to pin it down. Then, in a scene worthy of the film "Twister", the big man in the sky decided he wanted the tent.....and he took it! Turns out, that same night he also flattened the great trees of Sevenoaks in Kent. Although we didn't get the forecast that fateful night, I don't think Michael Fish will ever be forgiven for the biggest meteorological understatement in history.
So, I hope you, my loyal reader, can understand my prejudism and reluctance to the whole "camping" thing. Never again shall I set a muddy foot into a tent. Actually, as a bit of a confession, I did spend rather a few nights in my later teens in a tent. However these outings generally involved Diamond White Cider and drunken teenage fumblings with girls from the next village, so I don't think these count!
Step forward to the ripe old age of 38 and here I am, with a whole room in my house filled to the brim with gear dedicated to living in the great outdoors. I now own an inventory of equipment for every possible feasible type of camping trip, for every type of destination, for every type of season. There are 3 tents - My original trusty (and quite possibly now "rusty") 3-man, the 6-man monster with concierge services, valet parking and late-night residents bar, and finally, and more relevantly, the 2-man Vango Tempest 300. Yeh, yeh, I know. It's advertised as a "3-man", but I sense even Frodo Baggins with a couple of his fellow hairy-feet adventurers would still feel a tad claustrophobic having a three-some in there. So, a "2-man" it is then!
This latter tent is my most recent, and I think, my most significant purchase. Weighing in at just over 3kg, for me it has one purpose, and one purpose alone - To get stuffed into a rucksack, carried up a fell and be pitched in God's great campsite.......The Wild!
The path to the purchase of the Vango has been a long and intelligent one. But where did it start? Why on earth would I want a tent which would fit into my other regularly used one at least 5 times over? The roots to this need has been influenced from several directions, however I can whole-heartily blame three main protagonists - The Discovery Channel, Dave and Twitter.
Let's start with the Custard Jelly. When I find myself with a rare moment of peace, and let's face it, boredom, the sky remote goes into auto-pilot. Firstly, channel 111, hoping for an episode of Top Gear that I might have only watched 26 times. However, I'll also stay tuned if the lovable, slightly chubby but oh so magnetic Ray Mears is doing one of his "Make Fire, Make Boat, Eat Seaweed & Slugs" type lectures. However, if neither Messrs Clarkson or Mears are doing their thing, it's over to channel 520 for....yep you guessed it.....Bear Grylls. Mr Grylls' programmes are the illegitimate lovechild when you cross Ray Mears Bushcraft with Rambo....and I love it! Which genuinely blue-blooded man could not? Both of these TV stars, albeit in a very different way, have been luring me to do something a bit more adventurous than the usual 2 nights in the Hi-Gear Zenobia with it's Hall Porters, Room Service menu and complementary toiletries.
Then came the final push. Those darn Tweeters! Gawd' bless 'em!
Ever since I entered the Twitter-verse, I found myself sticking to their corporate motto like a loyal terrier, "Follow your interests" they say. So I did. And before you know it, my twitter world is filled with fell walkers, bloggers, photographers and the obligatory odd - hotelier. (And we are "Odd", trust me!) I love reading and sharing the stories of the mountains with the fellow tweeters. By Thursday the feed is full of ideas about where everyone's going to be walking the coming weekend, and then by Sunday it's gloriously awash with tales and pictures of fell-tops, panoramas, and early morning reflections in the still lakeland tarns.
Overtime, a new type of tweeter has come into my radar. Those who call themselves "Wild campers". Intrigued by their take on the great British pastime of camping, I found myself reading their bogs and admiring their stories with the same level of envy as I find when watching the Grylls & Mears. Difference is, this is closer to home. Achievable & realistic. Fantastic!
So, the last few months have been a frantic online research campaign to find, and ultimately purchase, THE KIT! And my god, what a huge array of choice is available out there!
Subscribing to every single reputable vendor's email list, I find my hotmail inbox filled daily with tempting deals on equipment specifically designed to be shoved into the afore-mentioned rucksack and enrich the whole experience. Sure, you could drag yourself up 2000ft with a tent, sleeping bag and a side-pocket brimming with chocolate, but where's the fun in that? Up there I want to cook, to see, to discover and to learn. Feel a closeness to nature that I can't quite get in the 6-man Hilton.
