Review: Leki Carbonlite Walking Poles

This is a much overdue review of a pair of Leki Makalu Carbonlite walking poles, supplied to me back in June(??!) by Webtogs. Suffice to say I've had plenty of opportunity to try them out and abuse them, both in the UK and in Norway, so here are my thoughts for you, should you have some spare cash after Christmas...

First of all, product description. On first impressions they look great! In a black lacquered finish with a carbon 'look' to them they have silver and gold branding which makes them look a bit special. Made of carbon they are strong and really lightweight for a mainstream brand, weighing in at 391g in total for both poles combined (weighed this morning and including a token bit of dirt...). In three sections, they extend from 66cm to 135cm which makes them a great option for use with a shelter (I used them with my Shangri-La 1 and my Trail Star) and the twist action super lock system means they're easily adjustable when you've put the poles in situ.


However, the primary purpose of walking poles is, of course, to aid walking. Comparing these carbon Makalus with the old aluminium anti shock Makalus I previously used, the difference in weight was astounding! It made a massive difference walking using lighter poles. Lighter poles just mean that using them feels effortless; although I hadn't really noticed any effort with the old ones, these lighter ones really brought the weight of the old ones into relief.





These Carbonlite Makalus have a carbide flex tip, come with a basket fitment (which I usually leave attached) and have a curious Aergon handle which reminded me of a shark's head, a little different to the usual upright cork or moulded forms but which actually were really comfortable. The only comment I would have with these, which could equally apply with Pacer Poles, is that the shape of the head means that using with a shelter slightly distorts the pitch line, but this is very minimal and you would have to be really picky to take issue with this point. I'm not so picky and haven't really found it to be an issue that can't be dealt with by simply turning the head around to match the angle.


There is also a 'Safety Strap' which I find assists in walking (depending on your style; they can give more leverage), but which I've also heard general reports of people breaking wrists when using. That is a general comment about poles though, rather than part of this specific review, but I will say that I did find that the material rubbed my hands which surprised me; I think the stitching on the straps attaching the Leki branding caused this so that will be unpicked!

One of the main features of this pole, apart from the light weight, is the Super Lock System which proffers a holding force of up to 140kg, or 309 lbs in old money. The poles use a twisting action to secure the length, which I didn't, to be totally honest, find totally reliable. On occasion I found that the poles undid themselves and after a while I found I would almost automatically detect when they'd undo and would re-twist them back into position. While there was the minor annoyance factor I am a little concerned that they could let you down when you really needed that support. They also stuck once when out walking but after a few minutes wrestling to take them apart and reassemble they resumed normal functionality. However in researching others' findings with these poles I didn't find any similar issues so wonder if it's just a spurious issue with the ones I have.


Overall I found these poles to be a great addition to my walking kit and even with the niggles I mention above, I would still recommend these if you are looking for a light weight pole from a well established mainstream manufacturer.


These poles can be bought online from Webtogs at £116.99; a 10% saving on the RRP, with a one year limited guarantee against shaft breakage and Webtogs' usual outstanding delivery, customer service and price match promise.

Something for the Weekend

With my changing circumstances I feel under a certain amount of self inflicted pressure to make the most of the opportunities available for walking near home, maybe saying my goodbyes to some special places, before I move to Norway.
Last weekend I headed on my Burbage Round, my classic bimble of along Burbage Edge, up to Fiddler's Elbow and then back down past Higger Tor and Carl Wark.

It was a good, sunny, September day, blustery with the remnants of Hurricane Katia threatening, so clouds were scudding across the sky forming moving mosaics of the fields and gritstone edges. Walking along the edges, described a little unkindly by someone as little more than a "Farm Wall", was made fun by the wind being funnelled up, and judging when the gusts would happen and when they'd recede, leaning my body weight into them, made for some entertaining moments.
Pleasantly faint jangling of climbing equipment from underneath gave some entertainment value as beginners and people on stag dos had a go climbing; the expertise, flexibility and strength of more practised instructors clearly showing as they deftly scaled up.Others were relaxing against their Alpkit Phud mats, nestled into the bottom of large boulders, while others were sticking Spiderman-like to the rough stone.

 So a good time was had, lots to see, lots of wildlife, lots of different textures underfoot from that nice, easy to walk on stone, broken into tiny pieces more like sand, to bouncing but dry peat (yes, you can bounce as you walk along). I particularly enjoy making a game out of trying to just walk on the exposed gritstone, well it's more like speed hop-scotch as you leap from one stone to another, trying not to touch dirt. It makes for interesting looks from passers by but also gives a good stretch. Until you hit the dirt patch and then decide whether you can make it out alive or not...

I digress.
One of the reasons I wanted to post this was that towards the end of my walk I decided to walk through the plantation near the old packhorse bridge. No reason in particular other than I don't often go in there.
I was pretty sickened to see the amount of trash left behind from people who had used the area as a camp site but leaving burned out fire rings, lager and caffeine drink cans laying around, food tins and bits of twine. There was a large water bottle, seeming innocuous to me when Burbage Brook was only 50 metres away, tops. I felt so disappointed. I tidied some of it up but there was broken glass everywhere. How can people do this?
Leaving that space I passed the springs and into the next bit of woodland. Here I found a few burnt stones laying together; someone had placed them there. About 5 metres away a hollow pit about 1m across, showed where the fire ring had been. I was alarmed to see smoke emit from the depression. Well, it was more a hole than a depression. The wind from Katia was hitting the side of the hole and I could see embers glowing in the ground. I spent a few seconds trying to work out the best way of tackling this; not strictly a fire, so do I call the Fire service, or attempt to try something myself? I opted for the latter and went back to the first site, found the water bottle and made the first of a few trips to try to douse the embers. On the second or third visit (it was a laborious task let me tell you!) I saw that the increasing wind had caused flames to start to lick up one side, despite my trying to quench and dampen the ground. The fire had just retained too much heat and had sunk into the earth, spreading for who knows what distance around, underground in the peat.
I decided to call the Fire department. No phone signal. Ah, but Emergency Services could be called. I tried to work out the grid ref then remembered I could just create a Point of Interest on ViewRanger and take that (yes, lazy I know). I did that and called the Emergency Services. They didn't seem to be very well equipped to take a grid ref so I explained where I was using the Fox House as a point of reference for them. They asked me to wait in the vicinity to I said I'd wait at the old packhorse bridge which is a very well known crossing point in the valley.

