Blue Remembered Hills - Wild Camping at Stiperstones & The Long Mynd

May28th/29th 2019

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Into my heart an air that kills

From yon far country blows:

What are those blue remembered hills,

What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,

I see it shining plain,

The happy highways where I went

And cannot come again.

(A.E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad, 1896)

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A bit emo was old Alfred Edward, but if you've read my blog entry for the first day of my tour of Wales by Vespa last spring, you'll know that I had a fleeting visit to The Long Mynd in Shropshire, a place I'd been a few times many years before. On that occasion, and every occasion before that, I had been equally enchanted by the exotic scenery (relatively close to my Midlands home) and frustrated by 'what the hell lies over yonder hills'. I'd never had time, energy, permission or petrol enough to just keep climbing up, up and over this area known as 'Little Switzerland', and the mystery of 'the other side' was a recurring haunting niggle of Housmanic proportions.

Well, now I'm a wild camper, and I can go where the feck I want. Some of the credit for this confidence should go to Simon, whose excellent Youtube channel Ascent 41 gave me lots of practical help and much needed bravery to tackle a solo overnighter in the area he knows so well (one of his vids was also instrumental in planning my first solo wild camp on Cadair Berwyn last November).

Day 1

I wanted to get the train originally. From Crewe (my most convenient local station) to Church Stretton is about 40 mins direct and three stops on a piddling little, often standing room only, 2 carriage train. So that wouldn't cost much, right? How wrong I was when I checked - thirty eight friggin' quid, off peak! They can piss RIGHT off. How that is justified I do not know. It's not exactly London to Manchester is it? Sooner they make the whole network public and charge a fixed rate per mile, regardless of where you are travelling to/from (as they do in other, more civilised countries) the better. Why do we Brits always ruin the stuff at which we once led the world?

So it would have to be the Vespa then!

I didn't bother with any bike specific luggage this time - I just rode with a 15kg, 65 litre rucksack on my back. This sounds like madness, but I realised that if I loosened the straps a little, it would 'sit' perfectly on the pillion space behind me, to the point I barely noticed I was wearing it. As Ascent 41 Simon would say - happy days!

An hour and a half it took me to reach the Western portion of the Area Of Outstanding Natural Beauty, where I planned to leave the scooter overnight in the dedicated car park of the Stiperstones National Nature Reserve. A mile or two before, as I approached the scenery, I stopped to take the above photo. A very friendly elderly farmer on a tractor asked me (in an ace accent which was 75% Welsh and 25% 'get-orf moi-land' West Country) about what I was up to, and in the ensuing conversation he hissed through his teeth when I mentioned my overnight parking plans. This instantly deflated me - I've had a few comments on this blog and Youtube about how mad I am to leave the bike unattended, from motorcyclists who presumably only ever camp in car parks. I tried my usual justifications ('it's insured', 'it's safer here than in a city car park', 'vehicles have to be left somewhere or you'd never go anywhere' etc etc) but it did start to worry me - which he could tell, and was most apologetic for. I thanked him for the advice, we shook hands, and carried on with that seed of doubt starting to germinate into a genuine worry.

Less than a mile up the road I came across The Stiperstones Inn, and went in for a pint, asking them if I could pay a few quid to leave the Vespa here overnight. The bar lady very kindly said yes, and that no payment was necessary. Result! This did mean my carefully prepared Ordnance Survey route was now a bit scuppered though, as it originally started from the aforementioned fellonious car park. Ah well, adapt, improvise, overcome blah blah blah.

It had just gone midday, and the only other person in the bar was a spritely lady called Janet who was waiting for the next bus (I was shocked when I found out she had a free OAP bus pass as she didn't look old enough). She was, coincidentally from a few miles away from me in Newcastle Under Lyme, and was dressed in obvious hillwalking gear. We struck up a very pleasant and natural conversation that lasted the next hour and a half. This took in our respective routes and map comparisons (she had been on more or less the same paths I planned to use, although she had sensibly been Youth Hostelling), Brexit, mental health (she had worked as a psychiatric nurse), and areas of our home locale. She was an inspiration, in terms of her fitness, independence and politics, and I literally had to drag myself away as I could have happily chatted for hours more.

