January wild camp

We've had a couple of really busy weeks, filled with various appointments of one kind or another. Frustration's been setting in. Both Chrissie and I have an ambition to wild camp every month this year. I've failed by one month for the past two years. So, fueled by this daft idea, we set out, last Friday, with the pups and our mahoossive Terra Nova Polar Lite 3, up to a quiet-spot-not-too-far-from-home, on the driest day for at least two weeks. There follows some random, disjointed thoughts to come from this briefest of sojourns.

It's a while since we camped with both Pebbles and Islay together. Over a year I think. They've both matured significantly. Those who've met 'em know they can be excitable, but they both sat, chewing a hide thingy, whilst we put up the tent, with only the slightest of barky-type objections. And they both happily settled to well over 12 hours in the tent without any fuss at all. I've learnt my lesson in not tiring Islay out when carrying her panniers, and kept her on the lead. Both of them are content staying on leads on some walks anyway, when appropriate. We we were quite cheerfully impressed with our precious pups' behaviour. We love 'em!

For the first time, I wore just the fleece from my Paramo Bentu combo (see review here), it being relatively mild anyway on the way out. I wore it over a thin Paramo baselayer and was comfy in around 7C with no wind. I did don my windproof Bentu outer when we stopped to filter water en route though. The following morning was rainy but once home I removed the combo to find the Montane Allez I then had on underneath was bone dry, being free from damp sweat even on my back. Impressive.

Our new Skywatch Explore 2 told us it was down to just above freezing overnight. Mild for January. But we were quite warm enough in our 3 season bags. I wore my new Montane Prism insulated trousers in the tent for the evening. Very cosy.

It'd been our first camp together since last year's Arctic trip and we spent a comfortable night in our packable palace. We camp together so infrequently, mainly due to our hesitation at taking both hounds, but there are plans to take them out with us again next month. Watch this space.

We sometimes forget how lucky we are to be able to walk from our door to a wild camp. We do take it for granted. We're blessed...living in a lovely place, on the edge of the wilds, being healthy and sharing our lives with two daft, but lovable dogs.

Thanks for looking in. Enjoy your own adventures...both big and small and, above all...

...Smile!

A review of my 2017 in the outdoors

We're just back from a week in the van in Bellingham, near Kielder with James, hence the slightly belated review of what I got up to in t'big wild outdoors in 2017.

In January we spent a week in Moffat in the van, during which me an' Choccy Paws spent a misty, moisty night on Swatte Fell.

February came with me and my pal Chris spending a wintery night on the slopes of Carnedd Llewellyn.

In March, David, Islay I had a cold camp on Kinder...

...whilst April and May saw us in the Highlands again. Me and Islay had a coupla nights out despite aborting the Sutherland way...

...and...oh yes...someone completed her first TGO Challenge...solo. I love her.

I joined Matthew for a quick overnight close to home in June.

Chrissie and I were Arctic bound again in August, to Sarek National Park in northern Sweden, for our big trip of the year.

Back in the UK, in September I enjoyed a superb tour of the Lakes with David.

October brought a camp on Great Shunner Fell from the van in Hawes.

November came with a very wild, snowy camp on Bleaklow with Chris again.

Finally, December found me on Kinder with James, chasing ghosts.

Once again, I seem to have managed to wild camp every month 'cept July. Quite why, I'm not sure. I suspect we were too busy prepping for Sarek. Never mind.

Of course, I couldn't let this review go without mention of the newly arrived family member. Noah was born on the 28th November. First child of my daughter and son in law, Abi and Dave, he's also our first grandchild. We were really thrilled to meet him. I wish him a life full of love and fun. Right now his main hobbies are sleeping and eating.

So there it is. Another year ticked off, filled with adventures.

This year, my major focus is a 1000 mile cycle camping tour across France in June/July but there'll be lots more going on too I suspect.

Happy new year to all of you out there. I wish you a year filled with fun, love and peace.

Smile!

Snow at the Sabres

It's 22nd of July 1954. Two RAF Sabre jets are returning from an exercise, on their way to their base; RAF Linton on Ouse. Above the north eastern flanks of Kinder Scout they collide in mid air. It's thought they misread the high ground, following a line over the reservoir. The pilots, Flying Officer James Desmond Horne and Flight Lieutentant Alan Green are both killed. The wreckage, strewn across half a mile from a point on the plateau down to Black Ashop Moor, is discovered three days later by a passing walker.

