Dances with Marmots - Book Review

For Christmas I was given a paberback copy of Dances with Marmots, by George C. Spearing. It's been on my to-read list for ages; I just want to gobble up any books on walking, especially walking the Pacific Crest Trail!

George is a Fire Fighter from New Zealand who decided to walk the PCT after being given a book by a chap called Stephen Pern who walked the Continental Divide Trail (I suspect it is a book called The Great Divide in the UK).

While I found it an entertaining and easy read (I think I finished it over two days of reading on Christmas and Boxing Day, fitted amongst hours of playing games with my family!), I found the writing to be a bit patchy in places. Sometimes there would be great passages but further into the book it almost seemed like a chronological description of just where he camped or resupplied. Not that I minded that per se; it could even help me plan mine! But for people without those ambitions and who expect rather more crafted writing this may disappoint slightly.

And, for those in the lighter-weight echelons of the backpacking world, this likely wont bring beaming smiles as George carries a Macpac Cascade (90L) and Asolo boots. It was produced in 2005 and I'm not quite sure when he walked the trail but even then he could have reduced the weight he carried.

He had a typical antipodean humour (though is English by birth), which showed in his descriptions of town stops, the people he bumped into and the occasional toilet humour (well we all have to go and it's an even more important subject on the trail!). I liked how he relayed his love of Westerns and how that was mirrored in some ways in some of the characters he met. Some of his descriptions were brilliant, but it started to feel as if he got tired of writing it about two thirds of the way in.

That said it is probably a book I would read again, but I would rate The Cactus Eaters by Dan White as a better read. I also very much enjoyed Chris Townsend's account in his Great Backpacking Adventure which also included the CDT. If any of you have recommendations for other books related to accounts of walking on any of the long trails, especially the Triple Crown (AT, PCT and CDT) then please let me know in the comments!

I found Chapter One here, and as well as being available on Amazon, it is also available as download in PDF here.

Pictures taken from DancesWithMarmots.com

Physiotherapy

For the last couple of months I've been plagued with knee and then hip injuries. It's not especially new, I played rugby for a time at Uni and damaged a knee when a scrum I was in collapsed (I was in the second row because of my height). Stupidly I walked the 4 miles or so home from the game and then couldn't walk again for over 3 days!
Eighteen months ago I suffered a groin strain after doing some basic army type training (which I really enjoy!) but which took a few months to resolve.
After having a fall in the Lake District a couple of months ago which twisted my knee, and then (I suspect) adjusting how I walked to compensate, my right hip flexor has been sending me shooting pain when I made an ascent or descent or had to shift direction. As you can imagine this is not great for someone who wants to be out walking, so I was pleased when my GP referred me for a Physiotherapy assessment.
I had the assessment this morning where I was asked a series of questions by a friendly, knowledgeable Physiotherapist and then my posture then limbs were manipulated around. Basically my right hip muscle group seems to have seized up, being massively less flexible than my left side. It means I don't have much rotation for dealing with uneven ground and the automatic adjustments your feet and body makes and which we take for granted unless or until we are injured.
I've been given two stretching exercises to do, to open out the hip and stretch the hip flexor (Psoas major and minor and Iliacus) and a small muscle inside my buttock (Piriformis). Both are to stretch these muscles out before I start to do strengthening exercises. Neither of the exercises are new to me, if you do sport or yoga then you most likely will (or should) do them anyway, but from a recuperative / informative point of view I thought it would be useful to put links to one of the stretches here:

The impact for me on my walking means that rather than 'doing hills' I am going to try to create some routes that are over flatter terrain (maybe like my last walk which I did really enjoy) and limit my mileage to say a 6-8 mile walk in, overnight camp and same out again. The pain at the moment is just too much to do real hills but hopefully with the work I'll be putting in (and not overdoing things) I will be able to satisfy the mental and emotional need I have to be outdoors. Maybe the wandering element will enhance my sketching if I allow myself more time to cover more miles. So I am trying to not get too frustrated (my friends may laugh here) and to go with the flow, allowing my bod to heal. It will make a change...

Meandering miles

Ah, well after the impromptu post yesterday I was itching to get out, and fortunately there was a tad more snow on the hills south of Sheffield than I'd had at home.

I drove out about 10 minutes away by car to a hamlet to the south of Sheffield, skated over the black ice and did my utmost to resist 'The Gate' pub. Wouldn't be an auspicious start to a walk with the number of times I usually fall over; I don't especially need help with this. Passing over the first of many stiles I entered out onto a snow covered field surrounded by holly hedges. The views across the valleys north were extensive, almost monochromatic with the sky a curious blend of pale cerulean and gamboge hues.


Quickly I headed off across the first field and over another style into a mature woodland. The leaf litter was covered with a light snowy crust, crunching as I walked through. So much to see, to listen to in this world! Black Russian Pheasants flew away in alarm, their wings thumping together with effort, leaves and twigs rattling as they resumed their positions after they passed.




The clean, cold air filled me with glee! Holly leaves stroked through my hair, leaning over the path, reaching out towards me, not letting me pass otherwise. I happily obliged. I was just so full of delight! Bronzed beech leaves still hung in mid air, evergreens provided a darker contrast to the white, white, woodland floor. Such a sensory experience!

Down to a footbridge led up to exit the woods into a field with small ponies, hardy and probably native to the UK. They looked to me hungrily from their hay, whiskers twitching. Crossing into a narrow track and down to Sicklebrook Farm, the dilapidated barns fascinated me, an old long wheelbase Landrover permanently parked, probably never to move again. At a crossroads I headed west down Owler Car Lane, stepping out from the wide open fields and into the next.

I don't know what it is about woods, but I feel an almost primal urge to be there. There are so many stories and folklore about woods. Some in reverence, some in fear. Imagine being in deep, dark woods that extend for acres, boar and wolves sounding in the distance. Bears, even. That still exists in Eastern Europe where some of the tales would likely still have resonance. Here in England the woods are parcelled, few stretching more than a few miles. So when I have the chance to lose myself for a while I enjoy it!


And as usual my eyes were everywhere, noticing the oak leaves, still tinged with the faint traces of green, crystallised in pools of ice, like stained glass under my feet. Paths leading down to streams to be forded, footbridges abruptly broken. Emerging out of the muffled trees I came across a tree laying directly across the path, as if to say "You shall not pass!". I ended up following some faint footprints and crawling between the lower two rungs of the fence to get through (I didn't want to provoke the barbed wire on the top rung). Moments of decision making like this just add to appreciation of the environment you find yourself in. Yes, man has obviously intervened and his presence is everywhere. But you cannot deny the overarching power of nature, the living world, the seasons.

Having crossed The Moss a couple of times already, I headed out into a snowfield, enjoying the space, the marks of pheasants on the snow, dog paw prints weaving around, hare prints characteristic with the longer hind legs. It felt like a perfect mix for me today, enclosed areas, expansive spaces. I again crossed the brook, up the hill and over a field of winter barley to a bench, marked in honour of someone who loved the land. Following the field edge along the hedgerow, birds were quiet, the odd corn husk marking feeding of game.

Eventually I joined a sunken lane, sliding down the bankside (I knew I'd have a bit of a fall somewhere!) and being hidden from view. The already hushed world became more silent still. I recovered myself and headed onwards. These tiny narrow lanes are the remnants of times of more traffic, when farming was more labour intensive, horse drawn. They link one farm to another in a usually direct route. This route was so direct it headed straight down to a ford and then straight up again. Luckily there was a footbridge next to it; I didn't fancy wading across 8ft of water in this weather with a few more miles yet to tread!