Time passed.

More time passed.

I heard sirens. Where the hell were they?

More time passed.

I got fed up.

I watched as other likely looking campers made their way down towards the plantation and the bridge. They were dressed as if they were going out into the city for an afternoon stroll. Rain was forecast. Oh well it's only a 20 - 30 minute walk out to the pub. Plastic carrier bags were dropped and picked up, shouts and laughter passing between one another.

They were about to pass closely by me so I called out to them to warn them that if they were camping, to avoid the area I'd been as there was a fire in the making and that I'd called the Fire service out. They were grateful. So much so that I picked up a gift from them later which in no way would I have been able to anticipate.
The Fire guys still had not arrived and this was more than half an hour after my call. I decided to head out to the road where, past Toad's Mouth I could see a National Trust Land Rover and a Fire Engine. I picked up my car, drove and then legged it over to them, peering up at the driver from the open passenger side door. I explained who I was. They explained that the operator had referred them to the Maynard Arms at Grindleford (how, I have no idea) and that they had no mention of a grid ref. I opened up the app on my phone, reeled off the coordinates and saw their eyes light up! I showed them the OS map on my phone and said that I had set markers on the ground to direct them to where the fire was. I didn't receive any criticism for wasting their time; conversely they said that I couldn't make a judgement how far underground the fire was so I did the right thing in calling them. They were polite, professional, courteous, good guys.
Feeling good that I'd done the right thing I drove off home. Karma seemed to be in agreement; for those who don't know, the gift from the campers mentioned earlier was a wayward pack of sausages that they had dropped en route to their camp spot. I took it as an offering from Burbage valley, that the Gods were pleased and that I had earned a couple of nights supper.

If you do come across a fire hazard on the moors, just call the service. It's what they're there for, what we pay our taxes for. And please, be aware of the risk of fires; even after the on / off rain that we've had, it doesn't really take much at the back end of a summer, for something to spark.
Transmission end.

Norway

One of my favourite adverts from years gone by was for Lurpak butter, where a group of older ladies were sat in their local cafe, served by a much younger Danish woman, and who were reminiscing about what regrets they had as they advanced in age.
One of the ladies turned around to say, "I wish I had more grass stains", much to the gasps, laughter and being named a hussy by her friends, and the phrase and laughter stuck with me ever since.

This adoption was just one of the reasons I decided to go to Norway for my 2 week holiday this year, and which, looking back on that point of decision, makes me wonder how one event or moment in time can have so many ramifications.

I had toyed with ideas of going to Knoydart and wandering in the wilderness there for a few days. I'd also thought about wild camping my way through Dorset in the footsteps of Tess d'Urberville and perhaps writing some sort of walking guide to coincide with the 120th anniversary of the book. I'd thought back to my week back in February with Kim where we'd spent a few fantastic hours in Rothiemurchus Forest and which experience I sought to recreate in part. And for quite some time I'd thought about joining a certain Norwegian friend, Thomas W. Gauperaa, to hike with him in Norway.

I'd become friends with Thomas back in October last year, through Twitter and each others blogs, with a somewhat similar appreciation of the environment and ways of expressing it. It was an interesting prospect to visit Norway and him, and, I rationalised with myself, not that much more in terms of cost and travel time than heading to Fort Bill. When the awful atrocity of Utøya happened on the 22nd July this year, I think my decision was made in some way, confirming to me that life is too short and to just get on with it rather than to ponder and deliberate too much.

Giving Thomas the good news(!) I then pontificated over what route to follow. In fact when I arrived a few weeks later I still didn't have much more of a plan than that I knew I wanted to walk in the forests. I wanted to almost lose myself in the similar environment to Rothiemurchus that the forests of Nordmarka, north of Oslo lend; and I also knew that my fitness wasn't up to much so a major hike in the style of Thomas and Joe wasn't really on the cards. The results of not having something prescriptive allowed one of the most enriching times of my life.

I discovered a part of Norway that I suspect many overlook but which stirred my soul. Areas very much like the hills where I started walking, with twisted dingle dells of stunted woodland or strapping birch trees with mini kingdoms of lichens and mosses and various fungi which were so much more wide spread than in the UK. That remnant of Caledonian Forest in Scotland extends for days worth of walking in Norway, with it's ensuing sense of space and guttural, primeval attraction. And of course the bog, which I became relatively intimate with, on one occasion more than I really wanted to, but which in retrospect lent me faith in my ability to handle 'unfortunate circumstances', and was a learning opportunity about the trails in this great land.

In addition to the natural environment I spent some time in Oslo itself, enjoying a city over looking the harbour with it's boats, the museums, galleries and metro. Many of you will now know that a major draw became Mr G himself, whose surname I still have to work to pronounce (sorry), with whom I shared lots of laughter and a passion for life outdoors. While I came back from Norway, I have definitely left my heart there. This Norwegian adventure has only just begun...

MYOG: Front Mesh Rucksack Pocket

With my trip to Norway now impending, and the weather forecast looking decidedly dodgy despite the weather karma offerings in the form of Star Wars related skits, I decided last night to make my own mesh front pocket for the GoLite Jam I’ve been using now for the past year.

