A Quickie in a Hedge After The Pub

Friday 14th December 2018

Don't get too excited now.

This was about as last minute and effortless a wild camp as you can get without using your back garden. It didn't even involve the Vespa. What prompted it were :

• Clear skies early evening
• The news promising the Geminid meteor shower
• A chance to practice some better night photography on account of the above
• The urge to try a local, walking distance 'stealth camp' (having found a potential spot recently)
• A new Petzl headtorch which arrived midweek
• A couple of post work pints spiked with Friday night 'weekend starts here' mania 
• Half a bag of Home Bargains kindling wood

This leftover fuel was what remained of an extremely pleasant day in some local woods one week previously. My employers had very kindly given everyone last Friday off, mainly as a way to help them tackle Christmas shopping outside of the weekend. Did I fancy a bustling shopping centre though? Did I bollocks. Off to the woods I scooted. Although the weather was dry, everywhere was very wet, and without any bushcrafty woodcutting tools (axe, knife, saw etc - all on my Santa list) I brought a bag of kindling so I could stoke my little Honey Stove with ease, allowing me to cook and warm up under the tarp. It was a lovely, solitary few hours with only the sound of scuttling squirrels, creaking evergreens, and squeaking buzzards for company, and did me the world of good.

One week previously - a few hours in the woods

Tonight was going to be much colder though - at most 0C - and I thought the tarp would be a faff in the dark, so burning the remaining wood could be just the ticket before crawling into the bivvy tent.

As it was only a week off the winter solstice it was dark before I'd even returned from work, and I didn't fancy a full 16 hours, especially as I wasn't really anywhere 'special'. Plus the extra frisson of being seen and caught by villagers and thought of as a vagrant (rather than a hiker in a more tourist area) made me realise I had to pitch when there was no risk of any late night dog walkers etc. So I thought 'why punish myself unduly - lets spend the first chunk of the night at the pub'.

So, after tea I get myself sorted. Not having to think about cooking food made it loads easier. In I pop to my local at around 9pm with a fully loaded 65l rucksack. Luckily I managed to smuggle it into the corner immediately, and not enough people noticed to prompt any awkward questions about why I had it. Nicely settled and still very much open to calling the whole thing off I supped a pint or two.

At 11 I settled my tab and headed off, still not convinced. For a start, the bloody clouds had completely obscured the sky, so the metoers and night sky photography where off the menu. I decided to walk the long way home via the potential camping spot, so at least I could try out my new headtorch. I may even sit by a fire for an hour or two, supping the bottles of Belgian beer I had tucked into the rucksack - and who knows, the clouds may suddenly break and I'll get some shots, before toddling off home in the wee small hours.

In ten mins I was at the spot, the headtorch doing its job well. Luckily I had done a recce of the place in the dark a few days back, so I was prepared for the 4 massive horses which live in the field. When I first came across these I shat myself - in the light of my old headtorch I just saw what looked like a glowing ember around two foot off the ground - perhaps a dog walker's fag end in the gloom? Then this fiery dot rose up to about 6 feet high and was joined by another. Turning my head, I was surrounded by more of these ascending Will'-o-the-wisps. At first I was relieved when I could see the huge outlines of the horses surrounding these cat's eyes in the gloom. That relief soon subsided though when I realised that they were like something from a horror game - they stood still as long as I faced them, but as soon as I turned my back to move they trotted with some speed towards me, like a cross between Doctor Who's Weeping Angels, the Boos off Mario games, and the Ringwraith's horses from Lord Of the Rings. They also had a tendency to go off on mad gallops together. Very disconcerting on my own in the dark.

At least this time I was prepared for them, if still somewhat apprehensive. I tried my best horse whispering voice, and turned my torch on to its more animal friendly red LED setting, which enabled me to get close enough to pet them a bit, uttering reassurances. They were all very big, and quite wary at first, but seemed to warm to me a bit. I found what I thought were a couple of secluded spots around some large fallen trees, where I thought they wouldn't venture. I was wrong - the cheeky buggers wanted to know everything I was up to, and one even started nibbling at my rucksack and coat! Luckily there was a very small spot completely surrounded by fallen branches, effectively giving me a play pen which they shouldn't be able to get into, so I parked myself there. It still didn't stop one from trying!

Mar Mate. (Mare Mate?)

Eventually he (she?) lost interest and went to join her mates further afield. Small ground sheet and arse pad out, I made myself as comfy as I could. I decided against a fire as it was obvious it would draw too much attention, and I was worried what the horses would make of it. Once more I was sat out in minus degrees, yet just wasn't cold - the combo of new wooly hat, insulated coat, occasional movement to take a photo (the skies were still overcast, sadly) and the fact that the branchy, leafy coop was a very natural shelter all kept me perfectly comfortable. 

My hedgerow wild tucker skills have yet to be honed, but fortunately the missis had been to Marks & Sparks earlier to order the chrimbo roast, and picked me up a couple of treats, making me feel like I was in a cold beer garden on me todd. 

I'm no Bear Grylls but I can mek meself comfy

Maybe it was the middle class scratchings, or my favourite Flemish loopy juice, but as the witching hour arrived I thought 'sod it, I'm here now - I've done the hard bit, lets camp'. I messaged the missis (long since retired...) to let her know. I reckoned I could just about get the Ionosphere tent pitched inside the playpen, which was fairly flat and just the right shape for it. I could then sleep easy, safe in the knowledge that Black Beauty and friends wouldn't inadvertently trample me to death. This wasn't the easiest thing to do after a mild skinfull, and the ground was pretty hard to get pegs into. But I managed it.

Pitched up, by the red stealthy glow of the headtorch

Sat on the pad by the doorway I stayed up a little longer until the beer was quaffed, then crawled into the bag some time around 1:30am. What followed was perhaps the best night's camping kip I've had yet, with only one get up for a wee, absolutely no chilliness whatsoever, and little wind rattling the tent (despite the trees around me howling as it picked up into the morning).

I woke up around 7, which this time of year is a good hour before dawn. I was anxious to get the tent away early as I was surrounded by a village full of dog walkers. The familiar boom of shotguns from nearby woods bounced around the hills as the greyness crept up. It wasn't the prettiest morning, and once I stepped out of the play pen I was aware of how sheltered I had been, as there was a strong, icy south easterly wind - the beginnings of Storm Deirdre. I did want to get a pic of the camp in daylight though, ever aware that the first walkers would be arriving any minute. I managed to snap one whilst I brewed up using the meths fueled BCB stove sat on the soldering mat to protect the ground.