Heading up to another farm I noticed the mullioned windows. Probably belonging to the Sitwell estate it looked to be a classic Derbyshire farm with barns that had grown haphazardly around a courtyard of sorts. I could hear pigs and cattle being fed in the byres, the sound of men muttering lowly, grain being delivered out of the silos. Passing through the farm I carried on towards a wood in the distance where I could hear the sound of a shoot. Even walking down the field it was slippery, ice had formed in the divots and hoof prints, eventually overflowing and joining into a death trap tapestry. Beautiful patterns of concentric ice formed in the larger puddles.

Stranger still was in the next wood I noticed long ice crystals in particular mossy areas, as if the ice had grown upwards from the ground. The crystals were almost 2 inches long and easily shattered along their length. they reminded me of Superman's Ice Fortress, the way the crystals were formed. Now that I'd noticed them here, I started to notice them everywhere!

A late lunch was had in the next wood where I noticed the air temperature was noticeably warmer, even the tinkling sound of water underneath the ice could be heard. I got off the path and took some shelter next to a rangy holly tree. Taking my gloves off I carefully placed them on a mossy branch on the ground, sat down and skidded off backwards! I laughed at myself and repeated the process without the skidding off part, and unpacked my beautiful Caldera Cone to get a brew going. The meths easily lit on first strike which surprised me. While the water was boiling I ate a very acceptable Duck and Hoisin sauce wrap from the Co-op, followed by a Mars bar that was as hard as if it had been in a freezer.

After a coffee I packed up and headed out. Down into one sunken lane and yet another, this last seeming more like a frozen stream bed; I was glad of my walking poles. In the valley I could hear a man whistling for his dogs and the sound of the dogs crashing through undergrowth. As I crossed The Moss for the last time, just up from the Mill Ponds, onto some stepping stones, a gamekeeper appeared. He was friendly and warm, offering me a gentlemanly hand across to his side of the brook and warning of the ice covered last stone. I gratefully took his help and we had a chat about the game (he had a couple of brace of pheasant) and the dogs. He was fully kitted out in traditional garb, too expensive to be a poacher! We parted after a short while and I started out on the last stretch home, becoming part of the tapestry of fields.

Wandering

I've been thinking recently about what the attraction of walking is to me. It's not a new musing, but the answers become more clear at different times, then wax and wane almost as with the moon.

There's the obvious link, connection to nature. It's a fundamental part of me, and I suspect, most if not all those who chose to follow what I write. It's a part of me that has grown since I can remember living in Norfolk where I moved to when I was 7. In fact even before then I remember in Nottinghamshire playing in the fringes of the school field, in the scrubby bushes at the intersections of paths running behind houses. Funny to think that those vague memories have had such an impact.

Norfolk was like a Betjeman poem, an age of long lost innocence. Allowed to roam free in the fields, being in effect a young naturalist, knowing the movement and patterns of birds and flowers. The trees spoke most to me; the rivers I swam in in the summer, away from the pike who were supposed to eat young childrens toes!

Moving to Sheffield when I was 12 actually felt like a huge blow. The Sheffield I knew at that time was limiting. I didn't discover the moors for a few years until I started wandering out there after school. Foreign bird life, plant life, smells of the peat. Different to the Broads. My connection with nature was regained to some extent through studying English Lit at O level (I was the last year to study these!), reading Betjeman and other poets of that bygone era. Reading also the classics, Brontes, Eliot, but especially developing an affection for Thomas Hardy. My sentimental nature was developed further by walking alongside Jane Eyre as she sacrificed herself on the altar at Stonehenge. I used to wonder at the characters in Hardy's novels, the distances they would walk across Salisbury Plain, often developing life threatening illnesses in the process.

Fast forward into my more adult life where I discovered other authors through various friends and influences. The inspiration seemed to be more haphazard. I read Patrick Leigh Fermor as he travelled across Europe around the time of the first World War, Nicholas Crane walking his umbrella along the spine of mountains, even travels in Albania (Those Accursed Mountains!), and spiritual quests with Paulo Coelho and Gerard Hughes. They seemed to engage more with the spirit of place than I think I'd allow myself to see recently. I do like to stop and examine and contemplate as anyone who has had the pleasure of my walking company will know. I think this is an essential part of my experience and one that achieving a certain mileage a day may limit.

Recently my yearning has been to walk the PCT; reading Chris Townsend's Great Backpacking Adventure and even this year, Dan White's Cactus Eaters got the wanderlust juices flowing. But how much may my experience be compromised by having to walk?

Thoughts seem to have crystallised more recently in that I find the sense of journeying without necessarily a trail to follow, very appealing. It's a sense of discovery, of myself and the surroundings. The same passage of miles under my feet, but maybe not in a sense of being so planned.

I personally don't know if this is the right 'path' for me, and I am aware of a certain naivety perhaps. But at present that is what draws me in. The journey. The wandering in the truest sense!

This post is pure indulgence for me, and without regard almost for any readership. It's an expression of my current thoughts and feelings and where I gain and may seek spiritual nourishment from, as it is indeed a very spiritual experience for me. Maybe something I will write further on in the future.

Norfolk
by Sir John Betjeman

How did the Devil come? When first attack?
These Norfolk lanes recall lost innocence,
The years fall off and find me walking back
Dragging a stick along the wooden fence
Down this same path, where, forty years ago,
My father strolled behind me, calm and slow.

I used to fill my hands with sorrel seeds
And shower him with them from the tops of stiles,
I used to butt my head into his tweeds
To make him hurry down those languorous miles
Of ash and alder-shaded lanes, till here
Our moorings and the masthead would appear.

There after supper lit by lantern light
Warm in the cabin I could lie secure
And hear against the polished sides at night
The lap lap lapping of the weedy Bure,
A whispering and watery Norfolk sound
Telling of all the moonlit reeds around.

How did the Devil come? When first attack?
The church is just the same, though now I know
Fowler of Louth restored it. Time, bring back
The rapturous ignorance of long ago,
The peace, before the dreadful daylight starts,
Of unkept promises and broken hearts.

Snow!

The past week has seen the UK mainland transform under a blanket of snow. Once familiar landmarks disappeared under a mantle that softened edges and reflected light back from all angles. Trees are bowing under the weight, birds coming up to the door step and people talking to other people that they've hardly seen before, let alone actually spoken to.
So while many in the walking and backpacking world are excited and optimistic about the possibilities for walking (if they can actually make it out to the countryside), I took the opportunity to walk around the village where I live, on the South East fringe of Sheffield, and to enjoy this rare time.

On this particular wander I passed an ancient orchard in the village which has been under the preserve of a local environment group. It is carefully managed with many varieties of apple suited to the area, and the grass under the trees, and now under the snow, being carefully grazed by Highland cattle and sheep. Coming across the orchard today I was more in mind of a much more northern landscape, not one just north of the Midlands. It was startlingly beautiful, the light clear and crisp and threw into relief the shapes formed by the snow.

Later in the day I walked to the local church, the sunshine had long gone and was replaced by flat, grey, snow laden clouds. I had to kick steps into the steps leading up to the churchyard; large flag stone steps had been replaced by a slick slope where others had been a day or so before. Unexpectedly the pattern of snow on the gravestones seemed to appear almost random. Some had snow towering over, some were wrapped in it, some had shed much with only a thin veneer, though soon to be replaced.

The avenue of trees leading towards the church was transformed into a magical, inviting procession, the rows of gravestones beyond forming marching lines.
Snakes of snow wrapped around crosses, accentuated points of needles and contrasted with the sinewy trees. The world became a lithograph, monochrome. And then blurred with snow as another blizzard came.

