The Cape Wrath Trail - the return of Dreams

       The view from Sheneval Bothy over the Fisherfield Forest.

I haven't had a dream for years.

Or at least not one that I can remember the following morning

For  nine consecutive nights (at the time of writing this post) since my return from the Cape Wrath Trail  my dreams have been full and vivid.

Of heather and the shapes of rock and  glen. Of the sound of wind and water. Of bothys visited and wild camps pitched. Sun on water. Moonlight across the landscape.

Each night I have been woken from my slumber at some random hour, brought to waking by my dreams. I sat up staring into the darkness,  into a bedroom where I have spent several thousand nights. Yet my mind was struggling to make it familiar. All I could see in the shadows were memories from NW Scotland and thirteen days spent on the trail.

Such was the deep impression that the trail has left upon me.

On my return I have looked at the path my route took across maps, guide books and other walkers' blogs with renewed vigour. I replay my daily wanderings in my mind as I peer at these abstract sources of information. Now they are fleshed out, rich in texture drawn from my memories.

A brew stop at Knochdamph Bothy in glorious weather

My body still aches from the rigours of the trail. And from my foolishness in completing it in 13 days from Glenfinnan. I'll talk more about my mistakes and lessons learned from the trail in subsequent posts.

 But if I offer only one piece of advice to anyone contemplating this challenge, it is this.

Take longer than 13 days.  The landscape deserves better than that. And so does your body!

Dartmoor Wanderings

I returned from Dartmoor a few days ago , having spent a couple of nights out with my two long-suffering Springer Spaniels. Below is a short account of my trip

Grey Wethers Stone Circles

As roads drew me closer to Dartmoor  a veil of cloud stretched from one side of the horizon to the other. The colour of slate, the cloud blocked out the sunlight that had accompanied my drive southwest. My tyres crunched over the gravel of the car park as I reached my destination of Belstone. As the sound of the engine died fat drops of rain spattered on the windscreen. The wind tugged at the bare branches of the trees. A pony turned its back into the strengthening breeze. My dogs got up from their slumber of the last 220 miles and looked out of the back window of the car and then at me. Have we really driven over three hours for this they asked? 

The forecast was for gales. The car rocked gently with each gust. I can't just go back home I thought. I'd pinned my colours to the mast. People knew I'd set out on an adventure. Turning tail for home just would not do. 

I shouldered my pack.  My Spaniels and I set off under lowering skies. Snow streaked the hollows and gullies on hillsides overlooking Taw Marsh. We forced the pace into the wind  as we climbed the slopes of Metheral Hill. Some hours later we descended Manga Hill towards Teignhead Farm in search of a camp. My dogs  hunted for shelter from the wind that cut with a savage chill. Each time we stopped so I could check the map their eyes turned to meet mine. Not quite there yet I said. Not quite the right  mix of flat ground and shelter from the all pervading wind. 

Approaching The East Dart River

At last girls, we've a home for the night. My dogs flopped down into the shelter of some reeds as I assembled our tent. In they crept, free at last from the chill wind. 

Fur Tor - Queen of the Tors

Dawn brought a new day and new ground. We headed along the East Dart River, a fantastic walk. We floundered over bogs and sank to our knees as the green moss quivered under our feet. We picked our way up the maze of peat cliffs of Cut Hill. We lunched on Fur Tor - the Queen of the Tors - and then descended her slopes north into a wild desolate landscape.  For two days we saw no one. And we felt cleansed by the experience as we pitched for a second night near Dinger Tor. 

The following morning we headed back towards Taw Marsh there was a new ight behind our eyes, which was born from time spent under endless skies, energy drawn from the ceaseless winds, the empty spaces and tumbling streams. 

More 'The Joy of Wild Camping'

This time it's an article by Chris Townsend on wild camping and why anyone should ever want to to it.

I like his references to childhood, the creation of dens and camps. As a young child I used to make tents from my parents' towels - much to their annoyance no doubt - tying my father's garden twine onto the corners to attach homemade wooden tent pegs, all held aloft by my mother's washing line.  I think my influences for this came from the 1974 Swallows and Amazons film, and my father's reading of The Hobbit by Tolkien to me.

I can also relate to the references to our nomadic past. Seeing the happiness of my 18 month old son as he sat under a tarpaulin that I rigged for him in the sitting room on a recent rainy Sunday got me thinking. We'd never done that before, but as he sat covereded by his duvet with his toy dinner/cook set he seemed most comfortable. I wondered if the experience of being in a shelter with a cover over ones head, was maybe hard wired deep into our psyche or subconscious harking back to our ancient nomadic past.

Anyway, enough of my musings - here is Chris's article

Click Here

The Joy of Winter Wild Camping

The Telegraph published this piece by Rob Cowen on the Winter Wild Camping experience, and why we might want to do it.

To paraphrase someone more  well known for their outdoor exploits than me.....

"Because its there, duhhh.'

Well, there is a bit more to it than that.  Read on HERE

Trailstar - A Lake District Baptism

So over the last three days, I have at last baptised my Trailstar.

For this auspicious occasion I returned to one of my favourite places in the Lakes, and this morning I was blessed with overnight snow on the high fells, along with blue skies and a golden sun - the stuff of which dreams are truly made of.

I'll post some more text soon, but here are some of my favourite photographs from the trip, from under the shadow of Scafell and Scafell Pike.

UPDATE

My journey lasted for three days and two nights. I will begin with an admission that I didn’t quite cover the distance that I thought I would. This was due to a late start on day one, not getting onto the hill till gone 11amand I never quite made up the ground.