Pretty stealthy eh?

For once, pack up was relatively quick - way under 30 mins. Not having the huge tarp helped a lot - right faff that is! But also, being very local, I cheated a bit. I brought a folding co-op bag for life with me and just stuffed the tent (as it happens, really dry thanks to the wind) into it as one big clump, rather than having to spend ages folding/rolling/stuffing it into its sack. This would be light and easy to swing next to me in one hand on my return walk. Despite some evidence that this field had been used for camps before (tell-tale scorch spots mainly, although who knows how old they were - years probably), as ever I made sure every last bottle top was cleared away and taken with me.

No trace left in the playpen

The horses were back as I left, although strangely more wary of me in the day - they recoiled a little as I tried to pet them. I don't blame them, I had just slept rough in a hedge after a night on the pop. A 15 minute icy walk and I was home,  just before 9am.

So, overall, how did the experience compare to my other wild camps? All through the next day I admit I didn't feel the same buzz as I got from my more scenic camps in The Peak and The Berwyn Mountains. I didn't have the flush of feelgood endorphins a good hike inspires, and actually felt a little grubby and slightly daft, not helped by a mild but persistent hangover and headcold. Why had I done that? I could have had pretty much the same experience - the pub, the night walk, the horses, the booze - taken a third of the weight, and still not broken the law into vagrancy by simply walking home afterwards like a good boy. It's weird how pitching a bit of canvas for a few hours when no one is around turns you into a vagabond. But is that my problem, or The Law's? I really don't know yet. I don't think I hurt or inconvenienced anyone or anything by my actions, but the law abiding citizen in me still struggles with the idea, especially so close to home. In fact, hypocritically, I don't really like the idea of other folk, local or otherwise, camping in that same spot, as I don't trust them to do it properly and responsibly.

Responsibly... says the man who dossed in a hedge midwinter, drinking extra strong beer, for no other reason than choice. Most people who do the same up and down the country have little of that. It must be very horrible when you are forced, and don't have expensive kit as I did.

So, in a selfish act of guilt management, I made a donation to Street Aid, a charity that helps rough sleepers. If you like, you can donate too.

Merrry Christmas one and all. Stay warm! x

(Click here for my next wild camping 'adventure'...)

©R. Lane 2018

#wildcamping #stealthcamping 

Solo Wildcamp : First Attempt - The Berwyns

Saturday 17th November 2018

I was meant to be at a Rave Up in Todmorden, West Yorkshire this weekend. A hot, sweaty, busy DJ gig by A Love From Outer Space, and a chance to catch up with some good friends including Delyth & Lloyd. My ticket and hotel were booked months ago, but just a few days before the event I cancelled with a heavy heart. Why? Well, a train strike was happening for a start - although to be fair I had several kind offers of lifts. There was also an unrelated festival going on in the town and accommodation was scarce, so the best hotel I could find with rooms left was on the hilly outskirts of neighbouring Hebden Bridge. It was starting to hit home what a faff this weekend could be. Mainly though, truth be told I was completely skint. I could easily spend a couple of hundred quid all in when taxis, drinks, and eating out was added up, and fact is I just couldn't afford it - especially when I'd blown loads of wedge recently on all this sodding camping gear...

So I made the call, cancelled my reservation, sold on my ticket, apologised to mates, and resigned myself to a quiet weekend at home.

Then a day or two later I saw the weather forecast and my mind started to turn to The Great Outdoors.

In the last few weeks my two camping experiments had been quite cold. I had hit snow 3 weekends back on the way to The Peak for my first wild camp with my friend Rich. I would have put money on that being the first and last wild camp of the year, but lo and behold the weekend approaching, halfway through November, looked to be sunny and clear (yet cold again) over much of the UK. Despite not wanting to spend any money, I had a few options : an afternoon 'tramping out' under a tarp in local woods (something I've done a couple of times too recently); trying Wonderful Wilderness again (the location of my 'nearly wild' camp in September) for a safe, stress free evening with a nice campfire; to the most hardcore option - my first solo overnight wild camp, up a proper mountain. I kept my options open, sought advice from the family (who were all busy doing their own things at the weekend) and from Rich via messages. By Friday evening I had committed to head off in the morning on the well loaded Vespa to the Berwyn mountain range in Mid Wales and go hardcore.

My destination was the same waterfall I had visited a few weeks back - the stunning Pistyll Rhaeadr. Leaving at lunchtime I enjoyed a sunny and relaxing ride, with clouds just starting to build as I approached hillier country. I arrived dead on 2pm to a rather misty and busy free car park, spent a while transferring the kit from roll bags to rucksack, and headed off under the guidance of my new Ordnance Survey app. This has been a revelation - for 20 quid a year you get access to all of their maps at all the different scales, and of course it points out where on the map you are at any given time - thoroughly recommended. My proposed destination was a small lake not too far from the summit of Cadair Berwyn, at 827 metres the highest mountain in Wales not to be found in a National Park. With around 18kg on my back I headed up a very scenic path affording great views of the waterfall through the damp, cold valley air.

Once round the corner it became obvious that the weather was much clearer at higher ground as the sunlit summit loomed over the landscape.

I only had around 3k to walk, and a good hour and a half before sunset, but I found it surprisingly hard work. I'm still new to walking with a big pack, and my 18 kilos were a bit silly as I had luxuries in there (my Italian coffee pot, a frying pan, 3 different size tarps, and a tripod for instance - easily 5 or 6k right there) that most hikers would have lived without. Thankfully the slope was generally fairly gentle up the flank of the valley, and I was chasing the waning sun all the way. I passed two or three walkers on their descent, who looked a little puzzled that I was heading so far upwards at this hour.

I had a very specific location in mind to camp, but I know it's fairly 'popular' as there are a handful of Youtube vids with folk wild camping at that exact spot. So as I progressed I started to be a bit concerned - what if I got there and it was already taken? Those vids had been watched thousands of times after all.. There didn't seem to be anywhere suitable in the valley so far for a plan B pitch either - I would have to keep walking on, and higher, to find somewhere. Luckily Rich had done this area before and gave me the exact location of another spot a fair bit further on. But would I make that before dark now..? Fingers crossed my plan A would be free. Around three quarters of the way there I crossed the stream and took the opportunity to filter some ice cold refreshing Welsh mountain water into my bottle and my belly. This gave me added vim to stride on past the end of the public footpath and up to a slight plateux under the summit, with a small ice age lake called Llyn Lluncaws ("Lake of Cheese") surrounded by a craggy amphitheater. And not a soul in sight!