Now, I've always been of the opinion that if you pay peanuts, you get Monkeys. And as far as I can work out, this principle holds true with gear suitable for surviving the elements of Mother Nature. If it's the same for outdoor clothing, it has to be the same for camping gear. Without naming and shaming the brands, or the high-street outlets, I can truthfully say that I've discovered that most of the "permanently" cheaper brands are less priced for a reason. They work, up to a point. Waterproofs, gloves, base-layers, sleeping bags, rucksacks, canteens - I've bought the cheapest, used them, binned them. Except for my first boots of course. Even though they wore out in half a season and were probably more appropriate for ice-skating by the time I put them out to stud, I still can't bare to part with my first pair I purchased some 6 or 7 years ago. From a lasting and waterproofing point of view, sure, they were rubbish. But they hold memories for me. They took me for the first time to summits and across edges that I'd never been before. So they're still in the garage with the VHS cassettes, empty paint tins and the garden furniture.
So, the wild camping kit list, after much deliberation and research was to be as follows:-
The "essentials"
I'd quite deliberately chosen the picture-perfect location of Angeltarn, a jaw-droppingly beautiful tarn which nestles under those twin-peaks that carry the same name, and stand proudly like a couple of sentinels guarding their rightful treasure. My choice was threefold really. Firstly, I know it better than any other area in the Lakes. So, naturally it was going to bring a "comfort" factor to me, and a sense of security on my first solo "wild" outing. Secondly, it's just under the 2000ft mark and lies in a bumpy, sheltered bowl. So that if the fell-top gusts picked up, I'd be able to pitch-up with a natural protective wind-break nearby. Plus, going up towards the 2500/3000ft mark seemed a bit "too much too soon" for my first trip. Run before you can walk Tim! And thirdly, its beauty never staggers to amaze me. The thought of living beside my favourite tarn for 14 hours, and waking up to its magnificent presence was too much to resist.
Having parked the trusty old 4x4 in the Cow Bridge Car Park (yes, you can actually get a space here after 7pm!!!) I set off on the long, gradually steepening path up to cross-roads of Boredale Hause. I've always likened this path to a "quarter-pipe", with a gentle forgiving start which just gets ever increasingly steeper (and thus more difficult) towards the end. The last few years I've been able to knock out this stretch in about 30 minutes with just a couple of moments required to "Admire the View" (i.e. Stop for Oxygen and Slow the jungle drums in my heart down). However, swap your normal 18 litre backpack for something 4 times bigger AND probably 6 times heavier, and the going isn't quite as swift. In fact, that's a bit of an understatement. That's like saying "That Cowell bloke has done alright for himself hasn't he?" or "Those PPI claim firms are starting to become a minor irritation!" Anyway, you get the perspective now, right?
So, 80 minutes after setting off, I reach the plateau at Boredale Hause, just in time to watch the last rays of the sun sink behind the Helvellyn Range. Oh Bugger! The Cardio Jungle Drums then started a frantic rhythm befitting of a late night show on Radio 1. I've still got another 30 minutes to the tarn, and the big man's dimming his lights for the evening! Time to pick up the pace Tim and put your best foot down. You can rest later!
That final stretch I usually take at a very leisurely pace so that one can recover some spent energy from the initial ascent, whilst admiring the superb view from Brotherswater all the way up the Kirkstone pass. To the right, Fairfield, St Sundays, Helvellyn and the un-mistakable pyramid-like point of Catstycam form a mesmorising western wall. But tonight, with perspiration pouring like Spring-time ghylls down my back and my breathing once again emulating my best "Darth Vader with Bronchitis" impression, I had no such time to gaze lovingly at the granite silhouettes. This was a race against time, and the eroding effects of dusk.
Finally, with just a glimmer of light sufficient enough to choose a good pitching spot and decipher the contents of the tent bag, I arrived at the tarn and erected the Vango. Firm and true, it now stood there ready to give me my sense of home for the next 14 hours. Time to take take five. Take stock. Take in the reality of the unusual but incredible situation I find myself in. With the Coleman Lantern now lit, some Kenny Wayne Shepherd playing through my MP3's speaker, and the hip-flask clutched in my hand, I sat there and afforded myself a much satisfied and well-earned smile. I have arrived!
The sense of elation and achievement I felt at that particular time was a feeling that will probably, and I mean this with all sincerity, stay with me forever. I've done the hard bit, now it's time to reap the rewards of Wild-camping.
