I woke at dawn from a relatively sleepless night. The sun woke me up, as it had for most of the summer; the early start was refreshing. The others had not yet awoken. I rolled back meagre sheet and rolled off the sofa bed. I'd never been so far north without a plan before, and was beginning to have second thoughts. The thoughts were smashed (as were the floorboards) by my 16 stone companion lumbering down the steps. Still in half a dream, I gave him the finger and stumbled down to the facilities. After what was to be my last shower for the forseeable future, I had a silent breakfast with the five others with whom I was travelling. Glacing briefly at a magazine article on watches, or some such, I got up from the table and prepared myself more thouroughly. Having had time to look about the house in which I stayed the night, I was more grateful to our host for allowing us to stay. The great forests of old, wind carved oak were beckoning, and damn if we weren't swept up in the call. "TRAIN IN FIVE".
We were off! Packs the likes of which I had only believed were carried for money on gameshows weighed us down as we doggedly made out way towards the train station.
At ten past six, our train took us as far as London. From then on, simplicity was a luxury we were not granted. Being of relativley equestrian background and of yet unlearned mind (at least when it came to public mass transportation), we had not forseen the circumstances one was expected to book a train under. We had the tickets. Oh, yes the tickets were all in order. It turns out, however, that the good folks at the train company hadn't planned on people, you know, sitting down without five months notice. Every seat we passed had a sign with 'reserved', 'free until...' or other words to that effect plastered on them. We were on a four our journey with no-where to rest. Darn.
Every so often, the door would open, and a drunk, working class man with his spawn would acknowledge the occasion with a song, or perhaps a charming limerick (the likes of which I hope I never hear again in an train so brazenly branded as 'Virgin'). The offspring, naturally, saw only sunshine and roses pouring out of his mouth, whereas the rest of us, of course, saw his breakfast. It was a good journey.
Complications arose once again upon arrival to our changing station; Oxenholme. We couldn't even pronounce the place, let alone find our way round it's transportaion facilities. Lorries carreered past overhead, birds shat from distances unknown and our train still hadn't arrived well into the early evening. I especially, was beginning to doubt Mr. Branston was all he was cracked up to be. Sure enough, though, the ride arrived. A short ride, and we were in the charmingly (and aptly) town named Windermere. "Christ", said I, under my breath...
Marvelling at the relative calm that had descended upon our surroundings, we headed on our way. It was then that we realised we could have planned the trip a little better. We asked the few people we could find about the whereabouts of some grounds to pitch our tents. Needless to say, this was to no avail. After a further ten minutes of ambling, we were hit with an unsettling realization; we were three hundred miles from home with nowhere to sleep and not a damn clue what we were to eat from, off or with for at least the next hour. The sun was getting low.
Keswick. Bloody Keswick. Do you know where Keswick is? 'only down the road', the tourist office said. Provided, of course, that your idea of a road is a barely domesticated mountain pass. We began our treacherous walk towards the town that hopefully held a safe haven for us to rest for the night. And even that wasn't for sure. The gentle sound of hooves on grass emerged from the silence...
The hooves grew nearer. The road didn't seem to be much accommodated for the likes of horses, and mustangs were few and far between nowadays. We weren't nervous; most folks in the part of the country weren't likely to be anti-social, much less if they were riding horseback. After a few minutes, a group of riders pulled up beside us. One was an attractive girl of about 19, the other two were middle aged women and lagging slightly behind was a fellow enduring, I would assume, his late twenties. We conversed for a while, and discovered that the two women were mother and aunt to the two others. When we said where we were going, the pulled unnervingly inauspicious faces. The girl told us that there was no way we would reach Keswick by nightfall. That much we'd figured out. She said they were planning on wild camping that night, and knew of a spot that was untouched by man nor beast. They invited us to join them. Needless to say, we accepted. Some on different grounds than others...
