Ten Magical Outdoor Memories of the More Mundane Kind

I’m not list kind of a person. But I was on a train this week and started chatting to a guy who was a keen outdoor person. As we talked it became clear he was one of those people who been everywhere and done everything: trekking in Nepal, horseback riding in Patagonia,  hacking through the Amazon, canoeing in Scandinavia, telemark skiing, wilderness hiking in Alaska and goodness knows what else.

My own little record of exploration was very modest indeed compared to the list of adventures. But it did get me day dreaming about memorable moments and memorable moments of the more unexpected kind.

So, here are ten of the experiences which stay with me. These are not my ten best, but just ten that I have fond memories of.

What are yours?

Wildcamp at Lyn Edno

The Moelwyns are not the most dramatic of mountain ranges in Snowdonia but — like many lesser ranges — that are fabulous simply because you have really great views of the really high hills. Steve Ashton — the guidebook guru of this area — suggests walking these hills in winer when the ground is frosty and hard. There is a reason for this. At any other time of the year the terrain is waterlogged. I aimed to camp at Llyn Edno and arrived later than planned on account of a lot of paddling. While I’d walked past many times before I’d never really considered it properly. This Llyn is bounded by thick heather and there are few camp spots. Eventually I stopped at a piece of flat ground which was waterlogged; I hoped that the tent groundsheet was still intake.

The day had not been particularly bad or particularly good. I had been overcast with squalls com in in and out at regular intervals. I made camp and prepared my meal. As I sat munching away the sky began to clear. I wish I could claim that I had purposefully made camp at this spot but in all honesty it was the first place I came to. But as I sat eating my meal I realised I was facing west, looking out over water towards peaks with a sky that was steadily developing colours of red, magenta and pink. It was a truly wonderful evening. Not Patagonia I grant you but a reminder of the truism — to get be lucky with these experiences you really have to be up and out there in the first place!

 

Wildcamp on the Findhorn

I climbed up to the main watershed ridge in the Monaliadth suffering from the flu. This was not a good time to get ill but I felt dreadful had another hundred or so miles to go to the east cost of Scotland. Dropping down the other side it seemed a pod idea to stop and make camp early in the afternoon. I was feeling rather sad for myself.

Fortunately I found myself camped along the side of the Findhorn river, simply one of the most magical places you could ever hope to be. There is a kind of new age community — The Findhorn Community – out on the coast near the mouth of the river. They’re nice people who believe in fairies and earth spirits. A friend of mine who’s a supporter of theirs tells me that they like to trek up the river to the source of the Findhorn for inspiration and spiritual renewal. Sitting there in the soft, evening, sunlight I could see their point. I may have felt dreadful physically but mentally I became very chilled.

I returned back to Birmingham to find that everyone I’d been working with prior to setting off was suffering from swine flu! But, if there was one place to feel horrible but happy I reckon it was this place!

 

The Streets of Kowloon

I had been working in Hong Kong for a week and finally had a day off. It seemed a nice idea to spend the day strolling around these busy streets, snapping away with my camera. These were the days when I was into photographing urban grot. I found a particularly appealing scene of urban decay and began shooting. An old man starting tugging at my arm. His English was about as good as my Cantonese. He was very insistent that I go with him. now this bit of Kowloon is not, lets say, the most cellebrius and it did strike me that I maybe didn’t know what I was doing. He tool me on through a series of narrow walkways and we ended up at the tiniest of pocket parks built around some kind of small shrine. He exchanged words with a young man who in turn turned to me. My friend wanted you to able to take photographs of something nice!

That old man was right. It was a pretty shitty thing for a westerner to do, simply seek out stuff that looked dreadful. I’ve never forgotten the pride in his eyes as he stretched out his arms and pointed to this tiny, green, oasis.