It was a joyful experience to see, and be part of, people connecting with one another in the streets, strangers sharing stories and families bonding. With schools being shut there were a few children out playing, though not as many as I expected, making snowmen and chucking snowballs in glee. Adults seemed to be migrating to the local park with sledges and the odd snowboard, or later to the pub, hoping one of the four in the village would be open! Older people were not, as you'd expect, much in evidence; I had checked on my neighbour if he had needed anything, knowing there are many who are vulnerable at this time of year. Sometimes just a "Hello" is enough, but clearing a path or fetching groceries gives them a feeling of being thought of and cared for, and may be the only contact they have for days... And while I am wandering freely around, clad in my outdoor gear, I know that just 5 miles away, men and women have been stuck in their cars for more than 24 hours, assisted by the local Mountain Rescue Teams, although this is actually just off the M1!

So while snow invokes different feelings for different members of our society, I am hoping to make the most of it, appreciating the different forms to see in this world, different skills needed. I want to make snow angels, snow men and women, snow caves and igloos and to kick steps and slide down hills. To listen to nothing and to hear shrieking laughter and the thud of a snowball. To paint skies that are darker than the land, to seek sanctuary in snow covered churchyards with their dead and to appreciate the world around me.
  

Not the Lake District...

A brief visit to Ambleside to allow Steve Horner to buy the brightest shoes he could find, followed by a chat in a pub, ended up with a sharp, northwards diversion into Scotland to the southern most Munro, Ben Lomond.

Reacquainting myself with the familiar place-names of Drymen, Balmaha and Rowardennan was welcome but strange, reminding me of the West Highland Way I'd walked back in the summer. It felt like years ago, though in fact was only 3 months previous. It was strange to see these places with little effort other than Steve's driving; I hadn't had to walk there this time and that lent a distinctly different feel to the place. It was exciting in a sense but looked so different to the warmer days I had spent walking to and around the Loch. The Clansman bar at Rowardennan was revisited too, of course, before setting off around 1pm up the Ptarmigan route, dehydrated from the night before and tired before walking. BUT! It was fantastic to slowly, steadily gain height and to catch sight of what we'd driven up to Scotland to see; SNOW!

The views out over Loch Lomond were stunning, with a sweep of cloud streaming from the east, allowing shafts of sunlight to pierce through to the many islands. The hillside was shining ochers and umbers and the cloud colours reflecting back in the water. Further north the hills were teasing with sugar icing caps and the promise of more in the distance...

I haven't done any real winter walking for many years and I was concerned at the kit I'd got. Because we had been overly optimistic about the snow (i.e. there wasn't really that much of the stuff) I again opted out of wearing my now usually discarded Brashers in favour of my almost tread bare inov8 Terroc 330s. This despite my incredible falling over ability. It was a reasonable decision as it happens, though I managed a record 5 times I think! I also was making do with a number of thinner baselayers and my fleece, with either my Montane LiteSpeed windshirt or my Mountain Equipment Seraph jacket. One day I'll buy a primaloft or down jacket, but that time isn't now and I have to make do with what I've got! This was fine for on the move (albeit slowly) but as soon as we stopped for any length of time I would start to get a bit chilly.

This was also the first bigger outing for about 4-5 weeks since I messed my knee up when I last went walking in the Lakes, so was going to be a good test. The walk up the Ptarmigan route is pretty easy but unfortunately I was wiped out before getting to the last approach to Ben Lomond, so at about 3:45 we found somewhere decent enough for two shelters to be pitched on pretty flat ground (yippee, no NeoAir surfing for me this time). It looked to be a reasonably sheltered spot if the wind acted as predicted, plus I very generously gave Steve the benefit of my Trailstar giving his some additional protection (well, I moved to a flatter spot in reality!).

Rather than using the Team IO tarp I'd used on my last overnighter, I had decided on the MLD Trailstar. I want more practice using my tarp in less exposed conditions whereas I hoped I'd be camped on the side of a hill at some point over the weekend and at present feel more confident with the protection the Trailstar provides. It was a decent decision although as it turns out the weather wasn't especially harsh, just cold. I could have used a low pitched tarp but it was pretty pleasant to be in the Trailstar, secure in knowing it was pretty solid, especially when my warm breath condensed on the shelter, turning into frost by the next morning!

Using my lovely Caldera Cone (I wonder if I could ever be parted from it!) and using the burner rather than Steve's Prodigy like approach with his exploding Esbit and GramCracker (it seems he nearly set fire to his shelter the next morning) I quickly had water for coffee and dried Chili Con Carne. Steve popped in my shelter to eat the rest of his food while I was still waiting for my food to be ready, being careful not to spike my NeoAir with his new banana shoes (woe betide him if he did that!!). My food was welcome and I could feel myself getting a little warmer as a result. I don't feel any qualms about using the Caldera Cone set up in the middle of the Trailstar, near the centre point next to the pole. For me, I think if you are careful and aware then using this in the shelter is reasonably safe. My exit was clear (apart from Steve) so if I needed to bail I could, but it is such a contained system that I felt perfectly happy brewing up there rather than in the doorway or outside.

A little later and settling down for the night I embedded myself with a silk liner, a Golite Adrenaline 3 Season sleeping bag and the Rab Survival Zone bivy bag I'd used tarping. When I returned home I found this had generated a few tweets in my absence after Steve broadcast I'd been cold. I'd not used the sleeping bag before, and I do sleep pretty cold, even for a woman, so wanted to try out a different approach to see if I could find a way to sleep a bit warmer. (The bag is rated to 20F, or -7 degrees C.) I think I need to try a different approach again (or get some down booties) as, not that long after I got in I started to not feel my feet so well! It was at freezing point at about 4pm, just before dark; I didn't record temperatures after that but am pretty sure it went reasonably below that. Trying to recall how others managed the cold, I restarted the Caldera Cone and heated some water to part fill my trusty Tango bottle and popped that down to my feet. Ah, bliss! I was pleased with my resourcefulness, though I know it's something other people also do. It's things like that that make me feel more self reliant, that, despite Steves mention to wake him up if I was too cold and we'd walk out, I was capable of managing a situation with enough thought.

I repeated this process at least twice more through the night, enjoying the feeling of warmth once again permeating through me...

With almost 15 hours to pass in darkness I had brought my iPod with me and listened to a series of podcasts umpteen times before switching to listening to some music. I prefer to listen to music I know reasonably well because then I know most of the lyrics and my brain isn't guessing what the words are; it can relax and switch off. Which it did a few times during the night (ie through sleep)!

The next morning I'd been awake for a while, hearing Steve stirring. I made a brew, trying not to disinvest myself of my sleeping bag too much to keep the warmth in. Hot chocolate and porridge was warming and energy giving and after a few minutes I felt more spritely. It sounded as if he was packing up so after confirming this by yelling at him(!) I did the same. We both got to the point where we'd packed everything apart from the shelters, which took a bit of a shake to get our created 'snow' off them, being rather crunchy. The frozen white particles span off, the Trailstars revealing negative patterns on the hill.

We'd pitched not far from the snowline so very shortly got to wander on something with a little more substance than a dusting. It was great fun to feel the snow under my feet and far easier walking on the snow than it had been on the ice. Different bird and animal tracks were evident and I enjoyed trying to work out what they were. It wasn't long before we made the last climb up to the top of the hill and the trig point sought for a Kuksa photo. The views over the hills towards the Cobbler and farther North were enticing, different cloud formations snaking around the tops and creating false ridges into the air and causing some debate.

Although thoroughly enjoying the views, it wasn't long before we headed down again on the path that would take us back to the car park at Rowardennan. I was a bit disappointed to leave the snow behind. It's so interesting! Virgin snow sparkles and glitters, where other snow looked as if mountain bikers had been up, with some pretty fat tyres too. Paw prints were about, some very much dog like, but some more reminiscent of cat prints. It looked as if hares had been around, and on the way up we had also seen a Ptarmigan almost in it's full winter white plumage.