Following her advice on which path to take to get to the famous rocky outcrops known as The Stiperstones, I bid her farewell and headed off, trying to use my paper map rather than relying on the idiot proof OS phone app. This was mainly due to concerns of saving battery on my iPhone as it was going to be a long 2 days, although brushing up on my orienteering skills wouldn't hurt any. However, I had barely gone a quarter of a mile when I took the wrong path, adding an unnecessary, although very scenic, extra hill climb/descent which ended up pretty much back where I started. 

This setback and the extra hour or two in the pub meant I really had to get a shift on if I wanted to fit in my planned 11 miles or so before dark. A sunny and sweaty ascent got me to one end of the Stiperstones ridge in the first hour. I was already pretty bolloxed, and sat eating my sarnie by a cairn before clambering up one of the famous quartzite tors known as Shepherd's Rock, admiring the sunny if slightly hazy 360 views.

 The Stiperstones (Devil's Chair on the right)

The Wrekin from Shepherd's Rock

The skyline to the east was dominated by the aptly 'long' plateau of The Long Mynd, my destination for the evening. It looked very different from this side compared to the more familiar Church Stretton view - less quaintly Swiss, and more bleakly moorish. It also looked VERY far away, and I would have to descend down into the valley and back up again. Better get a shift on!

Very clear paths and a fair bit of country lane took me down to the lowest point, the pub at Bridges, home of the Youth Hostel where Janet had stayed. By this time I was starting to feel a bit of discomfort from the knees down. I had daftly gone for the longest run I've had all year the day before (a measly 8.5k, but I am out of practice) and my left knee and both shins felt every footstep today. Also, the heat of the sunny day was not conducive to my heavy winter Brasher boots and I started to get 'hot spots' (precursors to a blister) on the balls of my feet.

So at the pretty Bridges pub, I sat on a lone picnic table over the other side of the stream from the other punters, took my sweaty, stinky socks off and stuck them on the tops of my walking poles to crisp up nicely in the sun. I then applied some Compede stick to the offending areas of my bare trots, which would supposedly delay the blisters. I knew I should rest them for a fair bit, so in the intervening time I probably had one too many of their juicy Three Tuns ales.

It was already teatime by now, and my planned route meant I wasn't even half way. Back on with the footwear and the climb started up to The Long Mynd. The beer and crisps did give me a bit of 'va va voom' and the feet were reassured by the TLC I had given them.

Half way up the Western flank of The Long Mynd, Stipersones ridge behind me

My plan was originally to walk right over The Mynd and down the popular Carding Mill Valley into Church Stretton, pop South a bit to Little Stretton where there was a nice pub, and then ascend again in the last hour of daylight and find a quiet summit to stealthily pitch up. But that was all still miles away and I couldn't possibly do it now before dark. Also, Janet had suggested that I avoid the summits, as they can be quite busy due to having roads and car parks right next to them. As I approached the top I could see she was right, and I may have to follow her advice and find a little valley to pitch up away from the eyes. However, at about 6:30 I stumbled across a perfect spot near to, but sufficiently hidden from, the popular car park known as the Shooting Box. That familiar wild camping dilemma of 'should I stick or twist' - stay here or trudge on to find a potentially better spot, but possibly end up in one a lot worse, or with none at all as darkness fell - kicked in. It was a great little flat grassy spot (not many of those around) with a nice view back at The Stiperstones, fairly hidden from the paths and road by gorse and heather, and I was feeling knackered again. Sod it I thought, this is why I've been lumbering this pack around, so I can sleep where I like, and I liked it here. So pitch up I did.

This was the second outing for my 'dream tent', the one man Hilleberg Soulo. It's a beast at nearly 3kg (with the optional footprint included) and complete overkill for the weather which was getting ever more still and tranquil after a breezy start. My Superlight DD tarp and bivvy would have been more appropriate, and made walking loads easier. But hey, I'm certainly paying for the bloody thing, so I want to use it! And it meant I had a luxurious coziness. It is also flirtily photogenic on a sunkissed moor...

A humble lightweight hiker's tea of rehydrated chicken curry in a bag was surprisingly good! I've volounteered to help out on the silver Duke of Edinburgh expedition at the school where I work (both the three day dress rehearsal and three day actual trip) this coming month so I need to get used to dialing the luxuries down a bit, and these specialist meals make sense. They ain't cheap at a fiver plus a throw, but there was no washing up at all, which was great. I usually like to cook something 'proper' when camping but these certainly have their place.

