A total absence of zombie wolves

I forgot to take a pad with me, see. And so, instead of loading yet another volume of email upon Keppet, I choose to bring this uninteresting report of my weekend activities to a (slightly) wider audience.

My attempt to go camping on Saturday was what one might call unsuccessful. Thanks to my own lack of motivation and the blandishments of Em, Q and jes on msn, I didn’t make it up to the Edale area until gone 6.30pm. I then discovered that, it being both a bank holiday weekend and the first sunny weekend in about 4 months, the whole country had come to the Peak District, and there were no rooms to be had in the inn. Or campsite, or bunkhouse, or B&B, or any other form of temporary accommodation. Everywhere was full and overflowing – I tried 6 different campsites and at each found myself part of an ever more hopeless-looking procession of cars driving up, seeing the ‘site full’ sign and turning round to battle their way back down the single-track road against others still coming up. After an hour, when I had pretty much lost hope that there would be any space anywhere, and when we were also soon going to run out of daylight, I gave up and drove the hour and a half home again in a sulk.

On sunny Sunday morning, determined to defeat the sulk, I decided to drive back up there again, and certainly look for campsite space but not let it deter me from going for a walk if there wasn’t any. However, a couple of tents had packed up and left from Cooper’s Campsite, which was the one I wanted to stay at anyway since it is cheap, doesn’t allow pre-booking and is right at the start of all the footpaths up onto Kinder Scout. So I paid £5.50 for the privilege of planting my little self down there for 24 hours, set my tent up as quickly as possible and was heading off up a footpath by 11am.

It took an hour of zigzagging path, rolled-up trousers to cool down and constant re-overtaking of the same groups of people as we all stopped for water at different points, before the edge of Kinder Scout was reached, approximately 1000ft up from Edale. Okay, so I’m unfit, but that caused distinct asthma wheezing and quite a bit of sweat. Nice. On top, of course, we were exposed to the usual cold wind – if the wind is westerly or northwesterly, there are no higher hills between the Irish Sea and Kinder Scout to break it, so it tends to last across with quite some chilly venom – and the sun went and hid behind clouds. Typical, because I needed lunch, and despite donning a fleece and hunkering down in the lee of some rocks (as far away from the non-biting but nonetheless annoying fly hordes as possible), I was pretty damn cold by the time I’d eaten my sausage sandwich and realised that I’d left my little bottle of chocolate milk at home. So I opened a packet of Buttons instead. I never go walking without large supplies of sugar…

After a little walking along the edge, I struck out on a path/riverbed towards the centre of the moor, with the intention of coming out at Kinder Downfall. Thankfully, the wind is less once you’re down in the centre of the moor itself, and the sun came out again, so soon I could even justify taking my fleece off. Wow. The rivers were not as dried up as they had been in April (hardly shocking, given the summer we’ve had in between) but were thankfully still quite walkable, with only pretty puddles of peat-soaked water.

Of course, all dry riverbeds must come to an end, and I found myself just as lost in the middle of a featureless expanse of moorland as I was back in April. Maps become pretty useless when the ground looks the same in all directions, and I don’t actually carry a compass with me at all times. Maybe the sun should have been more helpful, but as it was I just headed in whichever direction looked like providing firmest ground underfoot (peat bogs are Fun, children). Thankfully didn’t go in over my boots, and soon enough found myself part of a bizarre, spread-out group of people all doing much the same thing as me, and shouting questions to each other across muddy ravines about which way they’d come from and where the nearest path might be. The people ranged from those thoroughly enjoying the muddy, directionless escapade to those who clearly felt positively insulted that their map could show a path when none existed in reality. That would be what we commonly know as naiveté, and I continued on my way amused. Sadly, though, I did get turned round by the various drier bits of land I tried to follow, and re-emerged from the moor a lot further south than what I had been aiming for, only about half an hour’s walk from where I’d headed inwards.

I should explain that I don’t like walking paths twice, even in the opposite direction. A circular route is always preferable, and of course the best option is if you can in fact go from place A to place B and not need to return at all. And so it’s true that I could have walked further north to extend my walk, but I’d have had to come back the exact same way and just couldn’t be bothered with that. So I sat in a handy clump of heather and ate a triple choc chunk muffin instead. Enjoying the view down into Edale, and the many overheard conversations of passing groups (usually involving maps and the question “where are we?”). And then I wandered my way back down to Edale, choosing to go down on the shoulder of Grindslow Knoll – rather than the way I came up, via The Nab and Ringing Roger. I kid you not. And I wonder who Roger was?

