One the key decisions any lightweight backpacker has to make is what luxury is it worth carrying? Hikers reduce the weight of their pack by scrutinising everything. True obsessives/aficionados like Colin actually weight even the lightest of things.

Most of my ‘luxuries’ vanished a long time ago. I might take a paperback book with me on a short overnighter when the overall pack weight isn’t groaning under the weight of food. But come the longer trek the books and so on are left behind. I know there are those who used to tear out the pages of the book as they walked, but that just seemed to me to be book vandalism!

I mention this because there has been a conversation on twitter this week between Phil Turner and Steve Horner which made me smile. Phil is a lightweight hiker, of that there is no doubt. But I sometimes wonder if this is so he can carry more gadgets with him!

The subject of the discussion this week was the new version of the Kindle e-book reader that was announced by Amazon this week. This new Kindle weighs under 250 grams “lighter than many a backpack) and has a battery life of between three weeks and 1 month depending on how often you use wifi — a 3G version will give you 10 days of battery life. This is pretty light and, of course, can pack a load of books into its thin form — about 3,500 actually! I suppose at that weight the new Kindle is a consideration, although the monochrome screen has its limitations for anything other than text, for instance maps.

The trouble is with all of this stuff is the weight adds up. Kindles, smartphones, battery chargers and small batteries: well you could always find yourself adding another kilo to your base weight without any trouble indeed.

This may be the future, but you don’t need a Kindle to indulge in the new multimedia world while backpacking. On this year’s Challenge I came across tent maker Henry Shires a few times. I noticed that he tended to disappear into his tent early in the evening. Henry told me that he was watching feature films on his iphone. He was in a B&B or campsite often enough to keep the battery charged effectively. I can’t remember how may films he’d watched, but it was an impressive total — I think well into double figures!

These days I make do with virtually nothing he way of entertainment. I do usually have a camera to stroll around with if I pitch very early but more often than not I’m happy to find entertainment and stimulation in that which is around me. Time in the back country is time for meditation and for marvelling of that which is often ordinary and mundane in the outside world, and which is so refreshingly different from the city.

At under 250 grams maybe the I will be walking with the Kindle at some point. But I think it might be a shame. Is this view of life something that comes with age?

Back at home I’m as geeky as anybody — you should see my broadband speed which was upgraded by Virgin Media yesterday! But in the hills, does going really light mean more space for the mind and the spiritual?

Mountain Rescue and Cicerone have come together to produce a pretty good, basic, leaflet on mountain safety.

The PDF version is here. Cicerone and Mountain Rescue would be grateful if you could cross link or make this available wherever you can!

Mountain Rescue: How to Stay Safe and Enjoy the Fells

So, having got trail walking off my chest I start day dreaming about wild camping. Is there anything better in this life!

Lac de Baston, Pyrenees

A wildcamp lets you connect with the landscape around you in the most amazing way. I’ve sat in my tent high in the Pyrenees just watching the clouds, listening to marmots and simply watching the water flow by. I’ve woken in the Cairngorms to watch herds of deer move slowly across the hill opposite while the early rays of the sun cast a gold and pink glow over the heather. And the nights. High in the hills, away from cities, the milky way reveals itself in amazing splendour. Who needs entertainment with skies like this? In a tarp you can feel the air as well. There is no better sleep than that induced by a wild camp.

On a walk I may well have picked out my site well in advance. On the map it looks flat and perfect, but will it be? Walk hard and long and are often rewarded with stunning locations, perhaps perched on the side of a high and secluded loch. Or maybe things aren’t so definite. Maybe your not sure about the terrain or the distance you want to travel. The first time I came down into the Spanish Rio Ara from the French side of the Pyrenees I simply wasn’t expecting such a wonderful, lush and green high mountain landscape. I pushed on to far and too hard and, of course, the camp spots got less and less attractive. I should have gone with my instincts and made the camp the centre of the day. But on other occasions I’ve hit gold, cramming myself into wonderous spaces that can only take the footprint of one tent.