First up, I got my fire going. Yeh yeh, I know, it's not "Cricket" to be lighting fires in the fells, but before you go branding me with labels of being a selfless, nature-destroying idiot, allow me to put on my Swampy outift, finish my Organic Oatcake with Fairtrade Hummus and let me justify my action. (Ahem!) Back in the afore-mentioned inventory, you may have noticed the Fuel Log. This small, brick-sized block (bought locally from Booths) is made only from responsibly sourced materials, is smokeless, disappears completely after burning, and thus resulted (not as though I would anyway) that no trees, logs or branches were used by me to get my camp-fire going for the night. I placed it on a flat slab of bedrock and completely surrounded it with a full circle of looser rocks, thus preventing any "scorching" to the earth. I could now turn off the lantern, connect the gas canister to the stove, and allow a more conventional method to light-up my pitch.
With the pasta cooking, and another swig of Malt warming its way down my veins, the senses I had being hoping for on this trip all came rushing to the forefront. I was relaxed, yet engaged. Tired, but very much alive. Alone, but not lonely. You tweeters told me I would love it! How right you were! For the next 3 hours or so, I read my book, appreciated my food, then lay on my back watching the (forecasted) meteor shower in the perfect night sky. G'nite!
If the night before had exceeded my expectations, the following morning would go another extra mile in my mind. Awakening to glorious sunshine after a perfect 8-hour sleep, and with the faint voices of distant walkers bouncing off the fell, I stuck my head out of the tent and smiled once more at the reality of what I had experienced last night and of course the effervescent beauty of my location.
Time to take a stretch and take in this perfect place on a perfect day after a perfect night. It must have only been 9am, but already I could see maybe ten or so people trekking around the perimeter path of Angletarn. Most of them pausing not for breath, but probably, like I do, to marvel at this sublime piece of water, which in my mind, doesn't really belong here! But then again I wouldn't want it located anywhere else. That's what makes it special for me.
After a brief wander around, it was of course time to do the obligatory thing, regardless of where you may wake up. Put the kettle on, and let's have some brekkers! Coffee and Sugar had been portioned appropriately and stored in those tiny tupperware containers, probably measuring 3cm x 3cm. (Is it still called tupperware by the way? Or has it been given one those poncy trendy names like "Pampered Chef"?) Anyway, back to the point Tim - There's no need for carrying around full jars and bags of the stuff is there? And breakfast was 4 sausages no less. 2 standard pork, and 2 black pudding flavoured. Some cunningly left-over tomato sauce from the jar the night before was spread evenly across a tortilla wrap, and then the sausages placed carefully inside, before folding the wrap around the meaty filling. Let's call it a "Lancashire Enchillada" shall we? No plates, no fuss, only 100% flavour! (I sound like a TV advert don't I?) But as a tip, I'd say flour wraps are a far better option than bread rolls, which, let's face it, are only going to go flat and stale in your backpack. Crikey, here I am, as wet-behind-the-ears as they come, and I'm already handing out advice! Might not be the best advice in the world, but hey, it works for me! So Shurrupp!
Regretfully, despite thinking to myself "I could stay here all day", the reality was that I couldn't. I had a few things to do at work, a house full of impending domestic jobs, and a darned blog to write (of course!). So, it was time to pack down and pack up. Not one of my favourite of chores when staying in the Penthouse suite at the Langdale Hilton. But with this little set of treats I'd assembled, it was over and done with in 10 minutes. Ready to go!
Now don't get me wrong here. My 12-mile emigration south to the beautiful town of Garstang, in our wonderful new home has been a welcome distraction. Adapting to life in The World's First Fairtrade Town has been a great experience. And I now have a "real" house as opposed to living in a city-centre flat. And that means I can now, for the first time in my house-owning career enjoy that most modern of facilities - A Garden! Eager plans hatched in the latter days of February followed by an ambitious purchasing programme of "outside furniture" was invariably (with my luck) going to bring months of rain. So, beers in the garden have been as frustratingly infrequent as my Lakeland treks in 2012. Still, I'll hold out for this "Indian Summer" that Auntie Beeb promises us every year. Not quite sure what that actually means, so I'll go with 2-hours of un-broken sunshine on the second Sunday of September, scoffing down a Lamb Bhuna.
Another reason for this double-dip recession in my rambling industry has also been a noticeable lack of my annual charity challenge. As some of you may know, the last 2 years I've been training, blogging and waffling furiously about the 3 peaks, and, more recently, the unforgettable trek to the summit of Kilimanjaro. But no such target was set for 2012. And do you know what? I deeply regret that! But, all that will change soon enough. More about that in the near future loyal reader.