I like the Jam but miss having hip belt pockets after finding them so useful on my OMM Adventure Light 20L, and while it’s got a pretty large front pocket, it’s a zippered, fabric pocket. It's "OK" but I've seen how useful the big mesh pockets are on the front of so many packs so thought I want one. I couldn’t buy one in the short timescale left (see baz’s backpacking blog) as I’d recently been delivered Fraser’s failed Contrail, I decided to utilise some of the mesh from that.

Frankly I didn’t think it would be much cop so I didn’t even bother to take photos of my cutting and sewing, but basically I had a length of mesh fabric (the noseum type mesh with fine holes, but which I’d seen had been used on the product Baz had bought), some shock cord that I’d bought a while back on ebay, some mini line loks that I’d cannibalised off the contrail with a couple of bits of grosgrain ribbon, my inherited sewing machine and some ancient, still on a wooden spool, polyester-cotton thread.

First off the material wasn’t wide enough to cover the bag; I’d envisaged a full width pocket to overlap the side pockets somewhat, so had to sew two halves of what I did have together.

Because I didn't take pics, those interested will have to exercise their brain a little and follow my directions with a view at the end result photos I have bothered to take...

Basically the order of works were:

1. Cut the fabric in two.
2. Seam the fabric; this seam formed a middle join which you can see in the photo. I turned the seam over twice so there were no open edges and sewed along either side of the edge for strength.
3. Lined the mesh up to the pack to guesstimate fit and how much seam/hem allowance to leave, and where darts in the mesh might be needed to allow for ‘bag’.
4. Made a small hem along the top side to ward against fraying fabric.
5. Made small hems on each of the raw edges along each side (I did this before creating the shock cord channel to make it easier).
6. Folded over the top, seamed edge and sewed to create a channel for shock cord to run through.
7. Re-pinned the mesh to the pack, aligned the centre mesh seam, and pinned 3 darts either side of the centre. This was just trial and error with no scientific calculation, just by eye.
8. Sewed straight across the 6 darts before hemming, just to make that easier to do, too.
9. Trimmed the bottom edge under the darts, again to make the hemming easier.
10. Sewed a hem along the bottom edge. This done, all seams and hems were complete.
11. To attach the pocket to the pack, the top channel had 2mm shock cord threaded through. This was then wrapped around the back of the pack, above the shoulder straps and tied in a basic overhand knot. Nothing more fancy than that.
12. To attach the pack at the bottom I sewed a mini line lok on to the bottom, angled corners, using grosgrain ribbon, hand sewing the ribbon onto the mesh. I positioned these such that they angled upwards and over the hip belt rather than under it.Then I threaded the same sort of shock cord through the mini line loks, wrapped around the back and tied. I currently don't seem to feel this when wearing...
13. Now assembled, fit it on your pack!

Let me know if you have a go. It was surprisingly easy. The biggest learning points for me were to keep measuring up against the pack and also that time spent pinning the seams down meant the sewing was a bit faster. Also, utilise any reverse stitch facility on your sewing machine or just turn the fabric around to sew over again as I didn't do this on the end of the channel and I've noticed it just starting to come apart.

I guess it took me about an hour and 15 to create this, which isn't bad in my book, plus I had a couple of 'in the zone' moments which are always welcome!

Tapotement

I awake to the sound of my alarm. Nothing new there apart from it's the weekend and I had walked out on Friday night, pitched up somewhere about 40 minutes before dark and snuggled happily into my lofted quilt, pleasantly warm and happy.
I roll over onto my back and lazily look up at the roof of the shelter. No longer clear, I can hear the tapotement of raindrops start to fall. Staccato and merging in the wind's breath to a regular drum, a white noise with little rhythm. The wind inhales. The pulsating stops. Finger tips start to lightly touch again, soothing, delicate. Gradually and now with haste, the energy, the pace, the pressure increases. A rivulet streams, a gathering, rejoicing the union once again with the ground, to continue it's cyclical journey, never ending.

Each drop on the shelter with it's own shape and form, some tiny and delicate, some bulbous and meaningful. Static for a while until it's their moment. The wind moves, the earth breathes, the ground embraces, intake of breath, the drumming increases and then wanes. Tapotement.
It's time to get up.

In search of authenticity

After a couple of weeks of semi enforced day walks, I was yearning to spend a night out somewhere. I couldn't venture too far but I did want to venture somewhere where I wouldn't be too encumbered by human interaction, and where I could connect with myself again.

Heading out rather late I arrived at the start and nestling under the lee of a warm stone church I shouldered my pack, picked up my poles and began to walk, looking forward to the hours ahead. I passed a beautifully tendered cottage, a mature lady voicing good morning to me before I got a chance to say it first to her. I complimented her on her garden and cottage, of archetypal Englishness with blooms abound, bees busy and things very much in their place. Lovely indeed but I was looking for something more haphazard, to escape from rigour and routine, from discipline and structure. That said I had plotted a route to follow, a roughly 21 mile circular trip with a camp at mid point along a stand of trees with a water source nearby.

Onwards! I quickly spied the first of the trail markers I was to follow for most of the first half of the walk, a garish yellow metal sign hammered onto a footpath sign.

Feeling more comfort now I was on the walk proper I started to settle down into my stride. I felt rusty and stiff, partly after the car journey and partly because it had been a while. A farm worker cutting grass gave me a friendly wave from his tractor as I raised a pole at him; a hazard of walking with poles, these movements feel awkward, artificial. The small hills opened up their folds to me, cushions of wooded pockets hugging their periphery. I came upon Castle Farm, easy to see why it was so named with it's crenelations, although I think it was only built in the 1800's.

Skirting alongside a wood diverted me from the farm, the path seeming to go on forever as it disappeared into a green tunnel. Deeper into the wood I could smell the green dankness of sodden, slightly rotting vegetation after the recent rains we've had while the contrast of the farmland to the left of the tunnel, glimpsed through these wooded cages, seemed tantalising in bright sunlight.