When we reached these different grounds, the other went off in search of clean water. I started up a fire, and placed the cauldron over it. I had purchased, before I came, packets of rice that claimed to be 'boil-in-the-bag-able'. This much was true. What they
did stretch however, was the amount of rice that amounts to one portion. 'Eight portions of rice, eh!', I thought. 'I'll have no trouble'. Alas, it turns out that one portion for a sentient being any larger than, oh, let us say, a cat, amounted to at least three of the measly bags that were contained within. It was times like this that I wished I had checked my inventory more thoroughly before setting off. Three bags of rice and a rock hard pitta bread later, and we were sitting round the fire, exchanging stories of our different lands. They were Norwegian by culture, although they didn't sport the accent. They told us a compelling myth entitled 'Why the Sea is Salt'; for those of you who aren't familiar, I suggest you read up on it. We played cards until midnight, at which point the fire grew low and white. I crawled into my tent. Now this tent was a two man tent. There were two men in it. It was a pity, however, that one of the men was in fact a walrus in an unconvincing disguise. I refer of course, to Claude, our sizeable companion. He slept fine. Like a log, some might say. I did not find the passage to sleep quite so welcome. I tossed and turned for at least half an hour, before getting up to...well, to do as one usually does upon arising late at night. Of course, we were in the middle of the wood, and its truck me now just how inconvenient the placement was. No water. No soap. No way to rid yourself of the material. Just trees and mud. Suffice to say, the phrase 'Does a bear shit in the woods' began to sound less and less rugged as the minutes dragged along...
Of course, I survived, and after a meager breakfast of dry muesli and warm orange juice, we set out on the road once again. We didn't wake our companions. We did, however, leave them a note describing both the good and bad points of their personality. It would have been a lot more poetic if I hadn't have bumped into them later on. Walking down the cobbled, mossy path, my mind began to wander. The sky was not by any means clear; had we been anywhere else, it would have been positively dull, but we were in the Lake District, bud! The mountains pierced the clouds straight through the vapoury heart. It invoked a sense of freedom; as said earlier, I am affected by weather patterns, and seeing the lower ground so outrightly defy the thick layer of cloud, which ordinarily likes to keep an untouchable air about it, was akin to witnessing the school bully fall flat on his arse. I say akin... second cousin twice removed, maybe.
My train of thought's works were spannered by the weight of lord knows what crushing down on my back. Have I told you about the packs we carried? Well, I'll tell you again. Everything that I could have possibly needed for the trip was in that small canvas rectangle. And by god, it showed. I couldn't enjoy the scenery for more than five minutes without the methane cooker (which we only used but once, might I add) digging into my lower kidney. I won't go into detail of the breathtaking-ness of the scenery
just yet; it is not time for that right now.
We pulled into Keswick around half seven, and not a moment too soon. It was tourist season in the Lake District, and there was hardly room to pitch our tent. We overheard a conversation about a lovely little campsite by the local lake that had spaces available. We asked around, and went off in search of it. We found the site a few minutes north of the local supermaket - 'Booths' - and set about asking for a place to pitch our tent. A small wooden hut stood before us, surrounded by an depthless sea of tents, caravans and recreational vehicles. I was quite taken aback when an old lady, not dissimilar in looks nor personality to Oscar the Grouch, rolled her eyes as the two best spoken of us; that is Tom and I, strolled casually into her abode. Upon asking courteously for a space to pitch a few tents for the night, her eyes rolled yet again; I toyed with the notion that I might tear them forcibly from her head, should she refuse us entry into the
clearly spacious settlement. "'Ow old are ya, kid", she screeched from behind what I could only assume was a plate of charred human flesh. "Seventeen, ma'm, as are my companions" I replied through clenched teeth. "Can't 'ave that, dearie", she nonchalantly stated, and turned her back on us. "Er...miss?" I hesitantly began. "Would you mind telling us why?"
"Over eighteens only unless accompanied by a responsible adult"
"Sorry, what?!"
"We can't let minors just come waltzing in 'ere, love"
"But you can kick them out onto the streets to sleep in a shop doorway for the night?!"
Got her! She graced me with a face that no words could possibly do justice to, and phoned her manager to ask him if we might
not freeze to death, just this one night.
"You're in luck. But
no noise after eleven,
no litter and absolutely
no fires, understood?"
"Yes Ma'am! Where do we set up?"
A smiling, round faced northerner came bounding up to us like a friendly but unbearably stupid dog, with an expression on his face as if to say
'my time to shine!' At least he wasn't a po faced bitch.