Going down, I discovered I must have done something a bit dodgy to my left knee when bounding through the peat bogs. This is always a great thing about hill-walking – the aches and pains that you end the day with are always something new and interesting that you didn’t start out with. 4 hours earlier, I’d had asthma and a fast-developing blister on the back of my left heel (I’ve lost my walking socks). That blister had now grown to cushioning fruition, the asthma had relaxed in the bliss of level walking, and so for the return trip my body had decided to give me backache and a distinctly ouchy knee twinge on downhill stretches instead. There were a couple of points where I actually had to stop because it was hurting too badly – but luckily it seems to be the healable variety of injury and calms down after a moment or two of rest. It’s giving me an excellent excuse not to cycle to work this week, too.

I arrived back in moderately-sunny Edale just before 4pm, and decided that summer walking should always end with a little alcohol. I purchased a half-pint of cider and repaired to the overflowing beer garden. It took a bit of self-discipline to stay there as a solitary drinker, feeling the slightly curious glances of other people wondering why I was sat there drinking on my own, but I managed to repress the urge to run away, feeling united instead with the two other lonely souls (one reading the newspaper, one talking to his three-legged dog, so both with more legitimate occupation than me) and relaxing into a shady corner to people-watch. Very enjoyable and calming it was too – proper relaxation, feeling unhurried and watching the shadows move round. This is why I’m very glad I did get a campsite place on Sunday – otherwise I would never have done something like this, but would have got straight back in my car and driven home. The physical benefits of a long walk might have stuck with me, but the unhurried appreciation of the world would never have got the chance to fully develop, and that is what I lose during the working week.

After sipping my cider for half an hour, it finally died and I returned to the campsite. Too early for dinner, though, and the sun had gone in so it was a bit chilly to just lie around outside, so I snuggled under my sleeping bag and started reading my book (Iain M Banks’ The Algebraist, which I didn’t yet know I was about to devour in the space of 24 hours). 100 pages in, my brain was jumbled and it was time for dinner. This is the point where I worked out that the door of the fridge (which I had obviously forgotten existed) held not only the aforementioned chocolate milk but also the cold cooked potatoes that were to form the stodge for dinner. Ooops. Oh well. I just had to have mince (well, with a little added bacon and mushroom – I didn’t forget _everything_) without the obligatory tatties. Not a problem – the smallest portions sold by supermarkets were probably intended for two people anyway. Oh and I had bread & butter to mop up the fatty goop. Good stuff, and hot food never tastes as great as it does outside after exercise. I ate while watching the barbecueing activities of those around me (often imperilled by many small children rushing around at speed, and/or seeing how high in the air they could throw walking poles), and then returned to my book until it got too dark to read. Being as we’re now well on the way to winter, that was well before 9pm. I dragged out my little camping stove again and boiled a few hundred ml of water to make a mug of hot Ribena (mm. Best stuff ever) and the flattest hot water bottle you’ve ever seen. Of course, a side benefit of this was getting to play with fire in the almost-dark.

Unfortunately I then obviously had to dismantle my stove in the almost-dark too, and that’s a little more interesting. Because the fuel is pressurised, when you take the pump out you always get a tiny spray of petrol over yourself and the surrounding area. I placed all the parts to one side to let it evaporate a bit before putting it under canvas, and went off to the heat and light of the toilet block to brush my teeth and wash my hands. On returning, I discovered that the smell of Flying Fox actually masks the smell of petrol disturbingly well. I was sure I could smell something, but I wasn’t sure what…

And so to bed, and sleep. I also forgot to bring an extra blanket, and although my sleeping bag was originally sold for use down to -5C, I’ve had it for ten years now and I don’t think it’s quite up to even sub 10C any more. But the hot water bottle kept me toasty for a few hours, and luckily after that I must have been deep enough asleep not to notice the cold, for I only woke up once or twice. Mostly because of those inconvenient rocks that I swear always migrate under your sleeping mat so that they can sit exactly under your hip-bone. And so I slept solidly and happily until woken at 7.30am by the light, the cold and the screams of young children with too much energy. I shivered for half an hour until the sun hit my tent and I could bear to stick my arms out of the sleeping bag to grab my book. Another half an hour later and I dared to stick my nose outside, flex my achey muscles and say hello to the crisp and sunny morning.