Loch Mhoicrean, North West Highlands

Discreet camp in South Shropshire

Above Grassmere in the English Lake District

And then there’s this thing about water. Water can be bloody noisy. It’s a good idea to camp a little bit away from the stream or the waterfall. But I never do! I can’t remember a night in Scotland when I’ve not been lulled to sleep by he sound of running water. And then there’s the unexpected. Once in the Knoydart I had made for the shore of Loch Quioch which I’ve seen described as the best wild camp site in the UK. But just before it I cam across a small, higher lochan with a lovely sandy beach. As I pitched the tent I noticed footprints down the the water. Deer? As night fell, and as I lay in my tent, I was treated the sound of a stag deer walking right past the tent, positioning himself just a few feet away before letting our a cry to his charges, one that echoed perfectly around a min cirque. I’d spotted a great wild camp spot. The dear had found the perfect natural amplifier.

I know that wild camping in the UK can be dodgy, especially in England and Wales, but be discreet and you’ll be alright. I’ve woken early in the Shropshire Hills to walk to the high ground and be met by an early riser Park Warden, smiley and chatty and quite happy with a sensible camper spending the night in the wild.

You can also make your luck in the hills. As I pitch I always survey the land. What lies to the East and to the West? Sunset and sunrise of course. Some of the best photographs have been taken by just opening the tent near dawn, focussing and shooting!

Lacs des Oulettes, High Pyrenees

Pembrokeshire Coastal Path

Evening on the Findorn

Wild camping is one of the special things about the Challenge. If you’re on your first crossing then I hope you have plenty of wild camps worked out. If not then improvise. Use that wild camp spot that’s a few miles short of that campsite of hostel. You can always make up the distance, but the night will be so much better.

In my daydreams I’m already there, breathing the cool crisp air of morning, drinking that coffee brewed on the gas canister or eating a wonderful evening meal cuddled up in a snug sleeping bag.

Magic!

Earlier today I was looking at routes on OS maps. I quickly found myself in a thoroughly engaging. Maps can do that to you, and we’ve discussed this many times in these pages. But today the daydreams were about the joys of walking ahead — solo walking that is.

Don’t get me wrong I do enjoy walking with others and with my loved ones. But it is not quite the same. Walking solo you can walk at the your own pace, for your own distance and pick your own hours. Want to explore that hill or top? No Problem. Find a sunny spot for a little afternoon nap? Fine. Decide to change the route or walk into the night? Nobody else to worry about! Solo walking is less stressful as there’s no responsibility to take for anyone else. Mind you, it is important to take care of yourself, but that’s another story.

The high points are wonderful, great stonking vistas to take in, boulders to slither over and scree to skid over. There is something about being able to deal with mountains and hills on your own. Three or four years ago in the Caringorms I climbed up Bynack More in reasonably quiet if gloomy weather. By the time I had reached the summit ridge the winds began to blow; it was exciting. I fought my way over to the Barns of Bynack through driving rain and then snow. And then it was stinging hail smashing me in the face. I could have ploughed on I suppose and I probably would have done with others. But, damn it. This wasn’t fun. I decided to drop right down the hill, down steep contours, alongside a little stream that eventually made it to the little Alt that runs south to the Fords of Avon.

This wasn’t so much a walk as a toboggan down the fells on my bum. It was all great fun and completely irresponsible, you know those great slides where you fly over edges into heather no knowing what is underneath. It just had to be a solo experience.

But solo daydreams don’t just focus on the heights. There are those wonderful stretches of trail, or track, that just seem to go on forever. You hit your stride, adopting a pace that you could just sit in all day. In Scotland this might be over open moorland or if your really lucky through Caledonian Forest. There are birds to listen to and deer to spy. Of course, the famous TGOC cuckoo will be a constant companion in the West during May. On the path there are wonderfully hairy slugs to stand and stare at, not to mention those juicy big black things.

There will also be the sound of running water for much of the time. Perhaps, it is a stream or a small burn in full flight. Or it might be river slowly meandering down to civilisation and the sea. It might be the sound of water gushing beneath your feet as you crawl up to the high ground of the peat bog, the line of the water faithfully sketched out in the peat despite the subterranean meanderings of the stream.

As the day draw on there is a camp to discover. Walking in company its always annoying when that flat spot on the map turns out to be horribly tussocky or water-logged. Solo, I’ll just stroll on. There’s always another spot, another camp. The legs are working fine, let’s push on a bit. That ground down below towards the valley looks promising. What about that sun glistening on the u-bends of the Findorn down below? Camp made there are things to discover. Signs of other life? Yes, there’s a stone strategically moved to support a fire or stove. Maybe if you are really lucky there are three or four big stones heaved over to make a comfortable seating platform.

In the morning, well I might start early. Or I might have a lie in. Watches are not needed in the north in the warmer months. Just wake with the dawn and stroll on accordingly.