I was hungry, and had to my name three slices of unleavened bread and six servings of rice. I set the billy can full of water to boil on the stove. Here's a life lesson for you; if you ever find yourself halfway up the country with a man who weighs the same as his age, then you can write off eating for pretty much the duration. Here's how it went down. After about thirty seconds, this...this whale of a man sticks his dirty fingers into my nice clean water, and splutters all over my rice "It's...it's
boiling, put it in, man".
No I fucking will not cook my rice in lukewarm water you manatee. In his defense, I did manage to coax an apology out of him the next day, but damn if I wasn't livid. I ended up eating half-cooked rice and stale pitta bread while he feasted upon a Lancashire hotpot cooked in
my water, the mammoth. He turned in at about half nine, and slept like a log. I tried to do the same, after a quick game of cards, but found no such luck. After about ten minutes of tossing and turning, I heard a thumping rhythm and a quavering voice coming from afar. I pricked my ears up. It was wonderful; the band, wherever and whoever they were, were playing early rock 'n' roll, and doing it great justice at that. I heard the zip of my tent open, and Tom stood in the doorway. "I want to see where that music is coming from; you coming?"
Of course I did. We ran through the undergrowth in the pitch black, following our ears. We seemed to be getting nowhere, and I began to slow down. It's a good job I did, because a few steps more, and I would have been eye deep in a muddy ditch. I jumped it, and peered through the trees. I could just make out a glimmering light. I saw the band; they had the works! An upright bass, piano and Ducktailed lead singer. They were playing 'Devil in Disguise'. Tom and I ran towards it at full pelt, don't ask me why, before we were whacked full pelt across the torso by a big metal fence. There was no way over it. The venue shone, like a distant unreachable paradise, from over the meadow. We weren't so much annoyed as we were in pain, and, breathless and bruised, we stumbled back to our camp. I might as well have stayed out there the whole night, because I sure as hell didn't get a wink of sleep. While it didn't help that I had a fellow roughly the size of Belarus snoring like a condemned sawmill less than a foot to my right, I was confident that camping was simply not my bag. I got up to take a piss. The toilets were average. I was walking around in my bed wear; that is, in plain dealings, boxer shorts. I got human urine all over my bare feet, and there was nothing in the way of soap to be found in the restroom. I had thought ahead, and bought some soap of my own before leaving, but I still had to use my favourite shirt to mop my wet, filthy feet before slipping into my sleeping bag. I was not warming to this whole camping lark.
At about three in the morning, I was awoken by the others in the three man tent singing songs. Loudly. I laughed to myself, feeling comfortable that I was not part of it, and, should the authorities get involved, I would be safely out of the firing range. A small child piped up from one of the opposite tents;
"SHUT UP...S...SOME PEOPLE AR...ARE TRYING TO SLEEP 'ERE"
They carried on singing. The children started to sing 90's pop songs at twice the volume of my friends. I wasn't getting back to sleep. I text messaged a friend back home, just for the sake of doing something, telling them how it was going. I got the response that so long as I eat and slept right, I'd be fine. Ha.
So I woke up at about a quarter to nine feeling quite well, surprisingly. I lay in bed for a while, debating how to go about waking up; should I wash and eat, or eat then wash? Twas a predicament, dear brothers, it was not long before I was traipsing over to the shower room. I briefly washed in the lukewarm water before drying myself and putting my dirty undergarments in a bag I tried desperately to keep separate from my toothbrush and food. The rice, by this point, had escaped it's cardboard prison and was running amuck throughout my pack. I wouldn't be eating that again. I wandered blearily back to the tent. I wanted to eat some cereal I had, but I didn't want to have to wash my bowl. I didn't have enough cash for milk anyway, so I pondered upon what to do. I ended up just eating it out the packet.