It was quite boggy around the Llyn, and 'plan A' was a spot on the other side. However, there seemed to be a small but perfect flat and dry spot on this near side, where the stream branches off to start its descent of the valley (at the bottom right of the pic above). I dumped my burdensome backpack here for now and toddled off (suddenly feeling very light and spritely) to the other side just to satisfy my curiosity and prove I had bagsied the best room at the hotel. There was indeed a good place where, if I pitched with feet into the wind, I would be afforded a view of the lake from my open tent - but being right under the crag of the mountain didn't feel great. A combo of fear of landslides and the already howling wind hitting the face higher up conspired to put me off, so I decided to head back to my rucksack, first taking a photo of the ever darkening but crystal clear sky above the Llyn, with a half moon on the rise.

Pitch now chosen, but sun now set, it was that familiar rush to get camped before it got very dark, especially as I'm still using the bivvy tent and tarp combo. The Ionoshphere tent was up quicker than ever (I'm getting better at this) and the ground held a peg beautifully. Tarp was set up in a similar but slightly less obtrusive way to my Peaks camp last month - just a wind shelter, cooking and dry storage area. Anyway, I managed it, and I was settled in by 5pm. Scary looking mist and cloud was starting to rush around me, obscuring the moonlight. So - what to do now with the next 14 hours of darkness, up here in the middle of nowhere on my own, with no phone signal?

First off was a morale boost of a hot chocolate, so it was BCB Crusader cookset out and placed on a newly acquired square foot of of soldering mat (to be 100% sure of not scorching any grass). By the time this had been made and drunk it was about 5:30pm and pitch black. Thumbs started twiddling. I thought I may as well crack on with a scran to keep busy, and it was out with my new folding frying pan for the trusty smoked sausage and Uncle Ben's rice combo. All very nice, but that took me only until 6pm.

Time to practice some night photography then - perfect. Except my camera just would not turn on at all. This spooked me out somewhat as the batteries were reading full earlier in the day. Perhaps it was cold? I wore it around my neck and under my coat for a good while, and it got quite warm, but still no luck. It was all a bit Close Encounters, and my mind started to recall that this exact mountain was the site of one of the UK's most high profile alleged UFO incidents. In fact, the area is known to some as 'The Welsh Roswell'. I was more cross than spooked though - the tripod and camera were now extra dead weight that I could have ditched had it decided to die before I was up the mountain. So anyway, this part of the story is not illustrated for this reason. In the morning when it was light I could at least use my phone.

Still a good 12 hours of ever colder, damper inkiness to get through, sat under my tarp. I admit to missing Rich a bit, whose company had been so genial in these early evening hours last time. Another friend Tomo had recently sent me a gift of a radio series, the airline based sitcom 'Cabin Pressure', which I had the foresight to download on my phone earlier that day and proved to be a great source of comfort and amusement. I was often too distracted and edgy to follow every word, but just the soothing familiarity of Aunty Beeb, fine comic acting and an enthusiastic audience did me the world of good. Small hip flask out (Jameson's this time), I was having an evening of sorts. Once the whisky was supped, there was a last cuppa, then I retired to the tent for more (appropriately named) Cabin Pressure and movie podcasts in the warm comfort of the sleeping bag until I dozed off around 11pm.

It was a cold night, with the damp not helping - the nearly freezing fog was even rising up under the sides of the tent. In fact, I was warmer under the tarp in a way, where at least the breeze was stopped 100% - the tent had 'ample ventilation' which basically meant 'wind howls through it'. Still, probably healthier from a condensation point of view - even if it did seem to be letting it in. But sleeping in my big coat, hat and sometimes even gloves I remained warm. A good solid 4 hours of kip, then I was wide awake from 3am to 5:30, but nodded off again for a final hour before dawn. Getting in and out of this tent is very awkward due to the single entry point and 'arse first' technique, but a cheap, small folding foam pad from Millets was a godsend in providing a place to kneel or stand whilst I got boots on and off for the inevitable wee-wees. The noise of the wind up on the summit was constant all night, but it made me all the more thankful that I was down here in the naturally sheltered crater, where wind was much more manageable. All in all I was fairly relaxed, comfy, and felt safe. Result!

It was getting near 7am, the sky was creeping  from black to grey, and so it was up to get some brekkie. First on was the espresso pot, after a bit of faff getting the ice cold meths to light (a spell with the bottle in my pocket warmed it up enough to take a spark). As it was brewing, I made a headstart on a few clearing up chores and the thick low cloud gradually started to break.

Everything warmed up, the clouds burnt away with the rising sun, and around 8am I sat on a little ledge in front of camp ready to tuck into a porridge and tea to enjoy a quality moment with my stunning view. I had one mouthful and was suddenly very aware that there was a human shape a few yards away to my left. A man in his 50s (bearing an uncanny resemblance to Malcolm McDowell) wearing some good hiking gear and a very pro camera round his neck was stood looking at the pool and mountain. We bid each other good morning and struck up a very pleasant chat. He had driven a fair way to the area in the dark to get up here at the crack of dawn, no doubt to have the place to himself. I felt really bad that my scruffy camp and even scruffier presence was ruining that moment for this nice man, although he was too much of a gent to look disappointed. He eventually said farewell and headed off up the slope to the summit to get on with his planned 17 mile walk. It was a reminder that I was probably being a bit too leisurely about packing away before I was rumbled - remember, this sort of thing is not strictly legal. I took one last good look at my hotel room - both the cheapest and most scenic I've ever stayed in - before sadly packing up camp. I could have happily stayed there watching the clouds wisp over the escarpment for hours. Days even!

Whilst a bit more efficient than previous pack ups, it was still an hour all told, but as ever I followed the golden rule of 'leave no trace'. I'd arrived with no evidence of any previous camps (despite wild camping happening here a fair bit) and I wasn't going to be the first to mess up this magnificent spot. Rucksack on (a little bit lighter for the consumed food and water), I headed up to the summit, a further 200m above me. This was the only genuinely scary part of the trip as it was steep, craggy, slippy and the wind up there was easily 40mph. It caught my huge rucksack side on like a sail, and it was a struggle to stay sure footed on what seemed (to this numpty anyway) like an already fairly perilous ascent. My glasses were even in danger of blowing away! I was pretty exhausted and relieved to get to the top, which despite the incessant biting easterly wind offered spectacular views in all directions - including over my little cheese lake.

