Pitch Perfect

Part 2 of my wild camping adventure

“It can’t be that hard cause Chris Moyles did it for his breakfast show”

A fella in his forties is saying to his mate as the peaks grow ever nearer and more real. We are only a few miles from Scafell Pike, maybe that’s where they are heading. It’s certainly not where I am heading. No thank you! Given that my mission is to solo wild camp, last place I want to be is England’s highest mountain which no doubt will be teeming.

Typing ‘quiet part of The Lake District in mid July’ into Google is a little like entering ‘healthy food choices in Poundland’, ‘quality buys from Temu’ or ‘TV presenters who aren’t pedos’. But I did it anyway, and here I am - the place I’m going is the best a search engine could muster. Who knows what I’ll get but hopefully it won’t be as busy as Scafell Pike. Besides, I’m all about supporting the underdog, the underachieving mountains in the locale.

As I walk through a patch of shaded woodland, I do as I always do where red squirrels are supposed to be present - I look for them keenly. I keep my eyes peeled for their orangutany little heads. Do I see any? Do I bobbins! I’ve been had by those ‘red squirrels crossing’ signs that many times now, that I’m thinking of making my own that say ‘be mindful of passing elves’. Probably just as much truth in em.

The afternoon heat is taking its toll and I am pleased to reach the picturesque Stockley Bridge. The water that runs beneath it is exceptionally clear and three or four young uns are enjoying a dip. Good for them! I too feel the urge to venture in but doing so beside their friendship group would be the equivalent of an old neighbour crashing the kids’ pool party. So instead, I attempt to take a picture of the beauty spot without them in it and find that unfortunately, this cannot be done. Yes I know I can edit them out but that seems disingenuous, like the ‘Cottingley fairies’ in reverse. I’m sure that these days, there are photographs of beautiful brides with grooms erased and blanketed newborns superimposed on to the beaks of storks. Bucks Fizz once said ‘My Camera Never Lies’. How quaintly naive the 1980s now seems……

I trudge on wearily. It’s a steep climb with a full backpack and as I pause to catch my breath, a couple of people ask if I’m okay in that ‘concerned you might have a stroke’ kind of way. Bloody hell - I really must look as fucked as I feel.

Still, I will get where I’m going, I am sensible, I will take breaks and stay hydrated. I may not be the fastest nor the strongest hiker, but I endeavour to be the happiest one. As my sunscreen mingles with my sweat and begins to dew drop down into my tired eyes, I wonder if ‘happiest hiker’ is also slightly over ambitious.

The terrain plateaus and in the distance I am pleased to see more streams. Against the grey rock, they appear an enticing bunch of silver ribbons, growing ever closer. When I spy the next paddling spot, I decide I am most definitely wading in. And I do. As I remove the cumbersome load and plunge my legs into the cool of the river, I wonder if there is any better reward for a walker than a foot spa courtesy of Mother Nature.

The next part of the route proves tricky in a different way. It’s all about choosing between navigating stones/boulders and boggy ground. I opt for the former. Hopefully, not too much further before I reach my desired spot. Motivated by yet more magnificent mountains coming into view, I propel myself on.

Finally, I reach my destination. It’s not the tarn I had originally planned on. That’s another mile away but it’s a scorcher of an evening and I know my limit.

It’s a tarn and how much tarnier can a tarn get anyway?

I scout around for a suitable pitching spot that ticks the boxes. Namely…..

• far away enough from running water so as not to cause me problems, yet handy if I need to fill my filter bottle at night.

• far away enough from the trail to be considered respectful and discreet.

• Fairly flat with neither rocks, long grass nor fresh animal droppings.

And the absolute non negotiable is that I must, simply MUST have jaw dropping views. I don’t want to merely glimpse a sunrise. I want to have it enter and infuse me.

I spy said spot and bound over boldly to stake my claim. There are a few people milling about now but shortly, I am confident the daytrippers will be gone. As I dutifully inspect my piece of paradise, I recall a recent Facebook post in a wild camping group, amusingly titled ‘I’ve got 99 problems but a pitch ain’t one’

Hell yeah!