I'm a vegetarian. Chris, however, isn't (no prizes for guessing that). But he's one of these meat eaters that do what most meat eaters complain vegetarians do; be
fucking annoying. I'm casually eating my unsatisfactory breakfast, when he says in an obviously spiteful voice "hey Jack, stop eating your
rabbit food and help us pack up". I didn't respond to this, as a rise was obviously what he wanted out of me, so I just raised my eyebrows and kept eating. He shouted over again;
"Yo, Tom, Jack's busy eating his
rabbit food so He'll help us in a minute. I wandered upon how long it would take to drown him in the nearby lake, seeing as his lungs must be by now roughly the size of central London. I
felt like shouting "IT'S NOT FUCKING RABBIT FOOD YOU TUB OF WHALE VOMIT. HAVE YOU NEVER EATEN ANYTHING THAT WAS NOT SO COATED IN FAT IT COULD SURVIVE AN ANTARCTIC WINTER?"
But didn't. Instead I just flipped him off and went to clean my teeth. A quick drink of warm orange juice later, and I was ready to go.
We walked back along the pathway at about half eleven, and I needed to buy my lunch for the day. I got a nice meal, I won't go into any details, from the supermarket, and walked off with the others. Naturally, Chris was going to the local fish and chip shop. I went looking for a map of the surrounding area. Of course, the only section which
our map did not contain was the place in which we had ended up. All the other maps (which we already had) in the collection were, on average, four pounds cheaper than the one we needed. Muttering under my breath, I collected the shares of money from my companions, and began to study. We weren't getting back to Windermere for quite some time. I mapped out that we needed to go up through the Great Forest, through a small village whose name escapes me, and along a big stretch of barren road to get back to civilisation. Chris took one of his signature half-hour shits, and we were off. It had not hit me before just how heavy these packs were. I missed out the somewhat vital information that we took a bus for the best part of the journey to Keswick, and even that took forty minutes. We walked up the hill towards the Great Forest. On one side of us was a stream, running a bit below us. The canopy filtered the sun into a waving pattern on the floor. TO the other side were rolling meadows, fields and mountains in the distance. It was a sight for southern eyes, I can tell you. The pathway was rocky, and us, tired. We stopped off for a short break on the roadside. All who passed us wished us a good afternoon, and my low spirits for the morning were lifted slightly. Then Tom's milk exploded. Everywhere. After wiping myself off, I, that is to say, we, carried on walking up the hill. We crossed some turnstiles, we passed over some unsafe bridges and we saw at least two campsites that would have most likely been more friendly that the one we chose. I looked up from my map and immediately wished I had not. A hill the size of Chris' gut stood towering over us. The pathway was made out of clay, sand and loose stones. One only had to kick it gently to take a sizeable chunk out of it. I was sweating now, and the pack strapped firmly to my back prevented me from so much as seeing the scenery, let alone appreciate it. We were stopping to rest every few minutes now, and Chris was getting tired of it, and me of him. He's one of these scout Johnnies who fancy themselves as a man of the earth due to spending an hour or two in a body odour infested hut a week. He marched onwards without us. At long last we reached the summit, and what a place it was. Lavender coated every crack in the paving, gnarled trees hung mournfully to the edge of the cliff, and we sat eating, taking it all in. I looked through some binoculars back at where we had come from, and spied the campsite that not two hours before I had been in. A little to my left, on a plateau on the hillside, stood a teepee. No clue as to who put it there, and for what reason, but there it stood. It had blue and black Native American drawings on it, and did not seem to be part of anything organised. I shrugged it off and looked around some more. There was a pile of stones standing by a tall, old tree. At the top of the pile there seemed to be a stone pointing in a certain direction. I decided I was going to follow it. The sun dipped behind some clouds. I stood up, and asked the others to take a picture of me, as I had not done as such so far. I gazed out upon the land as the camera clicked behind me.