Before we left the snow for good I said I wanted to boil some up, just 'because'! One of the great things for me is that I have chance to do all this for myself now, rather than someone else taking over and running the show, so Steve waited while I gathered snow, enough for two very small espressos! The Cone again performed brilliantly. It was a bit tricky to light the meths but once alight it didn't seem too long to me to wait for a brew. Plus we had ringside entertainment, watching more people heading up the hill as we were headed down. I always find it interesting to look at what rucksacks people are carrying and wasn't disappointed in seeing a couple of very old Karrimor packs, of the days of the late 80's when design was clean and functional. Steve provided the ubiquitous Starbucks Via which always tastes great and soon we were on our way again.

I often feel a bit sad towards the end of a walk. I seem to easily integrate into a mind set of just wanting to keep going and enjoying the scenery around me. But on this occasion a last visit to the Clansman was a reward before heading back down south to England (and trying to ignore a dump of snow south of Glasgow!).

As a last point, all credit for photos on this post should go to Steven Horner...who took many photos of me and my kit without my permission ;o)

My Inspiration

Last night I caught sight of a short discussion on Twitter where a couple of my friends were commenting on the TGO magazine content, that there wasn't much in the way of coverage non 'pointy bits' walks. It was added to with passionate description of walking on wild moorlands, forests, through arable lands with wide open spaces and skies.

During the day I had been wrestling with something in my mind and I needed release. I had planned to go into the Peak District but the proximity of people and the familiarity with the hills just put me off. I felt dissatisfied and anxious. I set off in my car for the opposite direction towards Sherwood Forest but again felt that dissatisfaction and 'angst' of wanting to spread my wings but feeling confined. It was as much about some personal circumstances for me as to the available countryside. I turned the car around and came home.

So reading that discourse was useful to me. It reframed different environments for me, helped me value what is available on my doorstep and so I set off this morning for a short 5 mile walk around Clumber Park.

My enjoyment of the countryside is not limited to mountains. I have been lucky enough to walk in Alpine environments (though not for some time; I will rectify this soon I hope), as well as the flat lands of Norfolk. I remember walking with a partner in Thetford Forest, maybe 15 years ago. We had kit for an overnighter and came across a load of soldiers on exercise. They laughed at us two and said "We get paid to do that" (ironic as I almost joined the Army out of University), but they also took the time to point out a very idyllic spot to camp, next to a deep pool, surrounded with mixed deciduous and coniferous forest. For some reason the slug I found in my boot the next morning really sticks out in my memory but I will never forget that weekend...

I positively enjoy walking in valleys, woods, classic English arable countryside as well as higher places. They each have something very valid to offer my soul. The walk this morning in Clumber salved my soul, too. I wasn't especially early; got there about 9. But I wasn't bombarded by hoardes of people (as I imagined in the Peaks) and largely walked in areas less frequented by others. The scenery consists of manicured parklands as well as heath, plantations, old deciduous woodland and the famous avenue of Lime trees. With a bit of planning I walked for about two hours and saw just a handful of people, most just out for an early Sunday morning stroll, unhurried, no agenda, just there for pure enjoyment. Isn't this what it's about? An elderly couple passed me and looked in amusement as I could barely wrestle away my attention from the jewel like Yew berries to say hello. I had such fun listening to the crunching sound of beech nuts and leaves underfoot as I kicked and stomped through them! I enjoyed one potentially boring, dead straight walk towards a plantation, where I saw a Jay bathing in a sunlit pool. It wasn't keen on being disturbed and the raucous hack it gave clearly showed that. I saw plump, furry squirrels up close. Canadian Geese, Berwick Swans, listened to woodpeckers, noticed the light cast through the leaves. Woodland fascinates me. I remember watching as a kid and then a few years ago reading, BB's 'Brendon Chase'. The idea of running away and living in the woods in a log cabin is still one of my dreams!


When I go to the hills I do it for pure enjoyment too. I feel exhuberant about the sensations I find there, maybe in a slightly different scale, but often the detail on high is just as relevant to me as down low. They all have their own qualities. Different birdlife, trees, shrubs and plants. Different geology. Different sounds and smells. The walking surface is different.

I could have gone to the Peaks and found lesser frequented areas, but I think it did me good to do something a bit different for me and to go and kick fallen leaves around and enjoy the vibrant colours still found in the woods.

Thoughts on Tarping and Caldera Worship

Last night I spent outdoors, under a Team IO 8x5 ft spinnaker tarp that @Fenlander2 has kindly given to me. I've been thinking about tarping/basha-ing for a long time now. Various guys I knew had talked about it, in fact it goes back further than that into my late teens / early 20s reading John 'Lofty' Wisemans book, the SAS Survival Handbook. It's certainly been enhanced by watching too much of Ray Mears and of course Bear Grylls.

So once Robin said he was going to send me a tarp I got all excited. I was on the phone to him as I unwrapped his parcel, finding a Caldera Cone and meths burner for my MSR Titan Kettle, along with a very green tarp and a bundle of hanked cordage and 8 Akto tent pegs. What a lucky girl! I think he knew how excited I was over the phone, as indeed I was and couldn't wait to play with it all, the first stop being to make numerous cups of coffee with the cone!

After watching watched BPL's Tarp DVD (extremely useful and informative) I had a go pitching the tarp in different configurations in my back garden, until I trampled my grass well enough that I don't think it'll recover til next spring...best get out and do it properly!

The following day (yesterday), I went out into Derbyshire to a place I'd eyeballed for bivying before. It was an old, overgrown and abandoned millstone quarry area that silver birches had taken over. In fact there are so many opportunities for wild camping, with or without a tarp. Some areas have clearly been used in the past, and even with this being National Trust land, campfire rings are still in evidence in a couple of places. I didn't anticipate seeing anybody though, given we're towards the end of October in mid week.

Pitching the tarp was pretty easy; once you've got it in a basic A frame with low set walking poles and a bit of tension on the guys you can then manipulate it into a variety of shapes. Because it wasn't howling with wind and rain and I wanted to make the most of the openness, I opted for a lean-to shape with a lip. Setting it up was simple and once I'd moved the poles out to the appropriate eyes I quickly got tension on the fabric and set the pegs. Unrolling my polycro groundsheet and then the neoair, Rab Survivor Bivy and my Softie Elite 3 sleeping bag in it, I was set. I'd timed it right for me as it was getting pretty dusky so I got into my bag and thought, "Now for the cone!"

I know these have been out for ages and a lot of readers have probably moved on to other things, but for me, after hankering after one for months now, to be given this and it fitting my Kettle and, and, oh, I could go on. Believe me I was and still am excited about it. I'd actually had to get some more meths off my Dad because I'd run out, messing about with it at home. That's how excited I was. I had a cup of coffee and heated up some chicken soup I'd made earlier and then watched the flame dance the meths away (I need to sort out measuring it out).

One of the great things about using the tarp was the obvious exposure and closeness to nature. The last night I spent under cover was in a Trailstar on Grassmoor in the Lake District. That had felt very different to my old TN Trisar. This was going another step further. Laying there with the tarp at ground level behind me, shooting towards the sky with the lip hanging over towards the side, it was brilliant to feel open to the environment, much more part of 'it' than I had done before. I felt safe (from people) and secure in how I'd pitched it. Sending a few tweets out haphazardly (I had either none or one bar of signal) I let Robin know I was sorted and happy and had a couple of well wishes from Twitter friends; thanks guys! It was funny to engage with them as I was laying there in the dark with towering rock around me. But after a while I withdrew and settled in.