The Llyn from above - my home for the night was the pointy bit at the top left, and my scary climb was the ridge going up to the right above it.

The Summit

It was still quite hazy looking east and south, so promised views of Shropshire and The Brecon Beacons were not forthcoming. To the west it was much clearer, with Snowdonia tantalisingly calling in the distance.

By the time I had surveyed the ridge it was gone midday and time to think about returning to the Vespa. I took a different route down, on the opposite side of the valley, which proved challenging in a different way due to some very boggy patches, making progress slow and energy-sapping. In fact, half way down I had a sort of funny turn where I went quite faint and had to have a sit down. I put this down to a combo of a lack of calories for breakfast (I had nothing left to eat by now), jelly legs (descents are much harder on the knees) and a general lack of fitness for the task. It's an eye opener for me, as in some ways I'm a reasonably fit bloke - just a few weeks back in the longer days of summer I was fitting in 10k runs a few times a week, well under an hour, no problem. But here I was struggling to manage to walk way less than 10k over two whole days. Goes to show how different tasks demand different types of fitness. I must get fitter for this task!

Menopausal flushes aside, as I neared the lower ground there was a nice aspect of the Rheaedr valley, which was reassuringly pretty and lush after the wild and windswept uplands. It put a bit of lead back in my pencil anyway.

Eventually after some confusion in the last half mile I was back at the waterfall base (fairly busy with visitors) and repacking the Vespa for the ride back. This was a crisply sunny and chilly affair punctuated by a pub stop or two for a bit of sustenance and warmth. I didn't stop to take any pics of the Vespa in situ this time, and got home just as it was getting dark. A big, warming tea of hotpot was most welcome.

At around 9:30, shattered, in jarmies and ready for bed, the doorbell rang - this is very unusual for us. I asked who it was before opening, and it was a policeman, asking if I was the owner of a red Vespa, (licence plate blah blah blah) which had recently been in Wales... 

My mind started to race. Surely wild camping isn't so much of a crime that they come to arrest you that same evening? And how seriously must I have missed a speed limit for a home visit?

The PC was very nice about it all - turns out someone had reported that a Vespa had been left on the free car park at the waterfall overnight. Whether they thought it could be abandoned after a crime, that it belonged to a suicidal waterfall jumper, or a stranded hiker will remain a mystery. I came clean and told the PC that I left it there overnight whilst I wild camped in the mountains above. He was totally alright with this, and when I asked him if I should have done anything different he said no, it was just one of those things that need clearing up sometimes. He bid me goodnight.

Is it bad that a brush with The Law all added to the pleasing naughtiness of this memorable night away from home? It had been a good choice to go out there at short notice in this lucky window of weather, and hopefully another valuable turning point for me. I was still sad about not making the gig, but there would be more opportunities for those. Instead of being 200 notes worse off, I had brought the whole thing in for less than 20 (including petrol, food, whisky and pub stops). Not bad for a room with a view in one of the most scenic places I'd ever been.

(Click here for my next wild camping 'adventure'...)

© Rich Lane 2018

First Wild Camp by Vespa - The Peak District

Saturday 27th October 2018

So, after my very rewarding dabble with 'nearly wild' camping in Wales, only four weeks later I find myself heading to the Peak District to do it properly. This is all down to the kind offer of one person, a very old friend from my teens called Rich Dytch whom I have not seen for over 25 years. We are in touch via the wonders of social media, and it turns out he is a highly experienced wild camper, having had many nights out in some of the more remote and windy places of the UK. After reading my controversial thoughts on what constitutes 'proper' camping (much of which he agrees with) he very graciously offered to show me a good entry level walk and camp for a one-nighter in the Dark Peak near Sheffield - which is a great midway point for us both travel wise.

To say I was excited about this jaunt was an understatement. As well as looking forward to the long overdue catch up with Rich, I had been obsessing over the kit, the packing and especially the weather for a good few weeks before, making me very hard work to live with at home. I bombarded Rich with many daft questions via Messenger. As the day loomed it looked like lady luck was on our side : it was going to be dry, not stupidly windy - but with an unseasonal northerly breeze making temperatures plummet well into single figures, even during the day. With a strict no fires policy in our National Parks (particularly in The Peak which had been ravaged by wild fires over summer), Rich gave me lots of good advice on what to bring to stay warm at night.

The logistics at my end did need a bit of thought. I had to get there by Vespa of course - no problem, as the Wales trip showed me that the necessary kit would fit in my Givi roll bags no problem. However, these would be no use hiking a few miles up to 600m -  I would need to bring my recently purchased monster 65 litre rucksack for that. But I didn't fancy wearing that fully loaded (at least 14 kilos) on the Vespa. So in the end I opted to have the rucksack about a third full on my back for the ride there, with the main compartment empty. The rest was in the 30 litre Givi strapped to the rear rack. This could then be slid in its entirety into the rucksack in the car park on arrival at The Peak.

The unexpectedly cold weather did also mean that I had to 'ugly up' the Vespa with my trusty Tucano Urbano leg cover and Bagster handlebar muffs at short notice before setting off. I would normally have waited a couple more weeks into the cold season before doing this, but I was VERY glad I did it early. Leaving around a quarter to eleven on Saturday morning I had barely been gone forty minutes when I hit the edge of The Peak District outside Leek. Halfway up the very steep and long road past  the famous rock formations of The Roaches I was suddenly caught in falling snow. I think it is the first time I've ever seen snow in October. My satnav is specifically for scooters, and it took me off the main road on a backroads route avoiding Buxton - normally this would be great, but not when you're in snow! Luckily it didn't seem to be sticking to the tarmac, but I was still very nervous. My hands were just starting to bite with cold, even through the muffs and gloves, and I had an almost overwhelming urge to turn back to lower land, rather than up and onwards into a strange new, high snowy place. I had visions of getting to my destination, only to be snowed in by overnight flurries blocking the roads home tomorrow.

I tried to stay optimistic (and warm) and scooted onwards through some twisty lanes. There looked to be some pretty White Peak scenery around in the gloom, but I didn't stop for any photos - I just wanted to get there. As I got nearer to the area of Ladybower reservoir the sky began to clear and the snow had thankfully ceased. Before long I was pulling into the Fairholmes visitor centre car park (surprisingly busy given the weather), greeted by Rich, a bit off a faff with swapping bags/coats etc and we set off, trekking poles clattering away on the tarmac.