I could feel myself starting to relax. Passing through a field of rare breed sheep, which breed I couldn't tell you, I laughed at their huge fleece, making them look like something you'd buy in a shop rather than a living, breathing animal. A different breed looked inquisitively at me as I passed these by in turn, and next a herd of red deer, bred for their venison although they looked too cute to eat with ears wide and alert, tails twitching. Now on the tops of the wold, I walked through a field of beans, slightly surprised to see the dome of the local radio listening tower and then the top of the Rambler's Church of All Saints. I loved the juxtaposition of seeing the top of the tower, did the bean plants know they were this tall?

I was on the edge of the escarpment at this point with a view for at least thirty miles, which steadily diminished in a dark purple haze as clouds swept towards me. I stopped at the church for a brew, using water from a topped up water butt, open to the elements but reasonably clear. The oncoming rain hastened my enjoyment as I could see I had about five minutes of dry weather left. Sorting my pack out took a little time, as I wasn't yet back in the routine of having everything in it's place, and leaving my waterproof out I remembered I had brought along a collapsible umbrella to see if hiking with one made wet weather hiking more enjoyable! The rain was suddenly upon me so I took to the rear of the church for shelter, listening to the sheep starting to bleat with some anxiousness. It hammered down as I hunkered down, enjoying the freshness and the smell of the earth.

The tail end clouds were a sorry comparison to the voluptuous rain clouds, only issuing a bit of spitting when the mood took them. Stowing one pole, using the other and the umbrella I slip-slided my way down the track into the village then through and onto the next band of hills.

I think at this point a feeling of mild disgruntledness crept in. While I enjoyed the prettiness of the villages and countryside I was in, and yes, more fine walking country I had discovered for myself, I felt a sense of weariness, that I needed to really "get away from it all". But what does that mean? I liked walking where I was, but it was just too neat and pretty and, well, I guess that's why so many hanker for the wilderness. Quite what wilderness means to people, I think, can mean quite different things. Some of you may know I've been reading some of Colin Fletcher lately. While I enjoy his prose, one of the great and perhaps unappreciated things I value is how he placed value and meaning on both doing 'hard walking' as well as finding your own space, to go somewhere and to enjoy being in it. So rather than the onus being on walking day after day, what about when you reach that idyllic spot, a place where your soul sings, and you feel as if you've come home. That I guess is what I am actually looking for. It may be a beach on Harris, it may be in the woods of Canada, it may be in the mountains of the Sierra Nevada or it might be in the deserts or in the Grand Canyon. Thankfully I am becoming more confident in that however I find my 'bliss', it is on my terms; I don't have to satisfy others' expectations of me and how they believe I should be spending my time, which people to follow or ideas to adopt. Ultimately that is one of the greatest gifts I can give myself, and maybe that is the biggest journey I made this weekend.

The remainder of my walk was a mix of ancient grassland through chalkland wolds, along the edges of woodlands and across farmland. Passages through tiny villages and hamlets dating to Roman times; I walked along High Street for a time. I appreciate the history of an area, man made or by nature. A land has it's own story, how it was used, abused, discarded, ignored. Much of the predominant, visible history in this area dates from Roman and especially medieval times, and of course many of the place names reflect the Norwegian impact that was made.

Making camp that night I felt that sense of tranquility creeping over me. I'd taken the Shangri-La1 with the nest in case of bugs, though a groundsheet would have done. Having already attached the nest before I put it up it was an easy job, and the elastic I'd added to peg out the corners meant I could use the same pegs as for the fly. Dinner outside always takes on the atmosphere of a feast, and as in my last trip to the Yorkshire Wolds, I'd taken a small pack of wine. Something different for dinner, and a benefit of only doing an overnighter, I cooked some pork meatballs in foil in the ashes of my sidewinder, while I cooked some pasta on top in the minimal amount of water I'd boiled. When the pasta was almost done, and had used up most of the water, I added a Lloyd Grossman "For One" Tomato and Mascapone sauce and gingerly added my meatballs. It was fantastic! After dinner and only 25cl wine I was more than sleepy, my body was achey from the most mileage it had done for about 9 months, and quickly I fell asleep. The blow up pillow I'd bought from the Pound Shop (yes, for £1) was great and I'm sure helped me stay asleep longer than I'd intended to!

It took a couple of cups of coffee to rouse me in the morning and unusually for me took about half an hour for my body to start to feel half alive. I ached more than I'd anticipated but felt sure I'd be fine once on my way. In the meantime bending over to strike camp I felt like a geriatric!

The weather was kind to me though, only the odd spitting shower, and I felt a little more rejuvenated in spirit if not bodily. After five or six miles my feet started to complain, especially as I had a bit of road walking to do. Using poles really helps I've found, and when I had to read the map I noticed the difference in how easily I walked, and the difference it made to my posture too. My feet really started to grumble at me so I took a breather, perched on a huge lump of concrete a farmer had put in the middle of an open gateway to a field. I sat there, feeling the blood pool in my feet, throbbing in complaint until they were fooled into thinking I'd finished. No way Jose! A bit of flapjack, though admittedly not @AstroNick's special recipe, helped a minor sugar rush sweep through my veins. I felt ready to go again. Thankfully it was a bit cooler than the day before but that still didn't stop my mouth feeling parched. I had about 500ml water left and kept an eye out for water troughs, rivulets or even churchyards I might pass through; they often have taps that people use to refill vases they place on graves.

I passed the lollipop on the hill again, with the same smell of creosote I'd had the day before, taking me back into childhood, one of those smells that stay with you, like hot tar being laid on a road. Eventually I turned onto a side road where I was entranced by the Scabious flowers on the verges, and the seedheads of umbelliferous plants, the cow parlsey and other members of the carrot and parsnip family. Their whorls contained such patterns; the contrasts between the still developing creamy white flowers on one stalk and the mature, purple seeds on another with a beautiful green backdrop on another.