Being more open your senses do work harder. One of the unexpected things I experienced was that in paring down the shelter, my thoughts seemed to be pared down. I happily lay there listening to the wind in the trees as it swirled around me, occasionally being funnelled down the bowl of the quarry and dancing over my face. The last of the birds were singing. I heard the Manchester to Sheffield train once or twice, it running through Totley Tunnel. At one point my imagination started into overdrive and I thought of the men who had died in it's making, imagining them coming on the hill to get me (this is why I don't watch horror films!). I controlled and dismissed that thought pretty quickly. Instead, maybe because of the physical space I'd found, my mind started to relax and instead of the teeming thoughts I'm usually occupied with, I started to really relax. It was as if by removing all the dross I surround myself with, all that had fallen away and I really could see different things in my life with some clarity. Giving me focus and purpose again. Making clear some things I need to let go of. Thinking about my motivation to do different things.

Friends have asked me recently why I want to do the PCT and after unravelling the layers, underneath it is a sense of paring down life to its absolute basics. I just want to walk the trail, to camp, to eat, to sleep, to walk again. Walking for me is about connecting with nature and the wider world. Not the internet, not spending my money and time in a shopping mall so that I fit in. I am not sure that I have ever fitted in in a conventional sense, certainly not as a girl/woman/lady (I hate these labels). I just want to be connected to the outdoors and to live, really live in it. Connected, using my 5 senses. Using my body (I am so frustrated my knee is still painful after Coledale!). Using my mind in a constructive way; problem solving, being creative, sharing experience, learning from others, forming deep friendships. All this from tarping...

Waking in the morning after the best night sleep outdoors for a long, long time, I worshiped the Caldera God again with a cup of coffee and porridge and quickly packed up. I wandered around the quarry, climbed up the quarry walls (not good...) and out into the sienna landscape.

Coledale Zen

Rather than writing the usual trip report, I want to give focus to the thoughts and feelings I typically engage with on walks. I have a propensity to fall over usually once a day, mostly because my attention is held by something else than where I'm next placing my feet. That something could be a huge view or tiny detail, birdsong or internal musings about something. I often am absorbed into another state of mind, usually stimulated by the environment I find myself in; being connected to nature in some form is a very spiritual experience for me.

This weekend was a source of great stimulation, with a mix of deciduous and then forestry plantation, challenges of route finding (I took us the wrong way twice at the start but it was interesting to sort that out), overnight camping on the hill and great company. One of my favourite quotations is from the film 'Into the Wild' where Chris McCandless realises, when near death, that 'Happiness (is) only real when shared'. While I greatly enjoy my solitary wanderings, I have also greatly enjoyed walking with Steve Horner in the past few months. Instead of experiencing nature in a very private, singular way, recently I have been able to express my sense of wonder and connection with someone who has surprised me. Steve is a fit young man, capable of walking many miles with a lot of ascent in all sorts of conditions. I often compare this with me, being a fair bit older, less fit, less experienced. But for me the value I can add is to share my experiences of nature and the landscape with him; showing him a different way to experience connecting to nature and the environment; absorbing and being present at the time and not necessarily in a serious way. Often I am gleeful, moved or exhilarated in what I experience when I'm outdoors. Sometimes I feel like whooping with delight (I usually manage not to in company!); at other times I am taken by a sense of wonder. Sometimes I want to paint what I see; at other times I just want to sit, breathe it in, try to understand.

The initial part of the walk from Braithwaite took us along a footpath on the cusp of meadows and woodland.

This is proper, deciduous, English woodland with ivy and bracken and fungus and decay, blackberries and elderberries still clinging on. The smells of the woodland are so different to that of meadow where grasses and freshness predominates. Woodland is damper and mustier and unsurprisingly, 'woody'. This is in stark contrast to my memories of back in the summer, emerging out of woodland towards banks of bracken and being hit by both the particular smell of bracken and the warmth it holds, almost oppressive.

Steve pointed out the way the moss grew around some of the trees, almost enveloping them in the darkness of the shadow of the tree canopy, and mentioning different wives tales and country lore that he had learned as he grew up in a rural community.

Following the path took us alongside a beck, dried up now, but from the look of it once carrying a mass of water. Bordering the track were huge conifer trees which seemed unusual in their girth compared to the immature telegraph pole specimens abound in Forestry Commission land. Stopping to pay attention to this allowed thoughts and questions and answers to form in our minds. What sort of tree was it? How old was it? How come it had been allowed to grow so large? We had noticed an old Oak tree earlier which was gnarly and twisted and bent with age whereas this was sturdy, upright, processional, dignified.


As I noticed waterfalls, Steve noticed blackberries; it was interesting to wonder why different things hold different peoples' attention. Further on as we headed through plantation areas up towards Black Crag, I enjoyed the deep pine needle beds, dark and mysterious and unwilling to be entered. They receded under the lowest branches, away out of sight. Finding the path and using the map was a case of having a bit of faith, and features on the map weren't as obliging on the ground. It was great to emerge into the open and have the landscape confirm where we were, and to turn the tables when Steve traced routes across the opposite fells, in a sense fleetingly owning that Landscape as he identified it.

I did my usual stop, start routine of being out of breath, but didn't feel as badly about it as I had done on previous walks. With the emphasis on this weekend being mine to plan and 'be in charge of' (!), while I felt the responsibility of making it a decent walk for someone else, it also meant that I felt more comfortable to say I wanted to stop. In fact I'd forewarned him that there would be more brew stops and I'd brought my sketching kit with me. Maybe that's just getting used to walking with Steve instead of being on my own. Maybe it's being more comfortable in myself and relaxing in the knowledge that Steve doesn't walk with me because of how extremely fast I go!

For a Saturday late morning we had been extremely lucky; all the way through, past Hobcarton End and for most of the way up Grisedale Pike, we hadn't seen a soul close up. Only when we were making our way towards the top were we passed by a couple on their way down. Of course there were people on the tops and ridges but it was pleasantly surprising for a weekend day in the Lakes. I mandated that I was going to have a coffee on the top, which I think Steve thought was just an excuse to play with meths. It wasn't the whole reason, but I do experience more than a small amount of delight in playing with different stoves and fire. I had brought a stove that Robin had given me, a MiniBull Designs Bios#2, that Steve and I had tried out in his kitchen a couple of weeks before. It is incredibly satisfying seeing the jets of blue flame emerge from around the stove as it reaches temperature...

Leaving the top we'd only gone a couple of metres when figure lower down waved at us. Full of childlike delight we recognised Steve's work colleague and friend, Jonathan Craddock. I felt like a big kid meeting someone I hadn't seen for an age. As it happened I'd only met JC two weeks before, but it was such great fun! Even more so as Steve had left a present for him under his windscreen and I was bursting, trying not to give the game away while Steve engaged in a relatively serious way with Jonathan.

The views of the hills had really opened up by now, Steve telling me which were which. I was entranced by the views we had. I'm not alone in this; Steve stopped frequently to take pictures too; this weekend around 340 of them, compared to my 80 odd. I guess his enjoyment of the hills manifests in this way. I will notice things on the hill and point them out; he usually takes a photo and the mick, usually out of me!

After a caffeinated approach to Hopegill Head, which showed sheep clinging goat like to the crag sides, we replenished with water up from Coledale Hause and followed the shallow, grassy valley up towards Grassmoor. I enjoyed the change in scenery; it didn't feel like the Lake District at all; instead it reminded me of the wide open spaces of the bleak moorland of Derbyshire, Yorkshire and the North. I like a sense of expanse, of bleakness, and appreciate that almost as much as the more mountainous terrain that calls me.