What transpired over the next 3 hours or so was a steady stroll alongside Derwent reservoir and gradually upwards into the Dark Peak towards Howden Edge. How far we would venture was left very open ended and depended on what the weather was like 'up there'. The clouds were clearing, we were fairly sheltered from the northerly breeze during the early climb, and there was lots of swapping life stories involving jobs, births, deaths, and marriages. A brief stop at a stream for a water refill (we both of course had filters, although the water remained a pleasant tea colour due to the famously peaty soil) provided a moment to snap Rich in a characteristically silly pose - he really hasn't changed much since the early 90s.

The window of our lives when we knew each other well was fairly brief - probably a year or so over '90/'91 when we both lived in Wolverhampton, and I was introduced to Rich by my best mate Tom. Even then Rich was a phenomenal guitarist, and I had just started making music semi-seriously courtesy of a decent workstation synth that allowed me to produce something akin to 'finished' tracks. I still can't believe my luck in acquiring this keyboard at the time - my Mum had been putting a few quid aside for years, with a view to surprising me on my 17th birthday with a nice lump sum to pay for driving lessons, and maybe even towards an old banger. Having no interest in driving whatsoever, but plenty of interest in dabbling with keyboards (between me, my sister Liz, and Tom there were always cheap Casios of various descriptions knocking about) I asked Mum if I could blow it on a keyboard instead. To her eternal credit, she trusted me and I took possession of a brand new Yamaha SY55 synth. This turned out to be a defining turning point in my life - for good or ill. Within a year I had my first record out, but had also dropped out of college. I have still never owned a car to this day.

Anyway, in that year or so of learning to use the thing, I was very lucky to have Rich to team up with for musical jams, usually in the garage below Mum's flat, or sometimes up at his house. Occasionally Tom would join us on bass too. Much of the music we made was a sort of freeform improvised psychedelic racket, with me programming simple drum beats (I acquired a cheap Boss drum machine along the way), making drones and repetitive synth lines, with Rich providing the abstract, fluid magic of slidey guitar tones and eastern ragas. We would bung the lot through a phaser and echo pedal, set a cassette to record, and fill one 40 minute side at a time. Very indulgent, and huge fun.  And almost completely unlistenable. Here's a few mins from just such a session in 1990.

Although it did result in us being booked to play a gig locally - my first, and to this day, my last 'live' music performance. It was at a pub called The Raglan which was the favoured Indie haunt of most of our peer group - so no pressure there! It was supporting a good local band and with the bravado of youth we accepted with very little time to rehearse. The gig happened - and in my mind it would have been a triumph to this day had we not made the mistake of recording it to tape. Every duff note, flat vocal (we took turns singing - a huge mistake on my part anyway) and pregnant pause whilst I loaded up the sequencer was pored over and analysed in the weeks afterwards, to the point where I eventually found the whole thing a shoddy, pretentious embarrassment. I stuck to the recording studio (where there is never an excuse for imperfection) ever since. Rich on the other hand still loves playing his guitar live to this day. But then he remains a phenomenal musician.

Back to the hike. The path started to get that little bit more edgy as we climbed up into a very scenic valley called Howden Dean, with some quite sheer drops a few inches to our left. I followed Rich's highly technical advice (pinched from legendary walker Alfred Wainwright) to 'Watch where you're putting your feet’ which he reinforced with his own wisdom : ‘just don't fall off'. It served me well. Things weren't helped by the wind getting steadily stronger and more gusty. But the landscape was marvellous, and we could feel the cobwebs blowing away nicely.

As we neared the head of the valley it was decision time - do we venture further North into the windswept moorland for a better view, but potentially troublesome camping experience (the wind was fairly vicious by now) or do we sacrifice a vista for a nice little sheltered spot in a dip somewhere nearby? There was still a good hour until sunset, but Rich wisely decided we should play the latter, safer option. A near perfect flat grassy spot presented itself with minimal wind, and next to the stream too. Rich had his trusty bombproof Hilleberg Akto tent (a design classic) up in no time, and my Snugpak bivvy style went up nearly as quickly. However, as my tent is so tiny I did spent a bit more time setting up my additional tarpaulin over the trekking poles so that I had a wind and frost-proof storage area and 'vestibule' I could sit up in and cook. Even this was managed with daylight to spare, allowing me and Rich to have a little wander around and admire the view at sundown.

Time for scran, and it was becoming noticeable the difference in time efficiency and kit between me and Rich. He, the experienced backpacker, had everything down to a well oiled process and had eaten and brewed up using his superfast Jetboil cooking system before I had even found my penknife. His approach was to get stuff done and retire to the down sleeping bag before it got too cold. Numpty here had a different slant - I had put up the tarp shelter so that I could hopefully take the edge off the cold enough to enjoy the experience of sitting out and cooking a leisurely tea of sausage and spicy rice on my more cumbersome miltary style cookset.

Either way I was lucky that the weather was just the right side of unpleasant to get away with it, and after a very tasty tea I sat out in the dark for a good few hours chatting to Rich (him comfy in his Akto, me just under the tarp) without getting cold, despite the frost settling in. A small flask of rum may have helped a bit too. We chatted lots about the old days and I managed to say sorry for the fact that we lost touch fairly suddenly back in the nineties, mainly down to silly teenage behaviour on my part - behaviour I've always felt guilty about since, and wanted to apologise for. He accepted graciously and I felt lots better for it. In fact it turns out he had similar regrets too. That out of the way, there was loads of the old funny, inane, and intelligent banter that always made him good company.

I had none of the nocturnal anxious feeling that gnawed at the back of my mind in Wales a few weeks earlier. The dark wasn't scary at all, and being able to chat to Rich meant I wasn't obsessing over every sound. As things got late I took the opportunity to try and snap some night shots. It turns out that my cheap bridge camera can attempt them after all, after a fashion. The results aren't great but they do capture something of the scene - intermittent stars and wintery clouds, with the distant orange glow of Sheffield to the West.

By about half eleven I was falling asleep in my tiny tent, very cosy in the daftly thick sleeping bag, and happy as Larry. As I’m realising is fairly normal with camping, it wasn't exactly 8 hours of unbroken sleep. Firstly, there was the bladder situation a couple of times in the night. Secondly, I was aware that the tent fabric was flapping around fairly violently right by my head in the early hours, which worried me that the winds had really picked up. They hadn't - it was simply that I'd missed a peg-out point at that spot and the tent was loose. I got out and pegged it and it ceased. There was also the rather pleasant sound of fine powdery snow hitting the canvas on a few occasions, which was a nice novelty given that I remained warm.