My route took me from Chapel Stile climbing steeply onto the ridge behind. From there I ventured around the Langdale Pikes and pitched camp by Stake Beck about a kilometre from High White Stones. In truth my first wild camp under the Trailstar was an unremarkable affair, waking after a night of rain and strong winds to a calm and misty morning with grey cloud hanging like a veil over the hills.

The sun began to break through after breaking camp as I walked along the ridge towards Angle Tarn. This afforded beautiful views down  Mickleden and Langdale. The sun punched through the clouds and it’s rays dappled the road and hills in the distance by  Blea Tarn.

I stopped to reminisce about wild camps at Angle Tarn some 15 years before when I was last that way. From there I walked with my memories up to Esk Hause, and then followed  the River Esk from  its source down onto Great Moss, where all the photographs were taken.

My return to Great Moss was again a step back into my past, as this was the site of my first ever wild camp under the shadow of Ill Crag maybe 20 years before. My recollection of that adventure was as if it was yesterday; the walk up the  River Esk from Brotherilkeld in growing wonder as I reached the packhorse bridge. And  then up the narrow gorge as the river cut waterfall after waterfall down  into plunging green pools. Then out onto Great Moss itself in 25 degree heat as I picked my way over cotton grass and bog to follow the river as it meandered through the peat. I thought I had discovered paradise back then as I pitched a tent there under cobalt skies.

My return now was under different conditions,  lowering clouds shrouding  the ridges and concealing the tops. I pitched the Trailstar as the light began to fail. As soon as the last guy was pegged rain began to beat urgently upon the fabric. I dozed in the dark as my stove purred as it heated dinner. A few hours later I heard the unmistakeable sound of  rain turning to sleet and finally snow. Every now and then I banged the sides of the trailstar to dislodge the wet snow as it accumulated on the sides. During the night the wind swung around to blow wet snow onto my face as I slept. I pegged the door loosely down. Later I opened my eyes in the darkness and saw the silver light of a near full moon filtering through the fabric. I couldn’t resist it’s draw and donned my wet boots to  emerged into a silver world of  thin damp snow covering grasses and reeds, lit by the silver ball of the moon. The river chattered it’s  never-ending way over the stones of the Moss.

Dawn light broke my dreams and I woke to discover that much of the snow of the previous night had vanished. However the surrounding hills still wore their mantle of white. I stood and watched the sky turn to pink and coral with the return of the sun as my stove began to boil.

The minutes that followed were truly a gift from the gods as the sun ranged over the landscape, giving it shape and dimension as it turned to gold. I packed away my kit and shouldered my pack with a happy heart. Over the years I have spent several nights on Great Moss , and this dawn my rank as one of the best. I followed the river down the valley and cut over the ridge to Lingcove Beck and struggled up through boulders and deepening wet snow to Three Tarns under Bow Fell. From there it was down the Band into Langdale and paths back to Chapel Stile.

For now I have more than enough memories to sustain my Trailstar dreams through the coming days and weeks until I can return again to those empty spaces to feed those dreams once more.

Santa Delivers....

So Santa has been and gone for another year.

His knowledge of lightweight kit for the outdoors is demonstrated in the gifts he left behind for me this Christmas.

First off was a NeoAir XTherm mattress. Weighing in at 430g for the regular length, it will provide a little more comfort when the mercury falls, at the expense of only a small weight gain over the standard NeoAir mattress.

A Rab MeCo 165 long sleeved  base layer top, with a mix of  Merino wool and something man made. Maybe it will smell a little less than some of my other base layers after a couple of days in the hills!

Inov-8 Roclite 295 Shoes. I must thank Tony Hobbs (@TonyHobbsFlight  and here) for his advice and guidance on selecting these shoes and a sock combo to partner them in wet conditions. It's about time I stepped out of my comfort zone  (no pun intended) and tried something other than a pair of leather boots for backpacking. So many people seem to have embraced  the light weight footwear revolution for lightweight backpacking, I felt that I had to give it a go. I'll let you know what I think in weeks to come. 

Sealskinz socks to pair with the Inov-8's. I have read mixed reviews of  these.  Longevity seems to be an issue for some. Again I'll report back soon and share my thoughts.

Oh  and a number of bottles of red wine (various origins and vintages)and a copy of Lord of The Rings.  Not exactly lightweight but that's not really the point!

My thanks to all my family who gave me such fantastic gifts to allow me to venture into such fantastic places.

Pitching advice

In my last post I mentioned that I would be posting some links to blogs that offer advice for a first-time pitcher of a Trailstar.

Well today I'll share with you this post from Whiteburn's Wanderings. In the post he explains the  rationale behind his search for a  lightweight shelter,  as well as  penning a review based on more than 90 nights under his Trailstar.

Included in the post are some good photographs illustrating the pitching process. He also proposes a novel approach to attaching the  door pole guy line using a micro carabiner attached to an entirely separate piece of guy line equipped with a linelok. By simply reclipping the carabiner he avoids the somewhat irritating process of having to re-thread the lineloks if you choose to move the location of the door, due say to a change in wind direction.

This would never have occurred to me. Ever!

He also pays tribute to Colin Ibbotson's well regarded Trailstar Review (posted on Andy Howell's blog).  It's well worth the read if you have not already come across it.

These links should save a Trailstar novice some time on setting up guy lines (lengths cut to 60cm ALL round) and on pitching. Live and learn…… in theory at least!