A last ascent of the day to the top of Grasmoor heralded stunning views. I had excitedly seen Scotland throughout the walk, thinking of my friend David Bunten and The Merrick and the history the landscape holds. It doesn't necessarily have to be 'old' history; even the shining giants of the wind turbines have their place.

Steve's decision to pitch just before the summit of Grasmoor was well called (yes, he'd pretty much taken over by now). As the seasons have turned and the daylight hours got shorter we weren't left with an awful lot of time before darkness fell. I'd pitched the Trailstar just once in my back garden so expected to not execute perfection this time around. Hey, I had Mr Trailstar himself next to me, pitching his, so I was happy to pitch, get feedback and learn. A bit of adjustment was needed but I wasn't going to hang myself out to dry over it. Steve was very factual and encouraging and gave me pointers for improving in future.

The tranquility of camping on the top of a decent hill is hard to convey. All around us were the tops of big hills and out to sea the Isle of Man was levitating in the sunset. Far below us Lakes and homesteads glinted.

It is a very different feeling, camping and cooking on the hill, to having to hurry back to the car at the end of the day. The experience feels more complete to me and effectively removes me from a sense of society and expectation there, to truly being alive and myself in a real environment. It's not necessarily plain sailing; the night was getting chilly with little high cloud cover and even after having something warm to eat (after almost setting fire to the moor - yes, thanks Steve for tweeting that ;o) and then getting into my sleeping bag I still felt cold. It was dark, chilly, I couldn't hear any noise at all from next door and assumed Steve had fallen asleep, so I got up and went for a wander on the top of the hill in an effort to get the blood moving again. It was starkly beautiful in the bright moonlight, and again when later in the night when I got up another time, the sound of the crunch frosty ground underfoot was a pleasure I wouldn't have had if I'd descended the hill earlier. I felt very connected to a human, primeval part of me. All my senses were engaged and stretched and I felt very much alive.

A pragmatic streak kicked in and I made some hot chocolate and had something to eat again once I was back under cover in the bag. The Bios #2 had guzzled a lot of meths so I knew that if I woke to be cold again I'd struggle to be able to have a brew. But it seemed to do the trick and the walk and the hot drink seemed to warm me more.

Strangely I heard a couple of laughs emanating from the Trailstar next to me which still makes me chuckle now. Steve had been listening to music and then just read a blog post from Jonathan where he'd discovered the present, though hadn't yet attributed it to Steve (or had he?). Now I knew he was awake and we just chatted from the Trailstars. I was concerned that the route I'd wanted to do just wasn't going to be achievable the following day and we remotely discussed and agreed the alternative which would basically be to cut it short, go over Crag Hill and onto Causey Pike and from there down to Braithwaite via a road underneath Barrow. Steve suggested Castle Crag for the afternoon which I was keen on too. Surprisingly to me, he had enjoyed walking through the woodland, as I did, and it would give a mix of that and of hills and crags too, in a relatively small area.

The conversation dwindled and I fell asleep at some point, waking through the night as I surfed on my NeoAir off my polycro groundsheet and being halted by the walking pole at the front. After a couple of goes at riding the waves I did away with the polycro and had a better sleep, especially towards dawn when later I found that Steve had got up to take yet more photos!

Quite late on I was woken by him, asking if I was ever going to get up, which I did, but enjoying the feeling of already being on the hill and wondering what the day would bring. Steve had brought me grey clag to wake up with, in contrast to the beautiful clear (cold) night, but it soon cleared and the views over the tops were staggering. I just felt great to be up there, thoroughly alive, connected, in awe, and part of it all. Watching two hawks hover over heather further down the hill made me stand in my tracks and I just wanted to watch and wait. Luckily Steve seems to enjoy this as much as I do and seemed happy enough to wait. As long as he can get to place his Kuksa on a Wainwright cairn I think he's happy!

The patterns of shifting cloud shapes on the surrounding hillsides was stunning. The sun would hit a peak, highlighting different ridges or making an entire side shine. The valleys below would glow emerald green with the darker shapes of trees outlining fields. The colours of the bracken emphasised the seasons change firmly as Autumn, compared to some areas in the Peaks which are still green. The heather had taken on the darker mantle as all but a few of the flowers had gone. No bees were to be found this weekend. Time has definitely marched on.

I enjoyed the walk along The Scar to Sail. Then with obvious delight, Steve beetled off at a half run on the new zigzag paths downhill, engaging with his inner child and telling me you have to 'lean into the bends'! I caught him up and was rewarded on the top of a hill with an 'Oi' and instruction to perch on top of a rock for a photo. He just makes me laugh and I obliged him on this occasion with not giving him two fingers!

And then just before the final knobbly bit of Causey Pike I did my usual trick and fell down. I think I was distracted by a view or something, but unusually I actually did hurt myself this time so I sat there for a few seconds feeling my knee out before finally getting up with an 'Owowowow!' Well it was bound to happen at some point and thankfully we didn't have too much further to go. A great benefit of walking poles was that I could use them to take the weight off my knee a bit and apart from descending some rocks on my bum (that Steve managed in his usual graceful manner) the rest of the walk down was alright. With him in quiet agreement I made the call to take the smaller footpath at Sleet Hause, rather than follow my heart towards the craggier Rowling End. I was glad I did!

Walking back along the road, dodging the odd car and spotting the Holly berries (abundant this year and as he says, hopefully sign of a cold winter to come) wasn't too arduous as we were both in mickey taking mode, and I'd waved a tenner in front of his face with a promise of a pint in the pub as a way of reintegrating with society. With my knee giving my gyp I was disappointed not to get to go up Castle Crag.

Overall we did the Coledale Horseshoe with one or two extras in a day and a half! Way longer than most people would take, but I'm trying to balance my own expectations of achieving x distance with the quality of experience and what adds to my experience of walking. I would like to be a lot fitter to achieve greater distance more easily and quickly, but how much would that potentially detract from my indulgent pondering wanderings where I feel so utterly connected. I wonder, are the two mutually exclusive or can they be married in some way?

Water, Water, Everywhere

Today is Blog Action Day, where thousands of people from more than a hundred countries will blog about issues related to water issues in their communities and around the world.

I'm going to take a bit of poetic licence to this and consider how I use water when I'm walking or backpacking.

I like water; as a human being we're composed of between 50-70% water, depending of state of hydration, body size and age. The brain is 85% water, unless on a Saturday morning, after the night before...We are supposed to drink upwards of 2 litres a day to maintain hydration; if we don't symptoms can range from being thirsty, headachy, tired, dizzy, to full on kidney and bodily collapse and death. According to the NHS, "dehydration occurs when there is a 1% or greater reduction in body weight due to fluid loss".

Walking the West Highland Way in the summer I was able, after the first day, to pretty much collect water as I needed it and not carry much at all; my 500ml bottle from the co-op with a small 200ml reserve in my Platypus. I didn't treat any water at all, selecting common sense places to gather it where it would naturally be filtered and unlikely to be exposed to rotting flesh...

This is in stark contrast to my normal walking places. I live on the outskirts of Sheffield and the Peak District is the place I've walked most. I'm used to not being able to have access to potable water and either carrying more, or treating the water I do collect and managing the compromise between the two. Bear in mind that I may walk the entire day without passing a water source unless you count the water that can be squeezed out of peat hags! I do take chances sometimes, in areas that aren't frequented often and where sheep aren't grazing. I've lost count of the number of times I've seen bloated, rotting sheep carcases in streams and unless I know I'm near the spring head then I don't chance drinking untreated water.

