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!

Just finished chatting to our Bob on the phone. As always there were lots of completely useless things to talk about, but some interesting ones at that.

First off, backpackinglight.co.uk are improving the website. You can see the first fruits of this online at the moment but the work isn’t finished yet. Apparently much of it is ‘beneath the hood’ but should give us a better service. But the website already looks better.

Secondly, there was a gear angle (of course). Bob was out last night — camping on the hills so that you could have the benefit of his first hand experience. He was very taken by a new tent from Vaude I think it was, a solo tent weighing 1 kilogram which Bob thought was far superior to the Laser Competition. I didn’t quite catch the model name but no doubt Bob will appear to fill out the details.

And then there were the podcasts. I think it is safe to say that we are creaking towards something of a new season and — I believe — the first of the new season approaches. We did discuss various tactics for Challenge podcasting, especially as there might only be me doing it. I think our various tactics mean that will have something to share with you after May — so you can all stop badgering me about it now!

(Of course, if you’re one of the people that run the other way in case I badger you. Sorry, but we have our public you know …)

This week’s training weekend sees me in the weird and wonderful Hebden Bridge. I’m visiting a friend who describes himself as a rambler rather than a walker. I feel Howarth coming on again. Ah, the wind and the rain …

Thanks to Sarah Irving to letting me know about a piece she has posted on the Radical Manchester Blog about the Kinder Scout trespass. the article is written by Andrew Bibby and is an extended version of one that originally appeared in TGO Magazine.

Benny Rothman is something of a legendary figure these days who has had a big influence on the opening up of our hills and fields.

A good read. Thanks Sarah.

The article can be found here.

…. When Podcast Bob plans tells you he has lots of plans. For Podcasts. In the cold of the winter. I can’t tell you what he wants to celebrate on the side of a hill but no doubt you’ll hear all about it soon.

I get the feeling Bob thinks we were a bit slack last year and I reckon — as I type — he’s creating an itinerary of events, all of which involve various types of tarp and wood burning stoves.

Still, there are worse things to do in life

I’m writing this on day two of my stay in Leblon, a chic little seaside suburb of Rio. There’s a real problem here, one that only you hillwalkers will appreciate.

We flew in from the UK having spent a week or so living in sub zero temperatures. Here the weather is warm (30 degrees or more) and exceptionally humid. The days are cloudy and seem to follow a common pattern. Heat builds up during the day, a torrential thunderstorm brews up during late afternoon and by the middle of the might has refreshed the air. Next morning the cycle repeats itself.

Day one saw us getting over our flights and acclimatising. Day two has seen us settle into the kind of routine that — for some — would be the ideal holiday. We woke early and breakfasted and read books. Then we strolled into town and had an espresso and some fresh juice at a juice bar. Then it was almost lunch. We ambled over to Mike Pitt’s Bar Jobi for a number of beers, tapas-type plates and a salad. Now the humidity has built we have returned to our apartment for a siesta. Next up we might stroll to a lake in a park, which is probably the most energetic thing we will do during our entire stay.

While this may be some people’s ideal of a holiday it is very different from what we usually do at this time of the year. By now we would be in Snowdonia. No doubt it would be cold with snow on the high hills and maybe even on the lower ones. It would have taken ages to have hammered in the tent pegs on the frozen ground of the Bryn Tryrch campsite. The owner would have greeted us with smiles and lots of comments about how we were bloody mad. We’d have spent the day slipping and sliding on hills. most probably having to stay on lower walks through woodland rather than hitting the heights. As evening drew in we would withdraw to the Bryn Trych hotel, to drink real ale and to sample some good, Welsh, pub food. Then it would have been back to the tent. The night would have been spent snug and warm in winter down bags. And in the morning we would wake to the sharp, cold air on our faces. Coffee would be brewed to warm us up and to give us the bravery to shed the sleeping bag and jump into our walking gear. Then it would — most probably — be a saunter down the road to the Pinnacle Café for breakfast.

What I’d give — now — for the cold, sharp, frosty air first thing in the morning!

Brazil is a nation of the moment, indeed it might be the country of the future. It is one of the fastest growing economies in the world as befits a pretty big place; you could cram all of western Europe inside its boundaries. recent world events have made it inevitable that Brazil takes its place amongst the great powers of the globe. This is a country rich in natural resources and which boasts a plentiful supply of Labour which will sustain its advanced manufacturing economy for many years to come. Self sufficiency in produce, materials, products and finance means that the world recession has not really made its mark here.

As befits an economy about to be admitted the world’s elite Brazil is celebrating by hosting both the World Cup and the Olympic Games within two years of each other. Over the next four years the world will — most probably — go Brazil mad. Leblon, where we are staying, is the kind of safe, secure, beach environment that many visitors to these sporting events will stay in. So, i thought I’d say a little bit about the place, especially for those who find your way here over the coming years via. the services of Google.