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| Sunrise on Kilimanjaro.......Flipping cold! |
Now, its no secret that back in my earlier 30's, the prospect and reality of me actually camping was as distant as the dream of landing a craft on the surface of the moon. As a hotelier who has been used to years of comfy beds in wonderful locations across the four corners of our fair land, why...in the name of all that's Holy would I spend a night cocooned up under a dripping, drafty canvas roof worrying whether or not I was going to make it through the night without drowning? "Bit of an over-reaction Tim?" I think Not! Allow me to justify my irrational fears!
My last family camping trip at the age of 13, I recall very vividly watching my Dad at 3am in the morning fighting a loosing battle against mother nature's dark side. As quick as the pegs went it, the gale force gusts pulled them out again. There we were, in the middle of France, my Mum, sister and myself sat in a Yellow Toyota Corolla (with a Brown Cloth Velour no less) witnessing a broken man trying to save the big red tent. Indeed, it was our neighbour's tent too I recall. Hence the desperation to pin it down. Then, in a scene worthy of the film "Twister", the big man in the sky decided he wanted the tent.....and he took it! Turns out, that same night he also flattened the great trees of Sevenoaks in Kent. Although we didn't get the forecast that fateful night, I don't think Michael Fish will ever be forgiven for the biggest meteorological understatement in history.
So, I hope you, my loyal reader, can understand my prejudism and reluctance to the whole "camping" thing. Never again shall I set a muddy foot into a tent. Actually, as a bit of a confession, I did spend rather a few nights in my later teens in a tent. However these outings generally involved Diamond White Cider and drunken teenage fumblings with girls from the next village, so I don't think these count!
Step forward to the ripe old age of 38 and here I am, with a whole room in my house filled to the brim with gear dedicated to living in the great outdoors. I now own an inventory of equipment for every possible feasible type of camping trip, for every type of destination, for every type of season. There are 3 tents - My original trusty (and quite possibly now "rusty") 3-man, the 6-man monster with concierge services, valet parking and late-night residents bar, and finally, and more relevantly, the 2-man Vango Tempest 300. Yeh, yeh, I know. It's advertised as a "3-man", but I sense even Frodo Baggins with a couple of his fellow hairy-feet adventurers would still feel a tad claustrophobic having a three-some in there. So, a "2-man" it is then!
This latter tent is my most recent, and I think, my most significant purchase. Weighing in at just over 3kg, for me it has one purpose, and one purpose alone - To get stuffed into a rucksack, carried up a fell and be pitched in God's great campsite.......The Wild!
The path to the purchase of the Vango has been a long and intelligent one. But where did it start? Why on earth would I want a tent which would fit into my other regularly used one at least 5 times over? The roots to this need has been influenced from several directions, however I can whole-heartily blame three main protagonists - The Discovery Channel, Dave and Twitter.
Let's start with the Custard Jelly. When I find myself with a rare moment of peace, and let's face it, boredom, the sky remote goes into auto-pilot. Firstly, channel 111, hoping for an episode of Top Gear that I might have only watched 26 times. However, I'll also stay tuned if the lovable, slightly chubby but oh so magnetic Ray Mears is doing one of his "Make Fire, Make Boat, Eat Seaweed & Slugs" type lectures. However, if neither Messrs Clarkson or Mears are doing their thing, it's over to channel 520 for....yep you guessed it.....Bear Grylls. Mr Grylls' programmes are the illegitimate lovechild when you cross Ray Mears Bushcraft with Rambo....and I love it! Which genuinely blue-blooded man could not? Both of these TV stars, albeit in a very different way, have been luring me to do something a bit more adventurous than the usual 2 nights in the Hi-Gear Zenobia with it's Hall Porters, Room Service menu and complementary toiletries.
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| The Langdale Hilton |
Ever since I entered the Twitter-verse, I found myself sticking to their corporate motto like a loyal terrier, "Follow your interests" they say. So I did. And before you know it, my twitter world is filled with fell walkers, bloggers, photographers and the obligatory odd - hotelier. (And we are "Odd", trust me!) I love reading and sharing the stories of the mountains with the fellow tweeters. By Thursday the feed is full of ideas about where everyone's going to be walking the coming weekend, and then by Sunday it's gloriously awash with tales and pictures of fell-tops, panoramas, and early morning reflections in the still lakeland tarns.