Following a footpath to a very old farm I passed a broken down horse cart, half rotten, the other half gone completely. I slightly worried a hen with about 10 chicks, who all tried to hide in some long grass. Turning the corner around the edge of a barn I found a decrepit, mellow stone farm house with all it's original windows. I wasn't sure if someone still lived there or not; it looked like one of those properties where an elderly person has lived there all their lives but who can no longer keep up with it. The wooden porch and wooden framed windows all looked to be rotten, indeed the porch was dilapidated and hanging from one side. But the stone looked mellow and welcoming, and though aged and in want of some care, there was a certain warm spirit about the place.

My path led me over another bean field, a red earthen path leading through in a straight line. After the rain the clay stuck to my feet, feeling heavier and heavier, despite the lighter feeling that I knew I'd be able to take a breather soon. The next field gave me opportunity to clean my boots with the long grass, a curious striation across the field, perhaps marking the edge of a long forgotten boundary with a deeper coloured grass on the far side. More fields, more sheep, I descended over the last of my wolds, the church appearing in the valley. My feet were very sore now but my spirit refreshed, but still with a yearning for more.

Initial Thoughts: Berghaus Mount Asgard Half Zip Smock

If you're interested in the outdoors you may well have heard about the incredible "Asgard Project" where Leo Houlding and his team set out to climb the North Face of Mount Asgard in 2009.

As part of that, Leo was involved in designing some of the kit he took and this Mount Asgard Smock is part of the range Berghaus developed with him, utilising the new Gore Tex Pro Shell fabric.

Anyway, Gear Zone approached me to review a couple of things for them; one a Montane Soft Shell Dyno Jacket (which I'll do more fully another time) and this, which unfortunately I have to send back! So I've had this jacket for about a month now but with the balmy weather conditions we've had for well over 2 weeks of that, I've made the most of more dodgy weather to get an idea of the fabric qualities and wear of the garment, so would consider this to be initial thoughts rather than a full blow review.

So, what's it like? Going from top to tail, the half zip smock I tried had a great fitting hood, I've heard big enough to take a helmet though I don't use one, but with very well thought out cords to be able to cinch it around your head effectively and comfortably. The zip at the front is long! And this means that as a smock you are able to keep well ventilated (as long as you are not walking straight into driving rain), with a wide storm flap to stop weather ingress through the water resistant zip. There is a decent sized chest pocket just alongside, lined with a slightly stretchy mesh. Under the arms is gusseted, bright red on this model, which gives great articulation if you are scrambling (or climbing like Leo!) and the arms are pretty long (men's fit!) with soft covered velcro to adjust. There are no other pockets in line with the philosophy of design of both the Pro Shell fabric and this range, which I didn't actually miss, but I do have hip belts on my rucksack. And to finish off there is a draw cord hem. So design wise this is simple, structured, well thought out, with attention and features where they're needed and none where they're not!

As you would imagine from this flagship fabric, it is pretty lightweight (average 289g) but far more substantial than say the Montane Lite Speed H20. It doesn't rustle or feel stiff, almost as if it has some drape about it which makes for a really comfortable wear. I had the Men's (or Unisex) smock and being a woman with a very female figure I found that the smock wasn't cut for my sort of figure. If you are a woman reading this, bear that in mind; those with boyish figures would find it an easier fit, as you'd imagine with smock styling anyway.


Overall I think this is an awesome product! I enjoyed wearing this as a windshirt (the breathability is excellent, even puffing my way up a hill it breathed really well, I didn't feel clammy but equally I didn't feel in need of more protection), and more importantly as a waterproof which I have to say it excelled at in driving rain on the flat moors in the Peak District. If it there was a women's version I think it would be so much better than a halfway house of Unisex or full on Men's version (which this is); the fabric itself is fantastic and seems a shame to have the cut diminish the otherwise excellent properties; if I were male I would run to the shops and get one!

If you are thinking about buying one, Gear Zone currently have them at £187.00 with free P&P, and it also comes in black...

Review: Chocolate Fish Merino

One of the great things about being on Twitter is that you can have direct contact with outdoor clothing manufacturers, and this is how I met Amanda from Chocolate Fish Merino. Amanda is the friendly face of a small company specialising in Merino baselayers, with genuine interest in other Tweeters and the world at large.

A couple of months ago she sent me a Taranaki 190 Merino Long Sleeve Crew T-Shirt in a lovely royal (cobalt) blue colour. She explained it was a returned item and didn't have the labels on it but she washed it and sent it over to me to try out and write about. April's mini Summer (I really do hope it wasn't the UK's only one) meant that I didn't really get chance to wear it much to do a decent test and review. Not put off by this, Amanda in the meantime sent me a Women's T-Shirt in black and a Women's Taranaki 190 Merino Cami in a nice dark red / burgundy colour. From a disclaimer point of view I will declare that I have received all 3 items FOC with the purpose of review, but if you've read other reviews I've carried out I think you will know I write pretty frankly! Now that I've had chance to wear all three I thought it was time for you to read my thoughts!