Physically, Leblon looks like any number of newish Mediterranean towns. Wide, tree lined boulevards are lined with bars, restaurants and pizzerias. Mostly these run parallel to the beach. Side streets quickly take you to the sand where you can rent a deckchair, play volleyball or drink a cold beer or the juice from a fresh coconut. Leblon strikes me as being more of a family holiday kind of a place than Ipanema. Kate says it reminds her of Bournemouth. You need to stretch your imagination here a little while, after all the cocktails in Bournemouth are nowhere near as good. But she has a point.

In common with much of the Med Pizzerias and juice bars are replacing the standard bar, which is something of a pity I think. The one exception to this is the Café Jobi a good, honest, bar in the Spanish or Portuguese tradition.

If Leblon takes its physical inspiration from Europe it takes its cultural inspiration from New York. And a good suburb of New York at that.

Language is not really a problem here, not if you stick to the usual holiday pursuits of bars and eating houses. Menus are quickly produced with English translations and a lot of young staff are almost fluent in American-styled English. But culturally, what we have here is quite a decadent interpretation of the New York scene.

Leblon seems a place that dreams of being at the centre of the world’s consumer society. Top line restaurants shout their international credentials through wine lists top heavy with champagnes and menus over balanced with fois gras. Brazil is home to the biggest Japanese community outside of Japan. And yet even in the ‘best’ Sushi restaurant here the house speciality involves foid gras.

On night one we ate at one of these international restaurants. Sitting on a high stool our front was the most beautiful of black women, young, thin and at least 6 feet 2 tall. Her job was simply to meet and greet, something you find in places were Labour is cheap and plentiful. You may have seen the same thing in Asia or Africa. Our waiter, Moses, was dressed in a dramatic, corporate, sarong a la David Beckham. He spoke impeccable English. Meet him on his day off and you’d have thought him a banker or industrialist rather than a waiter.

Our meal was pretty mediocre really, though the price was certainly not. I reckon us Brits are now thoroughly spoilt in the decent restaurant stakes with the current movement for simple, seasonal food, expertly cooked using fine ingredients. This was the kind of stuff you’d find in many an international hotel, from Frankfurt to Copenhagen and from Sidney to Boston.

It seemed a shame to pass on Brazilian stuff entirely, I ordered a bottle of Brazilian Sauvignon Blanc. This did have a taste of sauvignon blanc but it also had the scent of petrol. I kind you not. It may even have been petrol as the smell kind of evaporated away a few minutes after the wine had been opened. Best stick to the excellent Chilean wines here — you don’t get Argentinian stuff, for that would be a step too far.

I’d advise giving these places a wide berth. Stick to the more basic pizzerias and bars like Jobi where the food is simple, decent and affordable. These places can be great. I particularly liked Diagonal Pizza. Great cocktails, wonderful real, fresh pizza and staff who just laughed a lot despite the fact that neither of us could understand each other.

Basically, the further you move away from the beach the more expensive, exclusive and really un-interesting things seem to come!

If you’re planing a stay here then I’d recommend self catering simply because of the standard of fresh produce in the local supermarkets. Foodies will have a great time here. There are wonderful, real, tomatoes all knobbly and of varying colours and hues, their taste as earthy and they come. Everything seems to be in a season at the same time, which is probably true as the climate is quite consistent the whole year round. Next to the tomatoes were great looking potatoes, bags of fresh green beans, beetroots and other root vegetables and fabulous bunches of herbs and lettuce.

While Rio has a lot more to offer I’m not sure that Leblon does really, though to fair I’ve not had that much time to explore. For many people this is represent the very essence of the good life though others will be very aware that this is possible only through an exploitative system of employment.

If you find yourself here make the most of it — it will make a great base for those visiting the World Cup or the Games as it is safe and well policed.

It is, though, quite a strange place for hillwalkers to while away the hours!

Snowdonia: Plas Y Brenin and Mountains on a Frosty Morning

It’s that time of the year again and I’d like to take the opportunity to thank all of my readers for their support over the last year. I’m not sure why you keep coming back but you’re more than just company; you provide the inspiration to keep going.

I hope you get a chance to get out into the hills or the countryside over the holiday. Here in the UK it is a real winter for once, cold, crisp yet sunny days. Just the weather for wrapping up warm and going outside.

Most years I end up in Snowdonia at this time of the year. But this year I shall be swapping the pleasures of winter camping — and to be fair the warm, cozy, room at the Bry Tyrch Hotel — for the rather unusual surroundings of Brasil and the Cocabanoa Beach. THe hardest walking I’m likely to be doing is to struggle down to the nearest bar. I shall take my laptop with me and, who knows, some blogy inspiration might appear.

I shall be back in early January no doubt keen to hit the hills again, dust off the bike, and get fit for the walking season.

