A cold, snowy wild camp on Bleaklow

Saturday morning in Hayfield. There's a sprinkling of snow in the village. The first this winter. I have an appointment with my friend Chris. Islay's panniers and my rucsac are packed. Sandwiches made, we leave the house late in the morning.

Chris lives 20 minutes walk away in a hamlet close by. Soon, we're climbing onto Middle Moor. The path traversing White Brow has a handful of people on it. The snow is sparse. Climbing William Clough snow begins to fall. We stop for lunch on Mill Hill before striking north east on the Pennine Way over Glead Hill and Featherbed Moss. It's bitterly cold now. The problem with cold fingers, which I always seem to forget until winter weather arrives, hits again. My lined waterproof gloves, damp with sweat from the ascent, now contain cold water and my finger ends are losing feeling. We stop and I swap for dry, warmer gloves. It takes several minutes for me to persuade my damp digits into the warmth of the gloves. Then we're off again. Islay behaves like a pup in the snow. Burrowing through drifts. Lying on her tummy, pulling herself with front legs, delighting in the feel of the snow on her fur. 

Mist clears momentarily to give a view of Kinder's northern edge.

The walk across to Snake Summit feels interminable. There's just enough snow on the slabs of the path to make them slippy. Chris misjudges where the slabs end and plants a foot into knee deep peat. We take turns to slip, catching balance, narrowly avoiding falling.

Finally reaching the Snake road we cross. It's been opened to traffic again but was closed earlier this morning. We trudge on through the snow and, eventually, after around four and a half hour's walking, we arrive at our camp for the night in a secret location, known to a number of backpacking friends. It's a favourite spot of mine but Chris hasn't been here before.

I clip Islay's lead to my rucsac and succeed in pitching our Southern Cross 2 without removing my thick, warm gloves. As I begin filtering water from the stream Islay becomes impatient. She barks at me, annoyed. She's had enough and could easily be cold. I'm as quick as I can be and then my first job is pulling Islay's bed from her panniers and placing it in the usual place in the tent. And after a quick rub with a towel Islay is ensconced in her cosy bed/sleeping bag.

Now we're all cocooned in our tents. Chris calls across to ask how I am. He's forgotten the thermal liner for his synthetic sleeping bag. It's an easy mistake. He's had a stressful week at work and doesn't have the luxury of spending half a day loading a sac, like me. He's fully clothed in his bag. I change into dry base layers, a down vest and my Montane Prism jacket. My down bag completes my comfort. I wrap Islay in her fleece sleeping coat.

I watch a documentary on iPlayer about Sophie Lancaster, murdered around eight years ago by a gang of youths who didn't like her goth clothes and appearance. It's harrowing and leaves me pensive.

Islay devours her dinner with gusto and I dine on an extremely tasty Real Turmat meal of pulled pork and rice. It was a trial sample from the lovely Laura and James at Base Camp Foods. It's truly delicious. Desert's a dense, oaty flapjack and coffee. I read awhile and sip malt whisky. Then it's a quick dash out for doggy toilet duties before we settle for the night.

I enjoy one of the best night's sleep ever in a tent and don't wake fully until 8am. There's a layer of snow on both the windward walls of the tent, pressing the fly onto the inner. A slap on each side sees most of it tumble to the floor.

I hear Chris outside. 

"I'm not gonna do another night," he says. Our plan had been for two nights out; the second being on Kinder's eastern edge.

"Ok, no problem," I reply. "Are you ok?"

Chris has been cold all night. Really not what you want on a winter camp. I sympathise and tell him I'll carry on with Plan A, while he returns via our outbound route.

Each time I've awakened through the night I've checked Islay is warm enough by feeling between her fleece coat and fur. She was always ok but now, I notice, she's shivering.

I take her out for a toilet break. At least four inches more snow has fallen overnight.

Bringing Islay back in quickly I ensure she's wrapped up well in her bag but I'm a little concerned. Taking a dog camping is a little like having a toddler with you. You have to cater for their every need, as well as your own. I wonder whether it's right, bringing her out in the cold like this. I try not to anthropomorphise our dogs, but she does look sad. I give her a cuddle and breakfast. She's reluctant to eat but finally agrees. But she won't drink. Despite several offers she's not had any water since we left home, save for that added to her dinner. Unlike Pebbles, she rarely drinks from streams or puddles. She can be a worry.

I muse over this as I munch breakfast porridge. Eventually I decide I have to put Islay's well being before my own plans and tell Chris I'll return with him.

So, after a couple of warming coffees, I pack. I put Islay's lined, waterproof coat on her in the hope it'll make her feel cosier. Then I make a silly mistake. I take down the tent wearing my fleece gloves. When I've finished, the gloves are soaked and my fingers numb with cold, again. I've years of camping experience. I have waterproof mitts in my sac to team with my fleece gloves. Why do I do such silly things? Now I have two pairs of wet gloves. But the thick ones I wore yesterday afternoon are still dry. I fiddle with getting damp fingers into them...again. And Chris helps me stuff the tent into it's bag and to attach Islay's panniers using the tiny fastex buckles. I'm glad he's here. 

At last we're away. 

As we approach the Pennine Way a figure appears and calls my name. It's Hadrian. We follow each other on Twitter but have never met, until now. Hadrian had spent the night higher up and felt the wind. We both knew that each planned to be on Bleaklow. We walk with him to Snake Summit where his car is, but not before managing to walk in a full circle, Winnie the Pooh like, in a struggle to regain the path once I had led us all off it! Stories like this make for great memories and we laugh it off. Thankfully it took only minutes for us to recognise...and resolve the minor faux pas.

It's pleasant chatting with Hadrian as we walk and always good to meet an online friend, the more so in such circumstances, away in the wild hills.

Bidding farewell to Hadrian we embark, once again, on the tiresome trudge over Featherbed Moss. This time, tactically, we stop for a break and sustenance halfway. 

Then it's a descent of William Clough and making our way back into the village. 

As Chris and I separate, we smile and agree, despite adversities, that it's been fun.

"Maybe we should try doing this in summer, sometime," says Chris as he walks away, grinning.