Starting off with the Women's T-Shirt, out of the wrapper I was immediately struck by the quality of the fabric. All 3 Chocolate Fish Merino products I have are of 190gsm weight material, so aren't quite directly comparable with the 3 Icebreaker products I've mentioned on this blog in the past, those being either 150 or 200gsm. What set the Women's T apart for me, right from the off, was the weave of the fabric and the cut of this T. The scoop neck isn't cut high so is a little more flattering than many (including the Long Sleeved Crew), but it's not so low as to feel draughty on the hills. The cut is tailored to a female figure rather than a man's or unisex product, so is flattering to wear, plus the length is long enough for me at 5 ft 9ins, a big issue when it isn't long enough, but not an issue if it is! The top is comfortable, the weave of the jersey knit feels soft but it has a robustness about it which I've noticed means it keeps it's shape well after numerous washings.
I've worn this on more than a few outings now, on the hills, casual evening walks and also to work and to the gym. I would even wear it on a night out (but that's just me!). It costs £44.95 which I would baulk at frankly if I only felt it suitable for the outdoors, but because of it's high utility I would feel much more comfortable in buying this knowing I could get a lot of wear out of it in a lot of different situations. (Thinking about it, the quality reminds me of how Marks & Sparks used to be viewed in the old days; you pay for what you get!) In fact it's a regular feature as much as part of my working wardrobe and out hiking. I personally am not that keen on labelling clothing as 'technical' but this does do all that you'd expect of a merino baselayer, wicking my effort away efficiently, not feeling clammy or damp. I think it's safe to say if you meet me on the hills this summer you'll likely see me in it!

The Long Sleeve Crew is another great product, the neck cut higher and therefore feels closer than the Women's T. The arms are a great length for me, being a unisex product, so may not be great for more petite women. The body length is quite long too which means I am happy when it's cold that it covers my back, in fact it covers half of my bum too. This is definitely the T I wear when it's pretty cool outside, whereas I like the Women's T for when the weather is a tad warmer even if windy (I would wear either with a windshirt if it's windy). I wonder what the L/S Crew's lower threshold will be, though I've found doubling up with a S/S T over a L/S T gives me a lot of flex in layering. The LS Crew is on offer at the time of writing at £49.95 instead of the usual £54.95 so I would say grab one for the cooler weather now!

The Cami is something a little different, and only for the ladies! It has spaghetti straps but because of the weight of the fabric it doesn't make you feel quite so at risk of 'exposure' that lighter weight fabrics can do. It's also constructed using panels of fabric which gives more support. It feels great on, like a second, supportive skin, but again, one of the great things about this is that, in a rather old fashioned way maybe, it can obviously be used as a vest too. This is very much at the outer limit of my budget at £34.95, and for the utility value I would probably rather buy a Women's T at a tenner more, but for those on not so tight a budget or as a present it is a really nice item, especially if we were to get something akin to a summer...For those looking for a cami top for a travel wardrobe in warmer climes I would definitely recommend this; for the UK weather I would want more shoulder coverage personally! (Hopefully that will provoke the UK weather to produce some sun...)

Trying not to repeat myself, all products use the same 190 gsm fabric and, as with all the merino products I've worn to date, the stink factor is pretty limited if at all, even after being subjected to being worn to work and then to the gym, or just simple consecutive daily (and nightly) wear for days at a time. I've found all three to wash really well, dry reasonably fast, wick sweat really well (unless it's trickling down my back which does happen at the gym but that's a different test!) and none are bulky.
What sets these apart for me is the utility value meaning I would get more wear for my £, so while on paper they look a little expensive (though not really compared to other merino products), they are so wearable that I am more likely to wear them in my day to day life as well. I think these are products that will last a good few years wear so for me these would definitely be a worthwhile, sustainable purchase.

Lost: One Mojo

A couple of stressful weeks at work, money worries and no longer being 'in' therapy, have left me feeling a bit out of sorts. And before I knew it, Sunday was looming. Where to go? I'd been out the previous Sunday, and Monday night too after an internal cry for help from my spirit and needing some soul food. I had driven out to the Fox House and cooked up my dinner while sat on the edge of Carl Wark. That was pretty blissful and helped me feel a little more me, but I still haven't felt quite 'right' in myself...

So, where to walk? I decided to revisit last weekend's destination, sort of, and approach the area from a different angle. I had been inspired by the view near Abney Grange, looking down the valley towards Bretton Clough, with the remnants of what look like moraines, a pretty confused but small area of landscape.

Plotting my walk the night I was also conscious of wanting to walk further thank I've done for a while (more lost mojo stuff; the hip thing has knocked my confidence a little) so I planned a 10 mile route that would take me through Abney Clough, up on to Abney Moor and then down to the Grange, around to Bretton, do a bit of a wiggle into the Clough and then up on to the moor and go stone circle hunting. Plan made, printed, customary battle with clear sticky film (forecast = rain), pack packed, poles in car (I still forget them sometimes) and I was good to go. More or less.

Heading out I felt good; it wasn't too late, though it wasn't that early either. The drive was alright, an idiot up my bum until I turned off after Fox House to Grindleford, and then a spirit raising section near Leam. I parked off the road near Hazelford (what a lovely name), making sure my handbrake was on and set off down the track past Tor Farm. Turning back to check the car wasn't sliding down the hill it was lovely to see the view over to where I'd had dinner 7 days before. There is something about this landscape that wants to transport me back in time. Massive blocks of stone lay recumbent in the sweet meadow grass, dotted with those white clouds on legs we call sheep.

I was heading towards Stoke Ford and not having been there for the best part of 20 years, frankly I couldn't remember the landscape. Not to worry, I'd got the laminated map and figured out where I was. Kind of.

From the grassland I went through a five bar gate and was plunged along a footpath into a bit of a wood that reminded me very much of a section on the West Highland Way apart from I had better weather this day, the footpath twisting and turning, some parts sandy underneath clumps of heather with glittery stone and sand fragments glinting in the sun. It was a lovely little stretch and I thoroughly enjoyed, even more so as I emerged into a glade where a track forded a stream, and a couple of robust foot bridges negotiated their way for foot passengers. I hung around a little while, smelling the heady perfume of some pale cream and yellow honeysuckle, before crossing over on one of the bridges and onto the path.