On the way to the toilet block, I was entertained by two sheep who had somehow wandered into the site and were munching away beside a caravan as though that grass was simply the best grass they had ever tasted. At the toilets, I should have remembered from before that the showers require 10p pieces to work. But I didn’t, and I didn’t have any, and I decided I wasn’t going to be sociable enough that it mattered. So I re-assembled the stove and cooked some bacon. Technically I guess I don’t need to disassemble it overnight – it really should be safe – but my constant nerviness about fire-related things gets to me and I do, because otherwise I wouldn’t sleep well only a foot or two away from it. The bacon was still good and I am rather impressed at how long one bottle of fuel has lasted me with that stove now – it cooks with a fiercer heat that I’ve ever seen in a camping stove before, and frequently fuses food to saucepan if you’re not watching it closely enough. Bacon sandwich and hot ribena, letting the morning sun soak into my back, and then it was time to pack everything up again and head home. But I had tangible proof that I’d succeeded in exactly what I was trying to do – returning down the 20mph limit lane that – 24 hours earlier – had had me chafing at the bit and annoyed at pedestrians for existing, I found I was happily bumbling at 10mph with a serene ‘why rush?’ attitude. And on the drive home I saw a lay-by near some nice purple heather, and stopped to sit in it and read my book for another half an hour. Why rush, indeed.

And so there, children, is my longer-than-it-needed-to-be story. The moral of which is: get away from the internet and tv and other people and all your worries. Just sometimes. It’s bliss to be truly calm.

Oh, and don’t forget the potatoes.

Material Girl

I’m suffering from a modern disease – or perhaps it is a syndrome? I like to call it Ikea Discontent. It is a strange malaise, attacking mostly young people who like to think that they are carefree and without responsibility. Indeed, victims may continue for months – even years – without seeing their irrational and impulsive behaviour for what it is. I therefore wish to present a guide to diagnosis, just in case you or someone you love is affected.

Sufferers will display a lack of interest in repairing anything that breaks around the house. Whether it be expensive electronic gadgetry or the kitchen cutlery drawer, their attitude will be that things which are broken are now no longer worthy to be part of their home, and should be either thrown away or left to collect dust (depending on the innate housewifeliness of the subject, which is oddly unrelated to this condition). If they do attempt a repair, it will be with any air of play rather than with any serious intention to continue using the item. Mildly inconvenient things will be similarly ignored or disdained. For example, a futon that has become slightly de-aerated and uncomfortable. Let the older generations tell stories of the days when mattresses and cushions actually used to get thumped to bring them back to life – no, once it’s squashed it will stay that way.

All of this is of course secondary to the true goal of the I.D. sufferer – to get New Things. I’ll admit I’ve never known any sufferers (or indeed people of any sort) with plenty of money, but in normal people there is guilt (probably planted by our parents when we weren’t looking) about buying New Things. What a waste of money, eh, when you already have something that can do the same job? The subject will therefore try to justify their purposes in every possible way – from searching out the cheapest New Things to working up such a feeling of discontent with their Old Things that they absolutely have to replace them no matter what the cost. Obviously, combining both approaches leads to the most satisfactory results.

And what, I hear you ask, does Ikea have to do with any of this? Well (I say in return) - Ikea encourages us, lures us, tells us we can just change everything. Fed up of seeing the same old room every time you walk through the door? Sleeping badly and feeling like blaming it on your bed? Mildly discontent about having to use an old garlic crusher with rust spots on? Essentially unable to control your life in any way and searching for something shiny with which you can comfort yourself? Come in, come in, we have brightly coloured things for ridiculously low prices…

Eventually, you will reach the point where it seems unfair to you if you can’t have a new thing every week or two. Where furniture needs replacing just because you’ve had it for over a year and all the things in the shops look better. Where everything is made to be enjoyed for a short time and then discarded – consumed, in the truest sense of the word, but with no benefit from it.

What happened to make do & mend? To saving up money for special indulgences rather than just spending all the time? To the pleasure of using things that other people have used before you? To the satisfaction of knowing you don’t need anything more than what you’ve got? It’s almost hard to remember how that felt.

So, is there hope? I don’t know. Will I ever be able to go back to being happy with all that I have, and unconcerned by the people who have more things? I like to think so. Because I enjoy the times when it doesn’t matter, when all that you have (and all that you need) is compressed into one bag and you are totally independent – camping, hostelling, etc. And I also keep things around long past the point where there are better versions of them – the Argos plain blue & white plates I bought in my first week at university have a certain nostalgic appeal to them, as does the outmoded cd player that kept me company on those nights where I stayed up working until 1 or 2am. I would find it a wrench to part with either of those.

I guess it is not a problem to replace things when you feel they need replacing. The trick is not to feel that need where it doesn’t exist, just because things are new or you’re having an off day. Because really, there are far better uses for my money than to constantly upgrade fully-functioning things. And to spend your life with the nagging feeling that it would all sort itself out if only you could improve those one or two remaining things is not healthy. Instead, I should work on aiming for…*sly grin*…more of a feeling of content. Maybe Fitz wasn’t so wrong after all.

But then, there’s no Ikea in Buckkeep.