Wouldn’t it be great to stroll on like this for days and days? But even if its just two or three the its fine. There are those that like to think of Scotland as wilderness but eventually there’s a house though the trees, the sound of motor engines, the fluorescent flash of a kayak or the sound of a lawn mower or chainsaw. There are now people to meet, to greet, to drink and eat with. But the company is all the better for the days of solitude that preceded it.

But when walking alone I also value the chance encounter with my fellow walker. And somehow these are wonderfully different when walking on your own. And in Scotland these encounters are nearly alway entertaining. I remember an old chap in the Knoydart walking into Inverie from Strathan to see his mate. We stopped. He complained about the weather. Then he complained about the state of the path. Not maintained properly. And his boots; they were letting in water. At least I think this is what he was complaining about as it was difficult to really understand. And then the inevitable happened. That’s a nice rucksack. How does it work? Where can you get one?

Another time strolling down Glendessary and about to enter the woods I heard the sound of rushing boots behind me and a cry for attention. Another old fellow. This one was out on his monthly bird count. He was responsible for a stretch of glen and his job was to carry out a survey of bird song and bird call. What a wonderful way to spend a retirement. Every few weeks or so he drove down from Inverness to maintain his little stretch. We walked on through the woods. He knew everything intimately, the birds, the trees and all manner of wildlife in between. I left him eventually and soon found myself passing a car. Ten minutes later my new friend was driving past with waves and the sounds of joyous goodbyes.

Walking down Glen Derry once — on Midsummer’s Day — I spied a man in the distance adjusting his gear and heaving round a big pack. As I got closer I realised he was carrying skis. He’d been up on Ben Macdui the week before and realised there was still a lot of snow about. So he came back to ski on Midsummer day, just because he could. These have all been Scottish encounters but there have been others, just has delightful, in Wales, on the mountains of France and many other places besides.

These encounters can really make a day. But then you’re back on your own. If your lucky the sun will be shining. But it might be pelting down. Never mind. I’m safely tucked into my rain gear, warm from the effort of the walk, entranced by the sound of the rain on my hood. And if your in real luck the rain will break, the sun will come out and you’ll be walking through woodland, alive with most stunning display and exhibition of scent.

Are there problems to solve and everyday dilemmas to wrestle with? No these have been expunged days before. The mind is free to go anywhere and everywhere. There are tunes to recall from the dark recesses of the mind or, if your like me, new tunes to create and to play with, and many variations to employ in order to fix these places into memory for future recall. There are the songs and those songs. Walking songs are not about quality but about hooks. I once spent four days crossing through the Cairngorms happily singing and whistling a collection of Eurovision songs —I’d caught a documentary about the song contest on TV a few days before. I’d never be caught dead listening to those songs and tunes back home. But out on the trail, as the walking poles beat their steady rhythm, they seem perfect.

I am, of course, looking forward to the Challenge. If you’re a first time Challenger walking solo you’ll no doubt be approaching the whole thing with a sense of trepidation.But after a day or two you’ll want to slow the pace, you’ll begin to relax and simply take in the magic of it all. Walk with those you met by all means but preserve some days for yourself.

There really is nothing else like it!

Walking through the simple but wonderfully vibrant market in Leblon I came across stall selling lettuce. It may have only been selling lettuces, but what lettuces they were. Suddenly the stall holder had left his post and was greeting me with the enthusiasm that people often reserve for foreign visitors. Much of the tourism in Rio de Janeiro is internal but I suspect Brazilian tourists find themselves down here as infrequently as international guests.

Do you like Brazil? Are you having a great time? He gave me his name which I’m sad to say I didn’t catch. I want you to have a great time here in Brazil. I’m at your disposal — I want nothing for myself, just for you to enjoy my city and for you to tell your friends what a marvellous place it is. I speak seven languages. It is wonderful to see visitors to my city.

We talked for a while and he was pleased that I was happy to wander alone. He was retired I think, clearly an educated man. The seven languages were impressive although I tried only French. As I waved goodbye his fellow stall holders — who seemed only to have one language — smiled and laughed, in obvious agreement with my friend’s sentiments even if they couldn’t understand they way he had expressed them.

In my travels I have come across the kindness and comradeship with remarkable regularity. It is nice to be in a place, and in a culture, where meeting someone from another nation is a cause for such celebration. Would visitors to London or Birmingham be greeted so warmly? I’d like to think so but somehow I doubt it.