Overtime, a new type of tweeter has come into my radar. Those who call themselves "Wild campers". Intrigued by their take on the great British pastime of camping, I found myself reading their bogs and admiring their stories with the same level of envy as I find when watching the Grylls & Mears. Difference is, this is closer to home. Achievable & realistic. Fantastic!
So, the last few months have been a frantic online research campaign to find, and ultimately purchase, THE KIT! And my god, what a huge array of choice is available out there!
Subscribing to every single reputable vendor's email list, I find my hotmail inbox filled daily with tempting deals on equipment specifically designed to be shoved into the afore-mentioned rucksack and enrich the whole experience. Sure, you could drag yourself up 2000ft with a tent, sleeping bag and a side-pocket brimming with chocolate, but where's the fun in that? Up there I want to cook, to see, to discover and to learn. Feel a closeness to nature that I can't quite get in the 6-man Hilton.
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| The "Inferno" cooking stove - Like a mini-nuclear reactor....without the leaks! |
So, the wild camping kit list, after much deliberation and research was to be as follows:-
The "essentials"
- Vango Tempest 300 Tent
- Gelert 1300 extreme-lite sleeping bag (tried & tested already on Kili)
- Gelert 4-pc canteen kit (heavily dinted, but been loyally with me for the last 3 years, and super lightweight!).
- Thermos Mug
- Hi-Hear Inferno Cooking stove (Wide & Sturdy, with adjustable legs for the terrain, Folds away into a tiny box, could give Sellafield a run for its money!)
- Hi-Gear "Ultralite" Sleeping Mat. At 950g, sure it's weighty, but my ruined old back just couldn't so without a decent bed for the night.
- Coleman F1 Lite Lantern - "Your very own portable Sun" - At less than 80g, this is a fabulous light (and heat) source! Hooks onto the same coleman propane cartridge as the Inferno Cooking stove
- Travel pillow
- Clothing - Mid-weight walking pants, fleece, socks & gloves; thermal base layer (top & bottom), Waterproofs, Hat, Boots
- Map & Compass
The "extras"
- 2 x books
- Food - Fresh vac-pack pasta, tomato & mascarpone sauce, tortilla wraps, 4 sausages, 2 x chocolate bars, mini-tupperwares of instant coffee and sugar, pistachio nuts
- Hip Flask of Single Malt
- Fuel Log
- MP3 player & mini-speaker
- Mobile phone & Pebble Charger
So, after all the planning & procurement, the scene was set. And packing all of the above snugly into my 85 + 10 litre rucksack, I headed on a fine summer evening to my chosen destination, the Angletarn Pikes
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| Right, here we go at last! |
I'd quite deliberately chosen the picture-perfect location of Angeltarn, a jaw-droppingly beautiful tarn which nestles under those twin-peaks that carry the same name, and stand proudly like a couple of sentinels guarding their rightful treasure. My choice was threefold really. Firstly, I know it better than any other area in the Lakes. So, naturally it was going to bring a "comfort" factor to me, and a sense of security on my first solo "wild" outing. Secondly, it's just under the 2000ft mark and lies in a bumpy, sheltered bowl. So that if the fell-top gusts picked up, I'd be able to pitch-up with a natural protective wind-break nearby. Plus, going up towards the 2500/3000ft mark seemed a bit "too much too soon" for my first trip. Run before you can walk Tim! And thirdly, its beauty never staggers to amaze me. The thought of living beside my favourite tarn for 14 hours, and waking up to its magnificent presence was too much to resist.
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| A Lakeland "Oasis" - Angletarn, Patterdale - |
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| "Goodbye Mr Sunshine" |
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| Taking a "Breather" |
So, 80 minutes after setting off, I reach the plateau at Boredale Hause, just in time to watch the last rays of the sun sink behind the Helvellyn Range. Oh Bugger! The Cardio Jungle Drums then started a frantic rhythm befitting of a late night show on Radio 1. I've still got another 30 minutes to the tarn, and the big man's dimming his lights for the evening! Time to pick up the pace Tim and put your best foot down. You can rest later!