I was around eight months old at the time. Today, it's a cold, wintery December day, 63 years later. James and I are trudging over a thin covering of windblown snow towards the major part of the jets' remains. It's a night we've had planned for a while. Five of us, including Chrissie, and spurred on by her love of the supernatural, were to spend the night near the supposedly haunted site. As it turned out, an evil-looking weather forecast means that Chrissie has stayed at home with the dogs, we having decided it would be too cold for them, and two of our compatriots had failed to arrive due, mainly, to fears of bad road conditions. Hence, five plus three dogs, is reduced to me and James (James also thought it too cold for Reuben).

We leave our house at midday and take a route over Middle Moor, past Chadwick's Cabin and White Brow and up William Clough. There's some sun trying to break through.

Mindful of my experience with cold hands a coupla weeks back, I've a newly sorted bag of gloves in my sac. Three pairs of thin thermal gloves, two pairs of lined waterproof ones and my Extremities waterproof and fleece mitts now form my hand-protection armoury. Ironically, I've carried something similar in my daysack for years but had been far too frugal when backpacking. I've spent no money on extra hand wear. I'm wearing thin fleece gloves for the initial climb, adding the thinner of my lined gloves only when I feel the need. I remove the lined gloves, leaving them dangling on their wrist loops, if my hands start to sweat. It's a juggling act, but it works.

Around 3 pm we reach  Ashop Head and start out across the moorland waste towards the point I've marked on Viewranger; the crash site. It's some years since I was last here, on a MRT training exercise.

Locating the site, we find a small memorial on one part of the wreckage.

Out of respect for the site, we choose a pitch a short distance away.

James' clever weather thingy tells us it's around minus 2C with a windchill effect of minus 7C. Cold, but nowhere near as bad as the forecast had been. We both agree, had we known, the pups would all have been fine. Oh well. Weather forecasts eh?

I filter water and, as my fingers begin to chill, I'm into the tent and warmth of my winter down sleeping bag. My hands soon warm and I've coffee on the go, now wearing dry fleece gloves. With some of Chrissie's fine home-made flapjack I'm munching and supping contentedly. Apart from throwing the occasional comment at each other through the cold air, James and I remain, ensconced in the protection of our respective shelters.

I dine on Idahoan Cheesy mashed potato and Dolmio bolognese sauce, followed by some of those fruity survival biscuits in custard. That lot's helped down by a somewhat chilled drop of red wine (maybe more than a drop). 

My tiny Treadlite lantern holds the darkness at bay.

I watch iPlayer including a feature film; "The Lighthouse". The true story of the Smalls Island tragedy of 1801, which resulted in a change from two to three man lighthouse crews thereafter. Highly recommended. Available for 10 more days.

The night is clear, cool and fairly still. From time to time I hear unusual sounds. First a single, long, shrill whistle. Much later a dog barking. It's dark and late. Who'd be up here with a dog. Only a search dog handler but there's no sounds of the shouted or whistled instructions I'm familiar with as a former handler. Nor the associated sounds of search parties. Just before 9pm there's a sharp, distant explosion. Each of these noises could have a logical explanation but, suffice to say, the crash site is known for strange sounds. And then there's the tale of a fellow MRT member who, on a night exercise, saw a man in uniform close to the Sabre wreckage on the plateau (of which he was unaware). He wasn't known for flights of fancy and only divulged this quietly to Chrissie, some time afterwards. It had troubled him. Make of all this what you will. I try to be open minded. I tend towards a belief that locations may hold a memory which, under certain circumstances, might be replayed, much like a recording.

The morning brings mist. Tent flysheets are covered in a thin layer of ice, inside and out.

After breakfast, and a relaxed second coffee, we pack.

A walk over the plateau is off the agenda. James has an understandable concern for his journey home across the Peak District. It's started to snow and there looks like more to come. The sky is heavy with that milky, foreboding grayness. Instead we decide to return via Burnt Hill.

James snaps me heading across the open moor, into the snow.

Then to Ashop Head...

...and we're off east towards the Liberator wreck site, where we stop and munch goodies.

Goggles make the wind blown snow more bearable and microspikes help on the slippy flagged bits of path.

Making our way back into Hayfield's like walking into a Christmas card scene.

And, some 24 hours after we left, we're back, warming ourselves with coffee and cheese on toast.

There's no finer way to spend 24 hours than in the wilds, in the company of a friend.

Smile!