 

Cycling around the Cotentin Peninuslar

Many UK tourists know the Cotentin, or the Cherburg Peniunsula. They shoot through it at 90 miles an hour on their way to the South West. But this is lovely, lovely country. The small roads here are designed for cycling. Here are gorgeous hedgerows, traditional field patterns and small scale dairy farms. After the cars of Saturday have who through on the main roads the cyclist has the place to themselves. See that Church Steeple in the distance? That means there is a bar underneath. That’s what I call careful planning. This is what Doreset must have looked like 200 year ago. I’m not the only person to have had that view. Polamski decided to film his version of Hardy’s Tess. Sometimes – to paraphrase that intrepid traveller Eric Newby — there is nothing like cycling in low gear.

This is a happy place. The village of Bricquebecc was apparently the young Queen Victoria favourite holiday spot. One summer’s afternoon I strolled around the old, little, chateau of Saint Saveur le Vicomte. By then the chateau was an old people’s home. Around the back door was a huge stash of empty wine bottle. My mate Richard steeped back and pronounced that when it was time he wanted to grow old here.

 

Wildcamp Above Grassmere

I hadn’t been to the Lakes for years but had been invited to join the Guardian’s Norther Editor mail and writer Martin Wainwright for a book launch. Martin is a wonderfully engaging eccentric and its best to make the most of such invitations. Martin’s book was a brief biography of that old lakeland curmudgeon Alfred Wainwright (no relation). The book was to be launched on the top of Helm Cragg which — and I stand to be corrected — was the only hill in these parts that Wainwright never got around to climbing.

I decided to make a few days of the trip. Fellow blogger John Hee recommended a couple of good wild camp sites. And so it was that one summer’s evening I found myself climbing away from the obvious hills and up a very un-inspiring climb. But before long I was at a high mountain tarn. There was clean water and a good stone wall to take the shelter of the prevailing wind. I pitched my tarp and set about cooking my evening meal on a wood burning stove. It was a fine evening, warm and clear. This spot was on nobody’s beaten path and I did wonder how John had found it. Maps I guess. He’d recommended another (more obvious) cracker for the next night.

The next morning I stolid into Grassmere to by physically shocked by the number of people who were thronging about. Breakfast cost more than a small mortgage. But soon our party was climbing up the steps to Helm Cragg. And the rains came down. The book was published by BBC Books and a party from the company had come north from Euston to join in the fun. They were not dressed for Lakeland rain. The rain continued to fall and fall. Giggly Martin climbed to the very pinnacle of the crag and waved a Union Jack around, unable to find a place to attach it to the rock. The rain was now so strong it was almost impossible to see anything or anyone. I chatted away on the descent to a woman who seemed to look after the whole of Hadrian’s Wall.

We retired to a local hotel for drinks. I was meant to reclimb the crag and set off for my second wild camp spot. But the rain came down and down. The BBC book crew craftily snook off to phone a taxi that would take them to Oxenholme train Station. I cadged a lift in the taxi, threw my dripping rucksack on the train and was back home for tea. A horrible day in what I could quite believe was a horrible place. But then I remembered that camp and watching sunset as I lay under my tarp. Magic.

Alexander, Johannesburg

I wanted to go for a stroll along the river than runs through the city. But this being Johannesburg the river was an almost open sewer that made its way along a wide flood plain. Nothing stood on the plain but shanties took up every square inch of the land that rose ever so slightly from the flood plain. My companion from the Mayor’s office — I was not allowed to walk alone — told me that only months before the flood plain was crammed full of shanties. One of the first achievements of the new government was that it had levelled these hacks which flooded several times a year with devastating human consequences. Alexander was the biggest township in Jo-burg. Soweto by comparison had become a tourist attraction. My companion told me that international politicians from the USA were taken to see the progress of Soweto. Those from the Commonwealth were taken to see the reality of Alex. It was critical to see fast progress here and there was clearly some. No longer did residents have to hook up illegal electricity supplies. Old containers had been converted into pos offices and phone points. Some new housing was being constructed and it looked like a real improvement. But as we crawled up onto high ground I could see the scale of what had to be cleared and replaced. My heart sank. Despite the energy and determination of the local government there was surely no way that this could be done within the lifetime of many of those I met.