That final stretch I usually take at a very leisurely pace so that one can recover some spent energy from the initial ascent, whilst admiring the superb view from Brotherswater all the way up the Kirkstone pass. To the right, Fairfield, St Sundays, Helvellyn and the un-mistakable pyramid-like point of Catstycam form a mesmorising western wall. But tonight, with perspiration pouring like Spring-time ghylls down my back and my breathing once again emulating my best "Darth Vader with Bronchitis" impression, I had no such time to gaze lovingly at the granite silhouettes. This was a race against time, and the eroding effects of dusk.
Finally, with just a glimmer of light sufficient enough to choose a good pitching spot and decipher the contents of the tent bag, I arrived at the tarn and erected the Vango. Firm and true, it now stood there ready to give me my sense of home for the next 14 hours. Time to take take five. Take stock. Take in the reality of the unusual but incredible situation I find myself in. With the Coleman Lantern now lit, some Kenny Wayne Shepherd playing through my MP3's speaker, and the hip-flask clutched in my hand, I sat there and afforded myself a much satisfied and well-earned smile. I have arrived!
First up, I got my fire going. Yeh yeh, I know, it's not "Cricket" to be lighting fires in the fells, but before you go branding me with labels of being a selfless, nature-destroying idiot, allow me to put on my Swampy outift, finish my Organic Oatcake with Fairtrade Hummus and let me justify my action. (Ahem!) Back in the afore-mentioned inventory, you may have noticed the Fuel Log. This small, brick-sized block (bought locally from Booths) is made only from responsibly sourced materials, is smokeless, disappears completely after burning, and thus resulted (not as though I would anyway) that no trees, logs or branches were used by me to get my camp-fire going for the night. I placed it on a flat slab of bedrock and completely surrounded it with a full circle of looser rocks, thus preventing any "scorching" to the earth. I could now turn off the lantern, connect the gas canister to the stove, and allow a more conventional method to light-up my pitch.
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| Dinner time! |
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| The morning Panorama |
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| As backdrops go, it' ain't half bad! |
After a brief wander around, it was of course time to do the obligatory thing, regardless of where you may wake up. Put the kettle on, and let's have some brekkers! Coffee and Sugar had been portioned appropriately and stored in those tiny tupperware containers, probably measuring 3cm x 3cm. (Is it still called tupperware by the way? Or has it been given one those poncy trendy names like "Pampered Chef"?) Anyway, back to the point Tim - There's no need for carrying around full jars and bags of the stuff is there? And breakfast was 4 sausages no less. 2 standard pork, and 2 black pudding flavoured. Some cunningly left-over tomato sauce from the jar the night before was spread evenly across a tortilla wrap, and then the sausages placed carefully inside, before folding the wrap around the meaty filling. Let's call it a "Lancashire Enchillada" shall we? No plates, no fuss, only 100% flavour! (I sound like a TV advert don't I?) But as a tip, I'd say flour wraps are a far better option than bread rolls, which, let's face it, are only going to go flat and stale in your backpack. Crikey, here I am, as wet-behind-the-ears as they come, and I'm already handing out advice! Might not be the best advice in the world, but hey, it works for me! So Shurrupp!
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| How do you like your sausages Tim? |
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| Ready, but not happy to go home! |
The stroll back was via, as always, the twisty, bumpy, peat-covered path towards the Knott, then turning right and descending down to Hayeswater, before reaching Hartsop and the car park. But the day was just too perfect to rush off home. I've never seen the tarn so still before. Sure, I've probably got over 200 snaps of it back home on a pen-drive somewhere, but a couple more wouldn't go a miss surely? And of course, I can run down the path from the reservoir to the village to make up any lost time! (It's amazing how the inner voice can control one's diary and force you into another race against the clock all in the name of that elusive "perfect shot"). So, I very much doubt whether I got that "perfect shot", I should have been up a good three hours ago to get that one, but I was still, as always, happy with my pictures of my favourite tarn. I even desperately contemplated turning left and heading up towards Kidsty Pike and another night on the fells, but I don't think half a packet of pistachios and a squashed double decker would have seen me comfortably through another night. Your time and opportunity will come again Tim, that you can be assured of.
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| Almost still |
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| Rock & Ripples |
The day ended with a very satisfying drive south over Kirkstone and then back to Lancaster. This had been a very grand experience indeed. It had all the hallmarks of a much prepared and planned venture, but still managed to deliver elements of surprise and delight that exceeded my pre-conceptions. Needless to say, I sit here writing this now, half thinking how to finish this blog off appropriately, half thinking of the next destination to Wild Camp. Hang on, I guess that's the perfect note on which to finish right?
