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!)
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.
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.
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’.
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…)
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...)
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