As we travelled around I was forced to take to a Police Squad car with my companion. We crept down the narrowest of tracks through the most dense collection of tin buildings imaginable. Was it that dangerous that we have to travel with a squad car in front of us and one behind? Did I really want to travel through Alex with a Police escort? It didn’t feel that intuitively safe. I explained my feelings to my companion who laughed a high South African smile. We were a few months away from the Earth Summit. All of the world would be there. The Police were escorting us because they needed the practice. To my amazement the Police Cars were greeted by the locals as i film stars. This seemed puzzling. I’ve really felt that affectionate towards the pigs. But before independence the Police never came through here. A Police presence was a thing to celebrate and the Police officer (even if they were all white) were greeted as heroes.

We were eventually allowed to continue our walk. This was at the same time one of the finest and noblest of places and one of the most despairing. But — I thought later that night —this is the way of much of the world and as we urbanise it will become the lot of many, many more. I think it was OK — at that time — to feel happy about the place and its people but at the same time completely overwhelmed by the task that was needed to create any kind of more prosperous future.

 

In the Footsteps of Big Ernie

I was once asked to speak to the Birmingham Literary Society about my Desert Island Books. I was at the time known locally as a bit of a politician. The audience was almost exclusively made up of battle axes in their eighties, all blue rinses and threatening smiles. On first look they didn’t like me. A wave of relief went around the room when I announced that I didn’t like political biographies and that there was not one in my selection. (My selection was an eclectic work of art in itself — but that is a story for another day). It turned out that the MC shared by passion for travel writing. he asked me what my favourite piece of travel writing was. I think I floored him.

My favourite piece of travel writing is the first chapter of Ernest Hemmingway’s ‘ A Moveable Feast, his memoir of his early life in Paris that was written just before his death. In this Chapter Ernie walks from the Censier Daubenton quarter, along the Rue Mouffetard, through the Sorbonne to his favourite café in Saint Michel. The Censier area in which he lived was the cesspit of the world. And all life was there.

Today the area has improved a little. Moufettard is a little cleaner now, tourist friendly even, but the little businesses are still anchored by a Greek community. Strolling through these streets is much like it would have been in Hem’s time. Paris is great walking city and for my money all great cities are walkable cities. I do this walk every time I come to Paris. Hemmingway’s writing simply makes the place come alive.

I may never know the upper slopes of the Annapurna, though I hope to. But hey. I’e walked up Mouffetard with Big Ernie. And you can’t get any better than that.

 

Pembrokeshire Coastal Path

One of my oldest friends was taken very ill while walking the coastal path with his wife and was unable to walk for some years while his condition stabilised. During the period his wife — who was also his GP — tragically died. As he began to put his life together my friend vowed that he would start walking again on the coastal path, picking up where he had had to abandon. I offered to walk this with him whenever he was ready.

That day came. I had a mad drive from Manchester one Thursday evening, through the rush hour and down through Snowdonia to arrive exhausted at Fishguard. A tip. Never arrive in Fishguard after dark. We stayed in a most peculiar small guest house that looked out over the Ferry terminal. We know how to live.

To be honest I was worried that my fiend’s health would not be up to it. I brushed up on my resuscitation technique. But that trail soon wove its magic. I remember blue skies, blue seas, gentle, warm winds, deserted paths, dramatic cliffs and the sun glistening on early evening waves.

My friend insisted on walking with his GPS and new OS mapping system. He didn’t see the need to carry a real map. He followed the GPS religiously. Look, I said. You can’t get lost _ put that damn thing back in the rucksack. Of course I can get lost.  Now you damn well can’t. Of course I can. Look, said I, the sea is always on your right hand side ….

On that first afternoon he got head of me while I was snapping away. Look down there. he was pointing down to a cove reveal hundred feet below our cliff top path. What’s a dead sheep doing down there? I looked. That’s not a dead sheep it is a seal.