Regular readers will know that I am a little ambivalent about Munro bagging, Corbett or Graham bagging. To me a fine hill is a fine hill, never mind whether it takes 50 minutes to climb or 40. I’ve never been one for lists. And is there anything more boring in the world than the debate as to whether a hike as been promoted or demoted from Munro status. On our recent Cairngorm trip Colin Ibbotson put it well. They should simply stick to Munro’s original list and ignore all of this satellite measurement stuff.

To be fair advocates of bagging point out that baggers do walk through some extraordinary landscape in order to bag their hill and tops. But sometimes I wonder.

On our recent trip Colin and I left Blair Atholl but turned off the main Glen Tilt run to take a couple of kilometres of tarmac to get to our first Munro. This tiny road was surprisingly busy with cars that kept zipping past. It was a lovely day and it suddenly struck me that these people might be baggers.

The Car Park and the Hill

From a distance the bagger’s scar on the mountain was evident, one of those mountain motorways that you can find in Scotland. As we got closer to the hill we came across a car park, full to brimming with the cars of baggers. I wondered just how much they were taking in the countryside around them, dashing up in their cars and then dashing up the line of three Munros before coming home before dark.

The path up to Carn Liath was in a pretty poor state. This was no properly engineered path but a track created by simply dumping loose stones and chippings making the upper reaches quite slippery and slidey.

Of course, Munro baggers have a great time and should be happy celebrate both the land they walk through and their personal achievements. But sometimes I worry about our commitment to sustainability and the land.

To climb these hills from Blair Atholl you don’t need a car! Leave it behind and walk during the longer days if necessary.

My Alexander Technique friend Gerry Foley has recently sent me an article he has written about stretching, its importance or otherwise pre-exercise. The gist of this is that while many people feel that this is important — and engage in some very dramatic stretching exercises — that there is no scientific basis for this.

I thought some of you would be interested in this. The article also links to a paper published in the Journal of Exercise Training which found that pre-exercise stretching had no effect in reducing the risk of injury. A later paper published in 2007 found that pre-exercise stretches had no impact on subsequent muscle soreness.

Over vigorous stretching can, though, lead to injury.

The right exercise for the right muscles, Gerry Foley.

To walkers Ireland is something of an enigma. This is a country that has some breathtaking scenery — mountains, hills and coast lines — but where access can be almost impossibly difficult. Yet this is a country deep in recession on one in which recovery will have to be based on a different economic and social model. Walking in Ireland last week shows just how much we should be grateful of our access here in the UK, despite its frustrations, and also shows just what the Irish are missing. (more…)

I’ve been thinking about those ideas that I had during the year that, for one reason or another, did not find themselves into the blog.

Before I went to the Pyrenees this summer Humphrey Weightman sent me through some of Hillaire Belloc’s writings on my favourite mountains. Belloc will be better known as the writer of nonsense verse, but he was also a prodigious hiker and explorer. There is a lot here that is really interesting and over the next few weeks I’ll share some of this with you. But I thought I’d start with some thoughts o carrying pack weight. These still hold true to this day!

I now turn to equipment. The first question asked by an Englishman about to attempt fresh journeys will be what things he must take with him from England. My answer is. Two things only, his woollen clothing and a pannikin. With regard to this last, the best form is one which I myself get from the Army and Navy Stores, and which is of the following character. The handle is double-hinged. and curved, so that it fits to the outside curve of the pannikin. A spirit-lamp is sold which just fits into the interior, and with it. a curved metal receptacle for methylated spirit which also fits into the interior. The whole is bound together by a strap, passing through staples upon the sides,_and through one upon the cover. The advantage of carrying this sort of pannikin lies entirely in its compactness.

Weight counts. Every ounce counts when you are knocked out upon the third day; and the third day-the forty-eighth hour of losing your way and of missing human succour-may happen to you oftener than you think. Weight counts even upon the first day. Weight counts all the time.

Now it so happens (why, I cannot tell) that when things are packed in a close compass they weary a man less than when they are loose and straggling, and there .is the further recommendation that when they are closely packed, there is less chance of knocking them about and hurting them. So this is the kind of pannikin I recommend. Note, that the people who know most about these hills, the inhabitants of them. carry no provision for cooking. But there is a reason for this which does not apply to the traveller I have in view. The inhabitants of these valleys walk from a house to a house, with the chance of one night at most in the mountains; they carry with them, bread, cold meat and wine, and for the night they make a great fire for warmth but not for cooking.