Here’s wishing you all the best for the year to come. Maybe we’ll meet somewhere out there on the trail. And if you fancy a walk somewhere — don’t hesitate to get in touch.

Andy.

PS. I’ve stopped buying Christmas Cards these days. I do make a donation to (what I think) is a good cause.

This year’s cause is Music for Hope set up by Birmingham musician Katherine Rogers to support community music development and teaching in Bajo Lempa, El Salvador, in the aftermath of the brutal civil war of the early 80’s. Sadly, while things improved in the country for a while, the Central American Free Trade Agreement (CAFTA) has led to the further impoverishment of many poor people in El Salvador and elsewhere in the continent.

A cold, crisp and sunny winter’s day is an invitation to take a walk, whether you are out on the hills or tucked up in a city. I’m in London at the moment and so a city walk it was.

According to the financial press this week has seen a collapse in retail sales and it seems this is true. Mid-morning and the streets of London were as quiet as an old fashioned Sunday morning.

Foyles bookshop is something of an institution. To be fair it used to be an institution but the chaotic style of management just drove me nuts and about ten years or so ago I stopped going there. But in recent years the shop has been refurbished and is now a pleasure to stroll around once again. In truth Foyles is not as idiosyncratic as it once was but on days like these, when you’re not fighting your way through the aisles, an hour flashes by in an instant.

Outside Soho was at its best. The charm of this area is due — in no small way — to the its compact street pattern, something it shares with Paris’ Marais another rather special area from a bygone era. Traditional shop frontages and low rise building provides a human scale environment. Every now and then the flaneur comes across a hideous new building or huge hole in the ground surrounded by billboards heralding the imminent arrival another monster of glass and concrete. But despite the crimes of urban planner the charm of Soho still shines through, these narrow streets providing the critical mass needed for the radiance of such charm. Still, one wishes could learn from Paris. There’s little chance of the Marais being dominated by a new thirty floor business environment.

Quite streets allowed Soho to shine, and Soho residents to parade themselves with all their famed eccentricity. Today’s Soho is more prosperous and more varied in its offer, but the old and new coexist rather well. Everywhere you look there are fine eating places, all shiny cutlery and crisp, creaseless table cloths. Some of these seem to be expensive to be the point of ridiculousness but there are some gems here. A week or so I ate at the new Hix restaurant on Brewer Street a place that excels in wonderfully simple food made with the very best of ingredients at — for central London — reasonable prices for such fine surroundings. But the gastronauts do not dominate. There are still plenty of small family run cafés and restaurants about, many of them with the fine ambience of the old London caf.

On Old Compton Street I dropped into the Amalfi Café for a bite of lunch. The Amalfi seems to have been there forever. The darkened wooden floor is well trodden and worn, rickety and sloping all over the place. On the walls fine, genuine, black and white prints of yesteryear’s actors and actresses of both stage and screen take me back to Saturday afternoon films. Some — like that from Humphrey Bogart — seem to have been personally signed. Look harder and you can see other fine Soho residents, journalists, writers and all manner of other bohemians. Oscar Wilde has pride of place on one wall.

I took a seat in the window so I could watch the street life roll on by. On busy days Soho’s characters are lost in a mass of tourists and language students. But today they stood out with pride. These Soho types seem to have lasted as long as I can remember. There are the actors and theatre types of a certain age, with fine hats and overcoats, shuffling along the street in a hurry. Younger Soho Queens parade along the street at a mode sedate pace, snug and warm inside strikingly loud winter coats. Inside the restaurant an elderly American theatre person entertained not only his companion but the entire restaurant with a series of thespian stories which name-checked all manner of famous names, the shameless name dropping I’ve heard in years. Magnificent.

Back on the streets I realised that Soho may retain its character, its eccentricity and its love of excess but somehow things have a better balance these days. The sex industry is still a major player here but somehow is more restrained, less seedy and more mainstream. I’m not sure anyone could really take any exception to Soho on days like these. Never fear though, if you still want a flavour of Soho’s wilder side just come by night. A couple of weeks ago I strolled down here with a friend from Manchester who was somewhat thrown by the two transvestite dancers taking a fag break in the warmish evening air. Myself and the other regulars and residents had simply missed the sight, it simply wasn’t remarkable but normal.

I started by praising the street landscape of Soho. Bruce Chatwin was fond of saying that landscape was nothing without people and I do tend to agree. Despite the charm of Soho’s environment it is the people that really stand out. Soho’s life seems as rich as ever.

This has been captured beautifully in photographer Catherine Garcia’s new book Soho Lives in which wonderful portraits are accompanied by lovely paragraphs explaining why Soho is so loved.

It was a wonderful morning, my only regret being that I didn’t have my own camera with me. Seldom are the streets this quiet that the street scape — and Soho’s characters — can be picked out so easily.

Soho ain’t the Scottish Highlands —but it can be just as wonderful.