There is also the impact of the sheer number of people that visit the Peak District every year. 16m people live within 1 hours drive of the Peak District and there is an estimated 45 million day visits a year. I wonder how many practice 'carry out' or sanitary bury it techniques when they heed the call of number 2s! Sadly I don't believe that many, especially when I see the amount of basic litter, including banana skins, left as a souvenier for the next person to see. (Banana skins take a couple of years to decompose, and their composition is not natural to a mountains and moorland environment!)

I am about to visit the Lake District this weekend and one of the considerations I will make is where I'll be able to collect water, especially as I hope to have an overnight camp somewhere in the hills. Similar issues viz. huge people numbers and risk of pollution apply here.

Thinking longer term and my goal of the PCT, while I have visions of the mighty Tuolumne and cascading waterfalls amongst the mountains, unfortunately treating water is a must in pretty much all areas. There is also the issue of how much to across the stretches of desert where water just is not available.

I hope this post and Blog Action Day makes you consider the impact water has on your body and outings. How much you respect the environment and how much you do, or don't, take it for granted. It's so nice to be able for us to take water from a tap, but in years to come water is said to become a commodity that is more valuable than oil. That time isn't far.

A source of solace

The last few days have been difficult for me. My Auntie Gina has had a brain tumour and after only a few months from diagnosis, died on Monday night. She wasn't quite 65, and had been fit and well up until a year ago when she suffered what was diagnosed at the time as a stroke.

I 'blurted' a tweet out into the world just after I found out, just after 11 in the evening. It was a cry of pain, that I had wanted to see her before she died, to let her know how much I love her, and my Uncle, and to say a "Good bye". In fact I had organised with my Brother that I'd drive us down south to see her the following day (Tuesday). That wasn't to be.

I tried to delete the tweet, with mixed success. At the time I felt embarrassed that I'd share such a private moment with my 'followers', at least half of whom must be spam. And I also didn't want to make anyone feel awkward that I'd been so forthright. It's not exactly a culturally English thing to do. I had a few direct messages from people who had seen the tweet, which really touched me, and want to say thanks to them again here.

I'd spoken with my Mum (they were Sisters), and seen my Brother, who had turned up on his motorbike just as I tried to phone him. My God, sibling connection! (We fought like cat and dog when we were kids.) In wanting to pay my own respects to my Aunt though, my natural inclination was to turn to the hills for solace.

In fact I returned to the same place that time and again I have returned to when times were hard, and there's been a few!

Higger Tor, Padley Gorge, Burbage Brook. Names so familiar to me, and probably the entire outdoor community of Sheffield, plus a few more besides. But it's a place of contrasts and palpable history, from the stone circles and cairns on Lawrence Field, the supposed Iron Age fort of Carl Wark, the Packhorse Bridges and tracks and the more recent millstones, quarried from the gritstone abound in this area. More recent still is Longshaw Lodge which was bequeathed to the National Trust in the 30s (I think), a seat of the Duke of Rutland.

I didn't bother taking a map; I know the area pretty well. I didn't set off on a specific route; rather I wanted the route to find me. If I'd taken a GPS to track the way I walked, the line would have wiggled all over the place, crossing itself and returning to the same places several times. It was a walk of absorption. But not into myself, rather it brought me out of myself and I felt connected to the world at large. To nature and the environment, no matter that none of it was untouched by man (how much of the UK is actually untouched by man anyway).

Sitting on a rock, making myself a brew and feeling part of this earth was probably the best thing I could do for myself at this time. I wonder at the reasons other people go to the hills. And how other people deal with grief when they don't engage with the natural world in the same way I do.

One of the remarkable things I remember about my Aunt (which extends to my Uncle, too), is a sense and feeling of being loved completely by them. I dwarfed each of them in height and stature, but they still look on me as their Niece, as flesh and blood. I went out with one of my Cousins best friends for a few years, and in that time got to know my extended family more than just as blood relatives I visited a couple of times a year. That feeling of being loved is a precious memory. Well, not just a memory, because it wont leave me. So I don't feel guilty about not seeing my Aunt in her last few days. She will have known how much I love her, and I draw comfort from that.

Fozzie and Pockets on the Pacific Crest Trail

The November issue of Trail Magazine has an article by a couple of guys I've been following who are walking the Pacific Crest Trail.

The PCT is a trail that starts at the Mexican border, travelling through California and Oregon and then Washington (state) to finally meet the Canadian border, some 2650 miles away.

I somehow found Keith Foskett (trail name Fozzie) through Facebook back in April I guess. Pockets (real name Josh Myers), I found under his 'Trekking Photography" page, and it was just coincidence that they happened to meet each other and the pair teamed up to walk.

Fozzie has a great blog where he regularly posts video footage as he's hiking the trail, plus reviews of his kit. There are also great descriptions of the trail and trail life itself. Great reading!

Pockets already had a website demonstrating his stunning creativity with a camera and his pics have been used in the Trail magazine spread.

The magazine is out today, so I'm looking forward to seeing how the sites I've been following translate into printed matter. Grab a copy for yourselves!

Gonna Fly Now, or at least Run!

Regular readers will most likely know that I'm not the fittest person on the planet, and I have goals of completing some stonkingly long walks in the next few years. I don't mean a couple of multi dayers either...This combination is not a very satisfying one.

Plus, I look at some 'shorter' walks that my friend Steve does with envy. He's just posted on his blog two walks that I would really love to do, the Ring of Steall and the CMD route up Ben Nevis, but realistically I am probably not fit enough to attempt them at present. I want to do walks like this in summer and winter conditions, to help prepare me for different weather and conditions on these longer walks, and for the sake of the hills themselves too. With the winter coming towards us, the lack of fitness and walking in more exposed areas increases the risk.

I can't remember the last time I regularly run. Well, I can remember a time, when I only did 1.5-2 miles a night, most nights, and got really skinny. I'm not bothered about getting skinny; it doesn't suit me and frankly I'd rather be strong and fit.

But I have started to run again, around my local park. I've only been out three times so far, but already I notice the difference in how well I do from one run to the next. I hesitate to call it running because I walk a bit too, but gradually the walking is becoming less and the running further. I'm pleased by this. I'm also pleased when I have those sublime moments where it just feels so easy and effortless. The moments may not last more than 10-20 seconds, but they're there and hopefully I'll have more of them!

It has a knock on effect in that I notice more what I fuel my body with. I'm reasonably clued up on nutrition having trained with bodybuilders and boxers in the relative recent past, and have a few books on the subject too. So different aspects of my life are being pulled in to support my walking goals; another aspect I like.

I think because I haven't approached this in a negative mind set (the "I'm so fat / unfit" type), I'm enjoying the process and a sense of rediscovery of what I can do, how I can push myself and when I should, how I talk to myself to encourage myself to keep going, what I sing to myself to give whatever I'm doing a sense of rhythm.

Currently it tends to be the Rocky theme tune, "Gonna Fly Now", probably because when I did a bit of boxing training in the past, watching the transformation of Rocky in the first film was inspiring to me. I was lucky enough to have to go to Philadelphia on a training course with work a few years ago and went to the Museum of Art and stood in Sylvester Stallone's tiny foot prints.

So I'll finish off with a clip from the film.

Not The Time Travellers Wife

Well, I'm not married, but the walk I did earlier was very much like travelling through time for me. I've been getting a bit bored and dissatisfied with doing the 20 mile traipse in the car out to the Peak District in search of somewhere a bit hilly to walk. To get out there I pass where I used to live. I moved to Sheffield from Norfolk in 1984 when I was 12, to a pretty affluent suburb called Dore. When I was about 14 or 15 I started to walk in the hills above Dore, just going out after school.

Today I decided to go back there and walk pretty much as I did then. No map, no compass, or pack. Just jeans, T-shirt and fleece and some trainers (well, my Terrocs anyway). It was the second outing for my Montane Kagoule, I mean Lite-Speed, too. I did have my mobile on me though the signal is easily lost in places up there.