A person exploring at random, and liable to pass several nights in the open, must have the chance of getting a warm meal, and that opportunity will make all the difference if ever he finds himself, as he probably will very frequently, in a tight place. As to the woollen clothing, no one needs to hear the merit of that, and nowhere can it be got so good or so cheap as in England. Everything upon you should be of wool. except your boots. The differences of temperature are excessive, you are certain to be frequently wet, you will not have a change; good wool is, moreover, the substance that will wear least in the rough· and-tumble of your going. In this connexion I must speak of socks. Those who know most about marching, wear none, and for marching along roads it is a sound rule (startling and unusual as that rule may sound) to have the skin of the human foot up against the animal skin of the boot, that boot being well soaked in oil and pliable. There is no form of foot covering within the boot that does not chafe and blister the skin, if one goes a long way at a time, and for many days of continual tramping on end. That is the general rule, and in the French service it is universally recog- nized in the infantry.

So, save weight – don’t use socks!

The end of the year finds me pondering the nature of our ancient byways, the ancient trade routes, the drovers routes that have — for generations — helped move livestock from the high ground to the fattening pastures (and to market of course). Over the millennia these routes connected communities, provided them with an economic lifeline, bought news of war, of famine, of birth and of death. Today, many of these routes connect only walkers and riders. But even in this depleted mode the great trade routes are still functioning.

It was last week’s walk on the Portway that transformed me into reflective mode.

The Portway is an ancient trade route that crosses over the Long Mynd, making its way over high exposed ground so as to avoid woodland, streams and bog. This was a route that was critical to the local economy in Neolithic times. The route carried axes. Digs have discovered ancient axes many miles from their origins, perhaps not that strange as these played an important role, not in war, but in the clearance of the land and the promotion of agriculture. The Romans knew this route and in the middle ages it was a Kings Highway. According to Shropshire County Council the Portway is lined by burial mounds some of which may have actually been constructed as route markers. Now there’s a thought!

The Bronze Age saw an increase in the trade of rare and precious metals. The Portway was just one of a series of routes that are known in these parts as ‘ridgeways’. Of course, there are ridgeways elsewhere in the country and these performed much the same function. In the Iron Age the Portway, and its contemporaries, tended to provide important connections for fortifications and forts. These ridgeways are kinds of archaeological time capsules providing important information, and insights, into how our ancient forebears traded and connected with each other.

Over thousands of years their purpose changed again with many becoming drove roads as livestock led to a greater prosperity than the simple production of the axe. The Portway is one such route. A walk along its exposed flanks today will be made in the company of cattle and sheep and often free range pigs can be founded basking in the freedom and the open air.

Like most of you I’ve walked along many ancient trade routes and drove roads this year. In the Cotswolds the routes had much the same function, and much the same history. In the Cairngorms I followed age old routes through valleys or Lairigs that were the economic highways of their times. In North Wales most of the routes are now highways, but it is still possible to stride out on an old track as many have done before.

This year’s most dramatic trade routes were those of France and Spain, a border country that – everywhere – stands witness to age old disputes and skirmishes. Communities might live only a couple of kilometres from each other but the mountains formed dramatic barriers. Over there — on the other side — were men and women of different tongues, of different religions and beliefs, of different cuisines, dance, music and song.

But not all of these Pyrenean routes were dedicated to war. The Marcadau Valley, above Cauterets in the High Pyrenees, means market place. In ages past livestock farmers and traders from both sides of the borders would meet on these grassy banks for an annual fair of proportions — and importance — that we can hardly comprehend these days. Today the valley is mainly quiet, a pathway on the climb to more dramatic higher ground. I often rest here, resting warm feet in the ice cool waters of the river. This is a place of quiet contemplation and more often than not solitary thought. But drop down just a little, to the Pont Espagne and you can imagine the scene. First time visitors to the area are always shocked by the Pont car park, one of the biggest you’ll ever see on a mountain approach. Every so often the Pont plays host to the Tour de France, the car park being large enough to hold all of the paraphernalia of this most majestic – and mad — of sporting events. Next time you’re here just take a few minutes to contemplate ages past when the crowds were trading in more basic commodities.

There is something immensely satisfying in walking the routes of the ancestors.

Maybe you’ll be out this holiday walking the trade routes or the drove roads. Put an ear to the wind and catch an echo of the ancients.