I pause and savour the moment.

Next, to erect it. Can anyone really say that without going full on ‘Carry on Camping’?

As I begin my task, my head is awash with double entendres. I come over all Kenneth Williams as I consider how quickly I can get it up, how deep it should go in and the possibility of loose flaps.

With that done without so much as a Babsian bra strap ping, it’s time to rustle up some grub. As a newbie, I’ve not been overambitious here. I have a chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle I intend eating with a pair of chopsticks to add interest.

I unpack my stove and it all feels slightly dangerous. I’ve never used camping gas before. This model is supposed to be easy, has an ignition like my hob at home. How hard can it be?

I click and twist like I have never clicked and twisted before. I press decisively, I cajole, I wait. The gas hisses rebelliously like a pissed off alley cat. My fire remains unlit.

At this point, I’m all angles and elbows and somehow manage to knock over my flask of drinking/cooking water. It quickly races across my neatly folded pyjamas I’ve laid out, soaking them through.

Gotta roll with the punches, right?

I resign myself to sleeping in day wear and an impromptu trip to the stream. Food wise, I still have half a packet of trail mix and an unopened bag of cashews. Guess that’ll do. One for supper, one for breakfast. Hey ho!

I head to the running water to fill up my special ‘life straw’ bottle and sip some through the built in filter.

As I do, I think of my old school pal, Hannah.

“There’s more dirt to eat before you die”

She’d always crow before polishing off some scabby fruit gum she’d picked from off the school yard.

I’d look at her perplexed, unaware of the figurative meaning and wonder what horrors I’d have to face as a grown up. Compulsory mud pie eating, perhaps? Hannah, sadly died of a parasitic worm infection. NOT REALLY! She’s probably still out there, casually French kissing lepers with cavalier aplomb…….

Night draws like a felt cape draped tenderly upon mountain shoulders. It tempers, restoring quiet balance to the last sighs of an exhausted day. As it stabilises to a static sheet of navy-black, my tent is transformed into a shadow box of wonder.

There is no internet. Not a flicker. I had read that this would be the case beforehand and been pleased about this prospect. The oft talked about ‘digital detox’ was about to get real! Nevertheless, it does feel slightly eerie watching the display on your phone change from the usual ‘4/5 G’ to an SOS icon I’ve never seen before.

After a long day of travel connections and hiking, I don’t need much encouragement to sleep at all - even on a surface I discover is not quite as flat as I’d thought. I think back to the guy in the camping shop - a softly spoken bearded bald man who rolled his rs. He’d said I wouldn’t be able to sleep, that it would be like a horror film. Thankfully, this is not my experience at all. It feels incredibly serene.

Yes, there are some noises - rustles and screeches, but I figure that’s just nature. I put my ear plugs in, slip on my eye mask and bed down. My attitude is ‘whatever’s going on out there, it’s their party and I’m not invited’. Probably a scurry of red squirrels mooning their elusive arses at me.

Around midnight, I wake, unzip the door and venture out for a wild wee to admire the ebony canvas that surrounds me. I cannot see the moon but the stars are singing silver to the galaxy. The air is clear and generous, the tarn gleams flirtatiously in the distance.

I have the sudden urge to sing ‘Fernando’ by ABBA. And I do. Well, some of it. I love that I can use my voice so loudly and freely at midnight, outside. That no-one is there to hush me or judge me. The sounds that leave my lips feel no more contrived than the hoot of an owl.

And then I see it.

A shooting star.

It is over in seconds. So quick that I barely have time to digest it. It doesn’t look like my preconceived ideas of shooting stars. It does not arc gracefully, it twists and tails like an unruly space kite attempting to defy the strings of time. And as it does, how it captivates!

It feels like an allegory for human life. Turning this way and that, bucking and biting the night with its fire. Why aren’t we all blazing such a trail before we burn out, I wonder. Why aren’t we all at least attempting to court the majesty of the universe by imprinting on to it our own unique expression of magnificence?

I zip up the tent door and resume my sleep, enchanted.

PS: Hope you enjoyed the second instalment of my little adventure. There will be one more which I am currently writing up.