Tom got his speakers out while we were eating, so we could listen to music. There we were, five road weary travelers, sitting atop a craggy peak, eating supermarket food listening to the Grateful Dead. The folks walking by looked to be raising an eye or two. I strode on, refreshed with a new optimism. I was confident that I could get to Windermere come nightfall. I walked past a tall, majestic tree whose leaves were absent despite it being high summer. I looked back along the pathway to be greeted by what can only be described as the most treacherous pass one could care to mention. Chris, who i am surprised can still live to tell this tale giving his size, muttered out 'remember, if ya falls, ya dies'. Thanks. Allow me to describe this walkway to you. What had been a merry cobbled path surrounded on both sides by fauna and trees had morphed into half a merry path, surrounded on one side by fauna and trees. The other side was a sheer drop to a depth where, from where we were standing, a farmhouse was half the size of your index finger's nail. My pack weighed heavily down on my back. As we approached another flat spot on the mountain, I noticed a few of the hang gliders getting ready for the jump. When they leaped over the edge, it looked as though they would not return. But then, sure enough. I saw far in the distance their gliders skimming away on the breeze, glowing in the white sun. We were quite lost by now, and did not know whether to carry on through the mountain range up to even higher points, or to go down, down into the underbelly of the great forest. I saw a group of old folk chatting merrily. One of them was smoking a pipe. I strolled over and asked them which way they thought was quickest. The lady was charming to say the least; told us where to go, and suggested a few campsites. I told her we were thinking of wildcamping. "do you want us to take your last words then, love?". I was against the idea of wildcamping. We walked down past a dead tree, and I snapped a piece off to whittle later on in the day. The path suddenly dropped thousands of feet. It was as steep as a line chart in 1933. I precariously stepped down, my pack growing ever heavier on my back. Suddenly, without any warning, I tripped. A loose stone caught my foot, and before I knew it I was tumbling down past ferns, daisies and rocks, luckily only hitting soft parts of the floor. I only fell a short distance, but it seemed to me that time stood still. I lay there panting, wondering how much meth had spilled from the cooker onto my lower back. My friends gathered around me, blocked out by the sunlight. I was unhurt, but shaken. I got up and carried on walking. Tom's lamp was screwed up. I mucked around with it a bit, but got oil on my hands. I looked down to my left and saw a stream gushing from the cliff face, down into another stream below. It passed over a wooden bridge. Kieran stopped to take a leak in it. I began to have second thoughts about drinking from streams along the way. We got down to the exit to Great Forest, and onto a main road. A bus stop loomed up in front of us. We debated long and hard over catching it, and decided in the affirmative. After waiting for half an hour, with no bus in sight, we figured we may as well carry on walking. The scenery was not very interesting now, save for a few lakes and trees, so I won't go into too many details. It was, however, becoming clear that we were not going to reach Windermere. I saw a sign for youth hostel up ahead. When we got there there was a small family waiting outside a bus stop. I asked after the hostel. The father said that it was closed during the summer - the summer! - to use for projects concerning children. I will say no more. On the upside, however, there was a bus coming very shortly that would take us to a town which held a few campsites. We waited. None of the family were very interesting. The two daughters were both quite young, and the mother and father were ordinary. We passed a tired looking couple, and the mother said 'oh no! They were waiting with us for the bus and walked off a few minutes ago! Oh that's a shame". It was a shame. Still, we arrived in this...this ghost town, and assessed our surroundings. I bought a bottle of water from a small shop staffed by a nice looking girl about my age, and walked on out. We were in the valley, so i had no mobile phone signal. There was very little in the way of communication means. Yesterday's paper stood in the stands. If the zombies were to attack today, then they would have an easy job of it. We walked up towards the campsite sign, and after a few miles came across a post pointing right to a
real youth hostel. I convinced Tom, who was against any form of comfort, to check it out. The other stayed back while we walked on ahead. I mean, it could only be a few minutes down the road, right?
wrong. After ten minutes of rambling we came to an admittedly cosy looking lodge. Upon walking in, we were greeted by the smell of good food, and the prospect of a nice bed and a hearty breakfast. I politely asked the fellow behind the counter for a bed. They were full up. When this, the lower class accommodation of what can only be described as the single most unpopulated town this side of Wales is completely booked up, you know you came at the wrong time. I sighed, and walked outside, the kind smell of woodsmoke and vegetables following me like a dog. I walked back and wearily told the others to carry on walking. After a while we came to a campsite. A small field with a stone shack full of toilets at the back. It was good. I tried to find the owner. I could not. I asked a Spanish looking woman how to book, and she told me that the woman lives in a house 'over there' (she didn't indicate exactly where this was). With a sigh, I started to knock on the doors of the small network of houses that surrounded, trying to find the owner.
apathetic