I had no booze with me at all this time (good job really given the pints earlier) and the time of year meant that I was climbing into the sleeping bag for the night just after 10pm, when it was still very light outside. I'd had a local overnight woodland camp just 4 days previously with my son and was still tent-lagged from that (only 3 hours kip then..) so add today's exertions and I was out like a light.

The first day's walk

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Day 2

A solid four hours kip, which I'm starting to think is my standard on a camp. However, in winter I can read a bit or listen to a podcast and eventually drift off again for an extra hour or two, but the problem with summer is it's dawn at four bleedin' thirty, and the birds start their nonsense an hour before that. I wanted to capture the sunrise for the vid I was making of the trip anyway, so I got up into the chilly 6°air. I was surprised by a rather eerie orange moonrise.

I was aware that I could be spotted very early doors by any similarly insomniac visitors so I didn't even have breakfast - just a couple of quick cups of coffee, and I was packed away and heading off up the plateux (leaving no trace, natch) by 6am. I headed straight for the highest point on The Mynd, Pole Bank, with sheep bleating around me and birds of prey swooping above, and not a soul about. 

I trotted back down to the Shooting Box where there was a nice patch of flat, sheltered grass on which I could relax and cook my porridge for brekkie. I was just about to start boiling water on my spirit burner when I noticed I didn't have the lens cap on my Nikon camera. I quickly checked all my pockets (clothing and rucksack) but it wasn't there. I remembered leaving it on the trig point of Pole Bank as I snapped away, and remembered thinking 'I must remember to remember it's there' and then I started to remember that I probably forgot.

It was a kilometre or so back to Pole Bank so I dumped the rucksack on the grass and strode on up once again, cursing myself all the way, and worried that a car may turn up and nick my rucksack (but not worried enough to haul the damn thing on an unnecessary 2k round trip). After 10 mins I was back at the trig point and no lens cap anywhere. I put my hand in my most obvious coat pocket and there it was, all along. Back I trudged to the rucksack, cursing myself even more. 42 carat dickhead.

A cuppa and some porridge cheered me back up though, despite the weather changing. It was nowhere near as nice as yesterday, with ever leadening skies and the odd drop of rain. I realised today's hike may be cut a bit short too. Making good on the remaining weather I wound my way down the first half of Carding Mill valley to the waterfall, which I sadly couldn't see very well due to being on a slightly precarious path quite high above it. Still, the valley was as pretty as I remembered.

It was only mid morning but time to start thinking about the long haul back to the other side of The Mynd and Stiperstones. I took a detour up one of the steep little tributary side valleys that Janet had recommended for camping, and this one was indeed secluded with odd spots perfect for a bivvy bag, but none big or flat enough for my tent - so I had got very lucky with last night's pitch. Still, good to know for next time!

By the time I was at the top it started raining fairly heavily, and visibility worsened, so it was on with the wet weather clothes and away with the camera - and here my photos end I'm afraid. I took a different path back down to Bridges (where I stopped for a 10:30am pint, indoors this time - cut me some slack, it felt like 2:30pm to my body clock!) and up again on steep windswept roads to the Stiperstones, which were completely engulfed in claggy, blustery and drizzly fog. Orienteering was a challenge, especially as I was on the last few percent of charge on my phone so avoided it unless feeling really lost - which I did on a few occasions, missing the path that follows the actual Stiperstones ridge (not that I would have seen much). All morning my knees, shins and feet had been getting ever more uncomfortable too, so it was a slow slog with not much reward, sadly. Still, it made me appreciate how lucky I had been with the weather the day before - the only spell of sunshine in the whole half term week.

The Vespa was safe and sound at the pub car park and after thanking them, off I rode, struggling to stay awake, but feeling quietly elated. I'd only walked about 18 miles over two days - nothing to most proper hikers, but I had finally got to not only see, but also spend the night on the land that lay just beyond those Blue Remembered Hills. 

The second day's walk

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Here is my video of the trip - please do subscribe if you like it!

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

©Rich Lane 2019