We lay back in the sun and ate our lunch and laughed and laughed and laughed. And so, my friend’s walking career was resumed. All with the help of a suicidal, dead, sheep.

 

Weird Darren in Braemar

They say — and it is something of a truism — that the great thing about the TGO Challenge is that it is a personal Challenge, however you do it and no matter way your skill level of fitness level. And this is true.

Darren had a bad experience on his first Challenge which involved Mountain Rescue and the hospital in Fort William. So, on his second attempt I was pleased to bump into him in Braemar which for many heralds the beginning of the end of the event.

I found Darren in the carp park. We greeted each other with a hug. And there he stood, with a smile as wide at the Great Glen and radiating self pride and achievement. I realised that I had my own personal Challenge to complete but that my own odyssey was made even better by sharing in Darren’s own sense of achievement. I have seldom been in the company of anyone who radiated such a sense of achievement. It was a great moment.

Darren also had a certain unique style of dress. But that story has been told elsewhere!

 

Padstow on Boxing Day

Some years ago my family decided to spend Christmas together in small fishing village on the Cornish South Coast. My nephews were quite small but had enough energy to avoid the need for any wind farms for a generation. Suddenly, everyone around me came down with some flu bug. On Christmas Even I took three young lads out on a walk around St Anthony’s Head and on to Porthbeor beach. I had calculated that these youngsters would walk and run at least five times longer than me as they ran on, ran back, ran on and ran back again. A perfect way to ensure a quieter evening than planned. December the 24th. The sun shone and the air was warm and comforting. We lay down in the sand clad only in T-shirts and ate our lunch taking in the sun and listening to the the lapping of the waves. The day itself was better fir the experience.

But on Boxing Day illness had returned and I was only own. I drove to Padstow on the North Coast and set off for a day’s walk around the cliffs. I was completely alone. The weather was still favourable and when it is like this the North Cornish coastal path is simply one of the greatest walks of the UK. Dropping down into Padstow I found some kind of festival in progress. I’d hear, of course, about the famous May festival and the Obby ‘Oss. But here in the depth of winter were locals parading around the town and its  bars, adorned with dark face paints and all other kinds of exotic accoutrements. It looked as if I had stumbled into a Black and White Minstrel revival. It all seemed a bit weird. If the ‘Obby ‘Oss was very much a tourist festival of the summer whatever this was, it was an event simply for the people of Padstow. And it felt a bit uncomfortable.

Years later I was able to use the internet (good old Wikipedia) to finally work out what the hell I had stumbled on. This is Mummer’s Day or Darkies Day. It is quite  controversial event and its not sure how it came to me. Padstow carols are sung to the tunes of early Jazz and minstrels such as Al Jolson. It was all a bit of a shock. But some folklorists suggest that these Padstow tunes are so old that they were taken away over the ocean where they developed their own lives. And why not? I know of many English and Scots folk songs that have crossed the Atlantic and then returned again on the song of contemporary West Coast based artists. And, of course, many a traditional song begins with the lines “As I rode out one morning”. These songs crossed to the plantations of the South. Riding out was not really an option and many a traditional tune was adapted so it began , “As I woke up one morning …”

I had hit on controversy. Darkie Day was renamed Mummer’s Day by way of avoiding offence. However, some historical researchers argue that Darkie Day — and their spiritual tunes — war sung by the supporters of the Blue ‘Oss as a prelude to the May celebrations. The celebrations originated as a show of support to American Black people, support that was particularly strong in devout Methodist country such as Cornwall. It was this same movement that saw Manchester mill workers refuse to weave the cloth for Confederate Army uniforms.

it just goes to show. You can go out for a lovely walk and you never quite know what to expect or what you will stumble on!

I love that sense of surprise and discovery that is part and parcel of even the most humble of walks. You don’t have to go the ends of the earth, Just nipping over the next style might be enough.

 

And that is why I love a ramble. Over to you.