Although there was little wind on our spot, you could hear it gusting through the long grass a little further up - a quite calming 'white noise' of sound like a very gentle motorway. That was fine. However, in my half asleep state I started to hear chavs zooming past on this imaginary motorway in their car - the unmistakable 'boom boom boom' of a Happy Hardcore 909 kick drum at a good 150bpm. It came and went sporadically with the breeze, only ever lasting a few seconds. What the hell was it? Was my mind playing tricks on me again? Were all those years of being a slave to a four on the floor bass drum starting to take their toll now I was in the wilderness? I started to rationalise that it could be a guy line oscillating in the wind, reminding me of the old doof-doofs.  I stuck with this theory until it changed to a definite Junglist/D&B rhythm around 3am. I also fancied I heard Rave stabs and an MC at one point. So it was DEFINITELY music - but from where? A club in Sheffield, 10 miles away? Surely not - imagine the whole city being awake with the noise? Maybe a festival in the sticks nearby? But in the snow? No chance..

I just had to try and sleep with this mystery playing on my mind - and that's all it was really, as it was phenomenally faint. I dropped off again eventually until just before sunrise when I was up and out and snapping the scene of snow and ice encrusted tents, gathering water from the stream and making a brew.

Rich woke up soon after and I immediately asked him if he'd heard anything strange. He claimed repetitive beats and an MC had stirred him. I felt relieved that my marbles were intact, and we both heard snippets drifting over to us on the north wind throughout the morning. We still haven't got to the bottom of the 'Phantom Rave', although a small illegal gathering in some nearby woods seems a possibility. If it was, it must have been a hell of a party - it was still going on mid morning.

The first mantra of wild camping is 'camp late, pack up early' and we observed this quite well - or at least Rich did with his super-efficient kit and practices. He was done in a few mins, whereas I needed well over an  hour what with the fussy cooking gear and wanting to de-ice the tarp & tent before packing. Some glorious sunshine popped over Howden Edge to greet us, so he seemed happy enough patiently laying on the grassy bank, recharging his batteries. But it was obvious that in bad weather I would have been a bit of a liability with this kit.

This was another reminder of how I was coming to the whole experience from a different angle to Rich. For him, the walking seems the primary focus, and light and efficient wild camping is a way to enhance that experience by allowing longer treks. For me, the camping was the main event, and a stunning walk there and back was the icing on the cake. Also my kit has been acquired with a bit more of a woodland/bushcrafty slant, whereas Rich is a textbook mountain hiker.

The second mantra of all wild camping is of course 'leave no trace' and I'm sure no one will ever know we were there, which is not only responsible, but also smugly satisfying. We headed off on the journey back to the car in the still windy sunshine, traipsing over some potentially dangerous peat bogs speckled with patches of snow. 

Eventually we reached Back Tor at just over 600 metres, where we were faced with some memorable vistas - West to the highest of all Peaks, Kinder Scout, and South over the quirky tors and rock formations of Derwent Edge, with amusingly descriptive names such as the 'Coach and Horses', and the 'Cakes of Bread'.

It all made me feel very lucky that I lived so near to this and other equally impressive landscapes. From here it was a long, mainly gradual descent back down to the treeline above the reservoir. My backpack wasn't the most comfortable - those few extra kilos can make all the difference, plus I was still not completely used to it. Rich said he forgot that his own Osprey backpack was even there, it was so light, comfy and well worn. I need to work at this...

Despite my achy shoulders the walk was always leisurely and civilised. Plenty more chat was had, and we seemed to be back at the car park in no time. The plan was always to get ourselves home by Sunday lunchtime, and thanks to an extra hour due to the clocks changing during the night, my interminable pack up hadn't scuppered that. So it was a fond farewell to Rich, with many thanks for a first wild camping experience that I just couldn't fault - walk, camp, scenery and company were all top notch.

Setting off home the weather just seemed to get better and better - it felt more like mid September, compared to yesterday's invernal snow flurries. The same backroads landscape was now much more inviting and I managed to stop at a couple of famous spots for snaps - Chrome Hill (the so-called ‘Dragon's Back’) and The Roaches.

It was an unexpected bonus at the end of a perfect 24 hours. I will definitely be doing it again. The question is – will it be anything like this enjoyable flying solo..?

Click here to find out...

© Rich Lane 2018

'Nearly Wild' Camping by Vespa - Pt.2

Saturday 29th September 2018

Predictably I woke up in the middle of the night with those two overriding sensations that sleeping under canvas always seems to invoke - coldness, and dying for a slash. Given how dark (and spooky) it was before I climbed into my tent I was in no hurry to nip out for a tinkle, but did put my light fleece on to help with warmth. I had climbed into my sleeping bag earlier in only thermal undies and up until then had been very snug. The bag (A Snugpak Elite Softie 4) had a clever bit of design where an extra zipped ‘panel’ could be opened up on one side to allow room and ventilation in less extreme temperatures, and this ‘setting’ was keeping me warm enough until now. The fleece managed to make me comfortable again without readjusting the bag, but the full bladder issue wouldn’t go away, strangely enough.

This was around 2 am. I was suddenly aware that the tent canvas had a strangely illuminated glow to it, almost like there was a white LED lantern on outside. I wondered if I’d left something on. I unzipped the flaps and was practically blinded by a brilliant moon, only two thirds full but illuminating the landscape, throwing shadows quite pleasantly. All the spook factor of that inky blackness earlier vanished, and I strode out into the completely still and very nippy night for a jimmy riddle with confidence.

Back in the tent and zipped up comfily I nevertheless struggled to get back to sleep, but having my phone handy (there was no signal of any kind out here of course) meant that I could listen to a podcast very quietly in earbuds, and was sparko again in a few mins.

In Tents Experience 4 : 2015 - Alfresco Festival, Blackpool Cricket Club

Myself and London friends Marc and Tomo (at the time, respectively the resident DJ and promoter of  Vanishing Point) had been booked to play at the opening party for this small but very cool dance music festival in Blackpool. It was a real privilege, and we were all very excited as it was also Marc's birthday that very evening. Loads of friends and ace people generally were traveling there for the Whitsun Bank Holiday weekend. Getting our stint done right at the start meant we could relax and enjoy the following days' festivities. Camping was really the only option, so a cheap, disposable pop up 'festival' tent was purchased as a necessity rather than a choice.