It would be interesting for me, too, because I would be able to compare how fit I am now compared to me at about 17 - so eek, 22 years ago!

I set off from Durvale Court, up Furniss Avenue; the road I used to walk on the way to school, King Ecgbert School. Back then there were two sites, Wessex and Mercia, the school and its buildings named after a battle where, as King of Wessex, he beat Northumbria into submission and became overlord of England in 829. Mercia has been left to ruin now; I'm surprised that the council hasn't tried to flog the land for more housing.

After getting to the top of Furniss you cross over a road to head up Drury Lane, all very nice tree lined residential roads with some old farm buildings and some more modern buildings. Money is pretty evident here.

Then at the end of Drury Lane I turned left to go up Townhead Road, past an old friends house. I remember her joining the school a year after I did. She was the first person I knew who had a computer. Back when they were the awful beigey cream colour. I think it was actually a BBC computer, with the 7.5" floppy drive, though my memory is a bit fuzzy now!

Heading onwards up Townhead I passed the old farm building that long ago became just another resi house. And then onwards towards Fairthorn, which I believe is a mental hospital, but can't say to be sure. It sits opposite a tight road junction that leads up to where I used to do a paper round, Newfield Lane. I used to enjoy doing paper rounds because it meant I'd be up very early, before many other people were about and often saw the best part of the day weather wise. Some elderly people used to look after me and I remember one old bloke used to give me a pack of Polos every now and then and have a chat. Nothing untoward; he knew my Mum who worked in the village too. It was just a regular face for him and a bit of company.

Newfield Lane adjoins 'Wagg Wood' which has a stunning old stone semi mansion building in it. I remember finishing my round one day and walking to the road junction and stopped to look down the hill to see a Fox and her cubs playing in the wood. I just stood and watched 5 animals rough and tumble and bite and snap at one another, oblivious to me. It's a memory I'll carry 'til I die.

I used to come back to this spot when I came home from University. Sometimes to just sit on the bench to look at the view (below), sometimes to carry on on the walk and recapture some of the young thoughts and ideals I had.
Carrying down the hill from here you reach a stone bridge that crosses Redcar Brook, before carrying on up the road, past the farm houses on the right (the Clarks used to have the tenancy) before turning left into Shorts Lane.

At this point I used to feel a sense of getting off the beaten path, although it led to Ann Barber's riding stables so was pretty well used. I believe she did some show jumping at Wembley, but there are a lot of horsey people around here, with a couple of relatively famous UK showjumpers hereabouts.

There's a pretty pleasant walk down the lane to where it turns past the stables and descends slightly through mud, to where the Blacka Moor Nature Reserve starts.

This is my turf. It was my refuge in my teens and where I went when I wanted to think, to get wind swept, to get rid of some excess energy, to test myself a bit. I remember being caught with a friend on the tops in a white out once. She started to panic, but I knew that even if it was a 4 mile walk out, if we kept leapfrogging eachother and followed one direction as much as possible, then we'd reach a road. I became reasonably resourceful and savvy, usually walking on my own and becoming self reliant. I'd drink from the streams and pick the blackberries and bilberries, much as I did today!

I'd follow sheep and deer tracks on to the tops. I'd walk out to Longshaw and Burbage and Houndkirk occasionally. I'd rarely see anyone else, no matter what the time of year. I think the most I saw were some firemen once who had to leave the truck down the hill and were legging it up to try to put a blaze of heather out.

At this time of year there's a mix of decay combined with a sense of new life to come. Blackberries abound with seeds neatly packaged, ready to be deposited with free manure in the decaying leaf litter, ready to shoot up next spring. Shaggy moss and dark ferns cover long forgotten stone walls around a small quarry.

Magical fungus, another part of the decay process, seemed to proliferate today. It seems to be a great year for mushrooms and toadstools, of all types and descriptions.

Continuing on through the wood there's a choice of many different footpaths. Some you have to cross Oldhay Brook to reach; there's a very pretty set of stepping stones for when the stream is full. The stream is beautifully clear with a sandy bottom.
Or you can continue up on the path towards a bridleway coming down from Devil's Elbow (what a great name!).

I carried on towards Piper House Gate. Which ever way you choose, you can't avoid going up. Over the years of coming up here after school, I got to know this area intimately. It's strange to come back and feel that depth, but now to hardly remember paths at all. This signpost was new. The woods had continued to grow, of course. They do not stand still, even if I do.

Some parts are vaguely familiar; the twist of a path, a big gritstone boulder. Trees that were saplings echo memories in my brain. Patterns of streams, the sounds, the flow. Some of these remain constant but changing. They fascinate me.

Gaining height you can't help but notice the change in the trees. Gone are the occasional, massively tall and wide Beech and in their stead are twisted birch, gnarled oak, all growing shorter and rougher and battling against harsher weather until finally they seem to have given up and petre out, giving way to Rowan and ash and odd silver birches with an under blanket of bilberry and heather and bracken that is being fought against. Sheep aren't to be seen here; the land is being 'managed'. Late bilberries are still hanging on the shrubs. I eat some but they're mealy now. I try what looks like cranberries but they are awfully bitter and I'm not convinced one hundred percent that I know what they are! I come upon different fungus, a Fly Agaric or magic mushroom, ink caps, and bracket fungus.
Too many types for my paltry knowledge to identify. But I'm pleased to s-l-o-w down and notice things. I notice how the paths on the tops have changed. More signs. More footfall. What once were paths of a single foot width, now are three or four foot widths. And people have walked aside that paths, widening them further in places. I notice old paths, tiny wanderings that lead off and get tempted as I once did, to wander the hills, regardless of time. Just to explore, to find somewhere a bit different, a different view, a different feeling. Day after day of being up here seems to flood back into my bones. The old memories beat against the closed doors in my mind, reminding me that they ARE there.

Emerging from the shrubbery and thickets, I gain a clear view over Sheffield, sweeping around from the Roman ridge up to Houndkirk, around over the city in the distance, travelling south and then west towards Owler Bar and finally to Totley Moss. Higher up is the chimney from the Totley Tunnel, a landmark from a number of sides of Totley Moss.

The tops are inviting me on but I am trying to remain faithful to my original idea of travelling time. Back then if I didn't hurry home I wouldn't be back in time to get dinner on for when Mum got in from work, and Dad half an hour later. I turned down the hill and again found the view before heading back into the stunted trees, twisting and turning over bilberry bushes, now starting to edge crimson with the autumn colour.

Eventually I emerged opposite Bole Hill and followed the widening footpath down towards Strawberry Lee Lane, past the ever present gorse. The path becomes wider, eventually becoming a road. I remembered some of the footpaths I used to take home. I had a choice between Tailors Hill and Totley Bents, or to take a lower path and pass Avenue Farm. I took this route and remembered it for dodging cows in the fields, and the inevitable churned mud around the many places where they'd drink from the brook. It seems that Himalayan Balsam has taken a hold though and is choking out some areas of the streams.

Soon I reached Totley Brook and emerged out on the road itself, passing Victorian houses with cellars, right next to more modern Art Deco buildings and then those in construction now. Houses where friends lived, memories of playing in the school fields or just hanging out. And later when we started to grow up we'd congregate in the holidays after not seeing each other for months.

It was an interesting walk for me to do. A lot of memories, thoughts, feelings. Some welcome. Few not. I'm about the same fitness I was back then. Though I was substantially fitter at Uni as I played rugby! The walk was about 5 miles, and I used to do it in about an hour and a half - to make it home to do dinner! Today I ambled and took my time and was about fifteen minutes longer. It was nice to wander.

I think I'll revisit again and find more tracks!