This was my first 'navigational error', or, 'where I went wrong'. Instead of taking the path on the southern side of the stream (which was even VERY clearly sign posted to Stoke Ford), in my perfumed drunkenness I somehow decided to head on a path on the northern side, which initially looked promising but after a bit I started to question myself. Especially when I passed through sections bordering what looked like burned out vehicles, a barbed wire topped stone wall, a mid thigh high meadow and a curious mini orchard and attempt at a woven willow structure with a camp fire/kitchen nearby. Strange. I wondered if I was about to be an extra in a remake of 'Deliverance' and looked around me to see if I was being watched. No one. But I could hear voices on the breeze... I hurried on.

Soon after my Deliverance moment I spied a multi fingered footpath sign in the distance. Result! I arrived at Stoke Ford with a sense of relief and company as about ten middle aged (hang on, that's what I am now; maybe they would now be counted as old?) people were having a brew on the far side of the stream. I plonked myself down on the stone bank with my feet dangling over just above the water and had some nuts and drank some water and just watching the world go by.
Another group of very cheery ramblers came down the opposite bank, looking to be from late 60s and into late 70s. The Leader, wearing a Bolsover Ramblers baseball cap, smiled at me, proudly declaring they were doing a 9 miler and heading up to Abney. It looked as if he was about to carry on up the hill but was halted in his tracks by plaintive cries from some of the others of, "I thought we were going to stop for a coffee!".
They perched against the stone wall and I enjoyed eavesdropping on their conversations, the mundanity of daily life, what the neighbours were up to etc etc. The first group departed, a group of 6 fell runners streaked past without coming down to the Ford, and then another group of ramblers marched from west to east, much like the elephants in the Disney version of the Jungle Book. After this mini Piccadilly Junction had dispersed I decided to rouse myself and went back to the footpath sign. It clearly pointed the way to Abney so for the life of me I can't remember why I decided to ignore that and to instead head for a small gate into another meadowy area running alongside the stream...

A couple of people passed me, a jovial Scotsman with a lady who looked to be his Thai Bride. She was fit and they both strode ahead of me and soon disappeared. I caught up with them again as they negotiated the first of many low hanging branches and we continued to concertina together and apart for the next third of a mile or so. The differentiating moment came at a whole Beech tree laying across the ground. The top of the trunk was about 4 to 5 feet off the ground. I decided I wanted to play on the top of the tree, enjoying the different perspective with the tree still alive but horizontal rather than vertical. Moving on I was halted again by a goat skull hanging in another tree, horns attached, looking a little sinister. Another Deliverance moment?

By now I had determined I was most definitely not on the right path. I hadn't quite figured out where I was but the map didn't add up with where I needed to be, and the end of the path was in sight. Well, technically that wasn't quite true; there was no end as such it just disappeared. I couldn't immediately see where the couple had gone; there were no obvious tracks to me. Instead, more barbed wire, a stream, a bank plunging down into said stream. Ok, up then! A minute on a mud wall showing the previous couples secrets of sliding confirmed they had passed this way. I scrambled up and slid back down but the up part won over and I escaped the mud chute. Argh, more barbed wire. I was conscious I was officially trespassing and having figured out where I was on the map, knew I wasn't on a right of way, and wasn't that far from a couple of farm buildings. I spent a precarious couple of minutes straddling the barbed wire, trying to hold it down and away from my nether regions and failing to pass unmarked, before making it to the other side. A brew was most definitely called for so I settled my rump onto a mossy bank and fired up the sidewinder. A cup of coffee (I'm trying out Kenco Millicano instead of the ubiquitous Starbucks Via; way less packaging and not bad a taste) in my lovely Kuksa gave me pause for thought and respite. Oh, and this pic demonstrates my acquired prowess with Thermawrap and Duct Tape!

I took the opportunity to replan my walk for the day. Cast aside the 10 mile Mojo and instead make the most of what I'd got. I was following Bretton Brook rather than along Abney Clough and I decided instead to adopt Bretton Clough properly, find the convergence on the map where the path from Abney and Cockey Farm descended before rising to Nether Bretton and see where my feet were to take me then.

It wasn't that long before I saw a little footbridge in the crease of the valley, which I gained after negotiating more barbed wire and a deep gouge in a bank, secreting a stream. Jumping over a couple of tussocks I got to the bridge, crossed over and found a couple of footpaths leading away. I felt a sense of relief, away from the claustrophobia of the woods and out onto the...bumps? I was slap bang in the middle of what had inspired the walk, a rougher country version of Postman Pat Land, paths wheedling their way around them, the bumps being too tall to see over. It was fun! I used Viewranger on my phone to see which one I had picked but it wasn't difficult terrain, I was just more curious to see what it looked like. There was the outline of a long ruined building, joined by a family of four out for a late picnic. I rounded another bump and left them. I completely loved this area and delighted in it's twists and turns and surprises, the fecundity of the ground, the sense of place. I could happily imagine living here, and in researching the area on the net, found that this formed a refuge against Bonnie Prince Charlie and his cattle rustlers in 1745. My link to the highlands restored in this fold of Derbyshire?

Following another fold I dipped to another stream, across a bridge and then took the high sheep path instead of the low footpath, across a hillock graced with birches, heather just starting to flower and bracken fronds unfurling. Glorious! A mix of Skylarks and a variety of Tits were calling and singing, woodland and moorland birds intermingling song. Even more heart lifting I came out on another meadow with another ruined building in the middle distance. Fallen down stone walls were dusted with a low living member of the bedstraw family (thanks @Hen4!) which, when the sun shone made my heart glad. John Muir used that phrase for the mountains but I find that for me it can apply almost anywhere if I keep my senses alert. The stones were nestled comfortably among the plants, as if they were just a-slumber. Yet another place I want to return to and dwell. I moved on to the ruin, enjoying figuring out the structure and what fit where in the ramshackle ruins, nature taking over and forming perfect benches as grass overlaid double walled structures. A turf seat. A red moving dot caught my eye; someone up on the small cliff face overlooking the clough. Interesting. It looked like a couple and I wasn't sure if I was intruding on them or actually if they were intruding in on me in my soliloquy.