However, in keeping with my habit of ending up under canvas in the middle of defining life traumas, the day before leaving I was summoned into the HR office at the college where I worked and told that I was being made redundant from the job I had done for 13 years - that of Music Technology Lecturer. It came completely out of the blue, and I had to break the news to the wife that evening, before buggering off to a rave for the weekend the very next morning. I came very close to cancelling, but the wife was as always very supportive and encouraged me to go, so rightly or wrongly I did.

The gig in the cricket clubhouse went brilliantly and at midnight we stopped the music to announce Marc's birthday before carrying on with the party for another hour or so. Shots were drunk. Woes were temporarily forgotten. Tents were eventually crawled into very late.


Early morning rain pattering on the canvas woke me up, punctuated by the snores and farts from nearby happy campers. I was cold and hungover and dying for a wee. The bad news about my job hit me like a train and I lay there grimly contemplating an uncertain future, and feeling guilty for having such a great time last night whilst my family were at home digesting our change of fortune. There is nothing like the discomfort of a cold, grey tent interior to exacerbate any life grimness.

Luckily I had a stunning set of folk around me to cheer me up throughout the day, which was an absolute belter of drinking, dancing and laughing. I went home, saw out my month at work, and landed another job within a week - a job I'm still in.

Anyway, the camping itself was smooth enough.

Score : 6/10 

(for the camping - the weekend as a whole was at least a 9!)

At around 6 I woke again a bit nippy, so I put a light hat on and zipped up the bag to its ‘arctic roll’ setting, which although mummifying me somewhat was very warm indeed. However I never really slept any more and decided to get up into the blue gloom in advance of the sun rising to get a fire going again for breakfast. There was a decent frost surrounding me, and the tarp shelter was encrusted with it, showing that it was doing its job well, keeping all the gear underneath nice and dry. The temperature in the night had dropped to around 3 degrees, so I was very chuffed that the new tent, sleeping bag, mattress and pillow had kept me comfy.

My clothing on the other hand was definitely the weak link, and the questionable footwear choice of Airmax (Fam) meant that my feet were soaked and freezing within seconds of walking about in the frosty grass. All the more reason to get the fire going then. It was a trickier procedure this time with all that damp around, but eventually a smoky blaze was underway, and my feet gradually dried out. As I was deep in a valley there was no sign of the sun hitting me yet, despite blue skies, and the tops of the hills glowing in it.  As I waited for it to appear I got my mini stove out to try and make proper espresso in my Italian moka pot - my luxury item,  but as essential to me as a tent. It all worked perfectly and the buzz of having a little taste of civilisation in this remote corner of a field was just the right way to kick start the day.

In Tents Experience 5 : 2018 - A nearby campsite in rural Staffordshire

A combo of influences made me convince myself against my better instincts and go camping purely for camping's sake earlier this summer : 1) The fact that the couple of nights in Blackpool three years ago were perfectly tolerable; 2) Friends and family telling me about their wonderful camping experiences in the intervening quarter of a century; 3) Getting the new Vespa with enough racks etc to carry the gear; and 4) the fact that my 12 year old son had tried Scouts for a year but sadly jacked it in - so could do with some paternal encouragement to embrace The Great Outdoors.

He was also now big enough to go on the back of the Vespa (remember the 'no car' rule...) so I found a place very nearby which was almost like a little static caravan village, that also had a small field for tents and camper vans. I did a recce and liked what I saw, and thought it was not far from home if it all went titsabilly.

Thus, on an uncharacteristically fresh June evening we strapped a new 25 quid Halfords tent to the scooter and set off on the 15 minute journey. It was quite full in the field with motorhomes and one other tent, but we found a pitch with just enough room.  We got set up, and sat on a blanket eating our baps. The young couple in the tent opposite were chilling and listening to Happy Hardcore at a reasonable level on a Bluetooth speaker and just enjoying the evening. They were chatty and friendly, and there were a couple of young kids playing around the site too. One of them, a lad of around 7, took a shine to us, and my son kicked a ball about a bit with him. So far, so good.

Things started to turn when we realized this kid seemed a little neglected - there were no visible guardians around, and I found myself having to wipe the luminous green candlesticks from his nose in their absence, and constantly keep him safe from going arse over tit on guy ropes. He was quite high maintenance, and demanding of our attention so after a good hour or more of babysitting the child of strangers whom I was yet to set eyes on, I was hankering after a little peace. I politely told him that me and my son were going to have some quiet time now, and maybe he should go back to his caravan as it was getting on a bit. It took a while before he got the message, but it didn't go down well - he went a little way away from us sulkily, then proceeded to do everything he could to disturb our peace, from riding his trike over the only noisy bit of tarmac near us repeatedly, to kicking a ball directly at our heads as we tried to lay down on the picnic blanket. Relaxing, it certainly wasn't... 

Anyway he eventually got summoned in for bed. My son and I enjoyed a bit of tranquility before hitting the sleeping bags ourselves. It was lovely and quiet and even the Happy Hardcore couple had gone to the bar at the other end of the site for the evening. We got to sleep early and with no problems.

Then after midnight it all kicked off. Happy Hardcore couple had got mindless pissed and something was going on where the lady was trying to get the bloke to co-operate in getting into the tent, but he had passed out. This went on for well over an hour. Meanwhile, in the camper opposite a toddler started crying and didn't stop for two hours, whilst a female voice (the grandmother I'm sure) called the poor mite every name under the son, and said such horrible things generally that I won't repeat them here. My son thankfully seemed to be sleeping through all this (Lord knows how, it was all incredibly loud through a millimetre of nylon) whilst I lay alert wondering whether to intervene, or to phone home to pick my son up in the car, or to call a social services helpline!

After what seemed like an eternity it eventually all simmered down in the wee small hours and I got some troubled kip. The next morning all the psychos and drunkards and neglected kids were up, happy as Larry, supping brews. My son said to me 'I don't mean to seem ungrateful or anything, but there was one point in the night where I was afraid for my life'. Turns out he didn't sleep through all that foul mouthed drama after all - he'd heard the lot, which made me very sad indeed.  The camping trip had been an education for him, but in all the wrong ways.  We packed up and left as early as possible.

The things I heard that night still haunt me.

Conclusion : campsites near Midlands cities had not changed much in a quarter of a century - they were still full of horribly antisocial behaviour, and from people old enough to know better. It was not only like moving next door to neighbours from hell - it was like sharing a bedroom with them.

Score : 2/10 

(The few moments of peace were ok at least…)

An instant porridge wasn’t perhaps the most satisfying breakfast but it was quick, easy, warm and comforting. In the morning light I was now able to do what I had struggled to do last night - just sit, relax, enjoy and exist. I felt very silly that I’d allowed myself to miss the opportunity of doing the same in the darkness, simply by being a wuss. Perhaps a drop of booze may have helped take the edge off? I was a couple of weeks into a self imposed dry spell on this trip, and so didn’t bring any. I will just have to test this theory out next time, eh?

The sun eventually popped up over the brow of the hill I was on, surprisingly late, but with instant warmth.  The field was flooded with golden rays and I wandered about a bit taking snaps, even enjoying that pesky stream which had sent me so gaga a few hours earlier.

The official time to be offsite was eleven, and it was getting towards ten by now. Carly had kindly stressed the previous evening that I could leave whenever I liked, as there as no one booked in to my pitch that night anyway. But I didn’t want to take advantage of her generosity. As it happened, I spent a whole two hours getting packed away. The expected cleaning up of utensils, deflating/folding of bedding, and packing stuff into tiny stuff sacks was done fairly swiftly (my first time with this kit remember) but there was the problem of the extreme condensation on the tent flysheet and the 3 metre square tarp. I was loathe to pack them away like this, as I haven’t exactly got space at home to dry them out later. So I decided to use the warm sun and ever strengthening breeze to my advantage and made a tight ‘washing line’ of paracord rope between two trees near the stream, and stretched the tarp out in a new shelter arrangement that didn’t touch the floor, allowing air to flow all round. I was very smug about this as it involved a few types of knot that I’d learned in the week, and I felt for once like a proper blokey bloke-bloke that can do stuff - not a feeling that visits me often. I also flipped the tent sheets (inner and outer) over on the ground and lightly pegged them to stop blowing away. Everything was dry and crisp within half an hour or so, but I had been lucky. I don’t really know how all that will work in soggy/grey conditions, I’ll need to think about that for future trips.

Once packed I had a bit of a stroll to fetch the Vespa, but at just gone midday I was wobbling along the bumpy track bidding the sheep, and this great camping spot, a fond farewell. I hope to be back some time, and would thoroughly recommend it if you are lucky enough to get the place to yourself, as I did.

In Tents Experience 6 : 2018 - Edge of The Peak District, Cauldon, Staffordshire

Another gig of sorts, again with camping as the only option. Fellow producer and general Brother From Another Mother Duncan Gray ( I've done various bits and bobs for his excellent tici taci label over the last few years) was DJing at the birthday party of a good friend of his called Wendy. Now, ironically, Dunc is from of all places... Slough. Home of The Soul Singer. But I don't hold that against him as he's impossible to not get on with both professionally and socially.

For some reason though, this gathering of the Slough party brigade was happening not far from me near Ashbourne, at the edge of The Peak District, in one of these rentable places out in the sticks which are geared up towards parties. Despite not knowing anyone except Dunc, his partner Jackie and mate Bob, he invited me to come along and muck in on the DJing front. There was a plot at the back of the farmhouse where I could camp, and seeing as we were still enjoying the dryest, hottest summer in decades (and it was a nice ride close to home), I thought why not.

I travelled on the Vespa during the England-Sweden World Cup quarter final match. I detest football, male rowdiness, and casual Enger-land racism in equal measure so The World Cup was of no interest to me at all, and the roads should be empty. And apart from the 15 mins of half time where the odd white van man nearly killed me trying to race twixt pub and home, they were.

I was a little apprehensive about mingling with (let alone DJing for) several dozen strangers on such a special occasion but I needn't have worried - it was an ace evening. Everyone was exceptionally lovely and there was much chat, music, dancing, and gin. After my lengthy 'stint' on the decks I was sat out in a t-shirt until way past dawn chatting with the revellers, it was that warm. I hit the tent at about 7am and rose about midday. Slept like a log with no discomfort whatsoever, save for that caused by the gin...

The place where I pitched was peaceful and lovely, with a couple of other tents nearby. There was no antisocial behaviour as such, in that we were all guilty of being antisocial. It was a party. It went on stupid late. But it was civilized and never remotely edgy. I rode home Sunday afternoon in yet more sunny weather with a sore head and big smile. I'd had a great time all round, plus there was my 45th birthday and 15th wedding anniversary to look forward to the very next day.

Score - 7/10 

(Couldn't fault the camping but ultimately it was just a place to crash after spending most of my time around a luxury farmhouse with all mod cons and free booze...)

I headed home on a different route to my arrival, taking a slight detour to see the nearby Lake Vyrnwy. The roads were, as expected in Wales, smooth, scenic, and a joy to ride. It’s not the most well visited area of the country by any means, but still very spectacular.

This huge man made reservoir famously supplies the city of Liverpool with its drinking water, and is surrounded by an extensive country park of woodland and hills. It may even by a good potential wild camping spot. I wasn’t there for long though - just enough to take a few snaps at the dam end, with the imposing Gothic Revival style water tower jutting out into the lake.

As usual my scooter specific sat nav was sending me down some very small and pleasant back roads to get toward Oswestry just over the border in Shropshire. Before I got there though, signs for a waterfall, a mere 5 mile detour in the other direction, tempted me off my course. Those few miles took an age, as most of them were on a single lane road with passing points for cars - and there were quite a few coming the other way.  I was starting to worry about petrol (one of the bad things about the modern Vespas is their titchy fuel tank) especially as I was increasingly heading into the wilds of a small, craggy valley.  However it was well worth it - the Pistyll Rhaeadr loomed up ahead and is a sight to behold.

I parked up and wandered to the base of it, where there is a tea room with decking jutting out from the steep, lush valley sides. My paltry half cup of porridge at the crack of dawn had long since deserted me, and much rumbling told me I was hungry, so I ordered a fat slice of Bara Brith (the famous Welsh fruitloaf) with thick, salty butter, which I ate in a setting that felt like Tolkein’s Rivendell. It was all well worth the detour.

I did get to a petrol station with fuel to spare, and was home in an hour and a half. Reflecting on the whole experience a week later, I can definitely say that despite my turbulent relationship with life under canvas in the past, I had finally managed something at the ripe old age of 45 - I had genuinely enjoyed camping in a way that was satisfyingly ‘camp’.

In Tents Experience 7 : 2018 - Wonderful Wilderness, near Foel, Mid Wales

Score - 9/10

(So my 'nearly wild' experience had been a success. 

But would I be brave enough to camp REALLY wild? Click here to find out...)

© Rich Lane 2018