A track led away from the ruin, towards where I had walked the previous Sunday. Rather than cutting across country with the growing bracken and heather and ground nesting birds, I decided to keep to the path. I seem to find that regardless of where I walk I am usually rewarded with a new sign or sound and, following this path I came upon a beautiful pastoral scene with lambs suckling at their mums, while shaded under a wizened tree. Their nudges were so enthusiastic that the ewes were off their hind legs. Other lambs were much more casual, one stretching from sleep, reminding me of my cat as hind legs extended.

Soon though I was on to the top, The Barrel Inn at Bretton just over the horizon, the mast at Sir William Hill clear and proud. It is such a landmark hereabouts; I don't regard it as an eyesore as it's something I'm so familiar with it seems part of the landscape I know. The odd Skylark took off from the grass, singing in alarm and warning. Thoughts of stone circles had left me; too many people on the edge of the moor for the solitude I prefer, so I wove my way through a plantation area and then up to the cliff I'd seen the people on earlier. A family were about 75m behind me but didn't stop at the outcrop. It was windy as the valley funnelled up energy from the valley, swooping up and over the cliffs. I didn't mind; there was enough shelter to take a pew, make a brew and absorb the view! Gliders were making the most of the weather, acrobatics in the sky. The colours of the rock face, the lichen, so much detail.

Time was passing comfortably but I decided the return trip to Stoke Ford was due, where I made the same Jungle Book elephant traipse down, across and up; too many people at Piccadilly Junction again! Now following in reverse the path I should have taken originally I could see newly planted native trees, cordoned off against sheep grazing. I passed a line of ants, looking industrious. I traced them back to their nest, the top of the anthill flat as if someone had cut a lid off. It was like looking at a kaleidoscope, ever shifting before my eyes. While absorbed I was passed by the family of four who had passed me at the outcrop; one of the sons dressed in a Belgian camo pattern with a yoke/daypack arrangement and Magnum boots on. He glanced over what I was wearing and initially looked doubting at me. That passed as I passed them and I like to think that maybe, just maybe, he saw the light of lightweight backpacking.

The view I had turned around to admire at the start now greeted my eyes. It was a minor struggle to keep to the footpath as my eyes were held by the view, High Low (a small hill) looking suspiciously akin to Carl Wark to my mind, the ribbon of Stanage reaching towards Bamford Edge, Higger Tor proud on the horizon. Again I was taken to times past.

I'm not sure if I have found my mojo, maybe it's just a simple matter of being part of the rat race and competing priorities, but I know for sure that I absolutely need to get outside regularly. The quality of my life increases in direct proportion to the time I spend walking and pondering, noticing and paying attention. I felt a little embarrassed at mis-reading the map not once but twice, I've still not increased my mileage as I want (but why do I want?). But this is honest, this is me, and if you can help me find it I am happy to follow directions!

A year in the life of...

Little did I know, exactly one year ago, that my backpacking (and social media networking) style would have changed so much in the course of one year.

A year ago I signed up to Twitter (16th May 2010) and then a couple of weeks later, started this blog (31st). In this time my backpacking journey has been explored, analysed, experienced and relished. I've made some good friends, met some new people both in real life and many more online. It's lead to a richer experience all around and my kit has changed enormously, mostly down to the generosity of one or two key people but also through selling a lot of old / outdated / heavy equipment and replacing it with lighter versions.

Just selling and replacing with lighter gear isn't really in the true spirit of lightweight backpacking; I'm learning it's more of an attitude thing, considering multi use items, simplifying and making your own gear. Lately, thanks in part to being beneficiary of my late Aunt's sewing machine, I've started to dabble in making my own things; the pooh stick, a fair number of stuff sacks and a prototype hip belt in some cannibalised fabric and oddments have helped sate my need to be connected with the outdoors when I haven't been able to get 'out there'. And that is what it's all about really.

That experience of being in and of the land, the air and sky, how it lives and breathes. It's not necessarily a sense of adventure, although that is reasonably plentiful for me, any time I venture somewhere unknown (and sometimes known too). I have found that I enjoy England. That England of rolling hills and Hawthorn hedgerows. That John Betjeman, quintessential green and pleasant land. I like the hills too, and the coast, and even the flat lands; they all have something to offer if you keep your eyes and ears open!

The journey to light weight means for me the ability to continue to wander, to be at least adequately kitted out and not carrying more weight than I need. Instead of a pack weighing upwards of 12Kg (I think the record for me was something like 45lbs when I was in my early 20s, about 2 years before the photo above was taken of me in Austria), now it is more likely to weigh about 8Kg, including water and food. I can add odds and ends as I want and within reason but while I am strong, as I approach my 40th birthday in August I don't want to carry more weight than I need. And frankly I'm not fit enough to do that either at present. (Losing 'that' weight is also on the cards...)

Who knows what the next year will hold? I'd like to get fitter again and cover a bit more distance than I currently do. I'd like to improve my basic map and compass work and to do more walking in the dark! I'd like to do more sketching on my wandering. I'd like to do more local wandering, uncovering more flora and fauna and sharing that through my local communities and surrounding villages perhaps. I expect the learning / weight curves will continue but I expect them to flatten off somewhat. Generally I think I'll carry on going to places less conventional in the hill walking world; that may mean I don't walk so many hills...but if I retain the level of solitude but with pleasant, limited interaction with people rather than being annoyed by their overwhelming presence in more populous destinations, then I am sure I shall continue to grow on my lighter weight wondering wandering journey and be happy.