A Night Out of Town

It was only a few weeks ago that I was afflicted by an inflammation of the lower lumbar joints which made walking so painful that I couldn’t make it to the corner shop. The condition is now much improved. Maybe it was my recent trip to Arles - which is not so far away from Lourdes - that brought about the cure but, in any case, mountain hiking is back on my life-agenda. So, as in days of old, my companion and I stuffed the campervan with kit and fired up for a journey to the mountains and a tentative attempt at a peak or two. While the south and east of the country experienced a sun-drenched heat-wave, we headed, resolutely, north and west towards Snowdonia, where the cooler air coming in off the Atlantic was turning into mist and light precipitation on the very slopes of our aspirations.

Our first evening there was spent in planning a two-day expedition which involved ‘wild’ overnight camping. A large part of the enjoyment of this type of activity derives from the anticipation and planning of it.  Another part comes from the assembling of equipment and kit and, yet another, from the satisfaction of using the stuff. The final part comes from the actual hiking. It follows that it is important to get the balance right: too much equipment means a burdensome rucksack and a curb on one’s pleasure; too little and one is exposed to the vagaries of mountain weather and terrain. Some people pack sawn-off toothbrushes and portion-controlled paste in sachets, thereby saving a few grams towards the accommodation of essentials such as flasks of wine and malt whisky. Those who are inclined to be obsessive should take heed: days can be spent in attempting to resolve this equation and there is a real danger of their never leaving the camp site.

We did eventually get going and walked up to and around a remote lake where we pitched our tiny tent (weighing in at only 1.3 kg) on the only piece of level ground we could find – a grassy ledge overlooking the lake. The clouds had cleared and a photo of our beautiful site would have made a perfect cover for a brochure advertising tourism in Snowdonia. It would not, however, have shown the midges which live in the grass. They like to emerge every evening and morning to plague campers who are intent on eating al fresco. There are several species of midge, only some of which bite and, of those, just the females. This might be useful information but for the fact that they are so microscopically small you cannot distinguish one from another.

Those parts of our bodies that we could not clothe were smeared with bug-repellent but midges are very successful at driving people to distraction, regardless of counter-measures, and so it was that we were obliged to retire early (seven o’clock) to the tent. There was relief and a moment of smug satisfaction at the fact that the ventilation panels are micro-mesh and midge-proof, but this was followed by the realisation that we were now prisoners in an extremely small nylon bag. We whiled away the time talking over our day, eking out our quota of alcohol and taking turns at sitting up, stretching out and turning over until sleep finally overcame us – at around eight thirty.

At eleven thirty I was awake, listening to a little creature scratching at the tent and hoping it would move on. At twelve thirty I decided to venture outside and shoo it away – only to find no creature but a clump of rough grass brushing against the gently flapping fly sheet. Thus disturbed, continued sleep was elusive, so I looked forward to the daylight (five thirty) and the resumption of hiking.

After a quick breakfast of green tea, cereal bars and midges we struck camp and moved on to enjoy some glorious hiking and some discussion, like others before us, of ways to beat the midges. Back in town I read about a device which is effective at attracting and trapping midges by the million. I just have to figure out how to get it into my rucksack. 

Driving Over Pheasants

I sometimes walk past a pub which advertises “Live DJs Every Friday!” and, each time, it causes me to speculate as to what a dead DJ would sound like. This type of thinking can become an obsession. For example, the expression “free range eggs” troubles me because it is the hens that range freely – not the eggs. Although I work hard to overcome this pedantic tendency, my forays into the countryside don’t help. Driving around the North Yorkshire Moors recently I spotted so many “free range eggs” signs that I might have suffered an apoplectic fit had it not been for another minor phenomenon which distracted my attention: that of road-kill.

There were hundreds of dead creatures splattered on the minor roads, victims of un-witnessed hit-and-run incidents. There they lay, undisturbed and in varying degrees of decay, with occasional crows picking at them. At first I took a gruesome interest in the corpses, trying to identify the flattened creatures and estimating how long ago they had been squashed – not easy to do when you are driving quickly past. I did however manage to establish that, except for the occasional badger, the victims were mostly game birds. The feathers gave me a clue – that and my realisation that we were in game-shooting country. From what I know of the micro-economy of the region, it does heavily depend on hunting, in which case there are slim pickings ahead for those looking forward to “the glorious twelfth”.

Four of us were driving across The Moors, counting the corpses and musing on this threat to the viability of the local economy. We were en route to the port of Whitby for a touristic experience. “So, what’s Whitby famous for?” asked the ‘northern virgin’ of our party. “Fish and chips” we three replied, “Oh, and Count Dracula” said I. “When he had himself shipped over from Transylvania in a coffin, he was unloaded at Whitby and concealed in the Abbey, a spooky-looking, jagged ruin sitting up on the cliff-top”. “But that was just a story, wasn’t it?” she countered. “Yeah, well – it’s still famous for it” said I, indignant at such southern complacency. In the event our visit was a muted, out-of-season experience. The weather was blustery and cold, the Abbey ruins were closed and none of us really fancied fish and chips so we ate crab salad in a pub instead. The view of the harbour was more appealing seen from indoors and over the top of a pint of Black Sheep ale.

 We drove back via a different route and, although the scenery and the corpse count were much the same as before, we were treated to something a little different. As we approached an obscure hamlet there was a road-side sign warning of ‘Free Range Children!’ “Obviously they mean freely ranging children!” I raged – to no avail, since nobody else had seen it and, in any case, the hamlet was devoid of any (living) thing. The next village advertised the more commonly found ‘Slow Children’ but, by this time, I was looking forward to bed and past caring about punctuation.

A few days later I read about a list that had recently been compiled. Eminent U. K. historians had been asked to evaluate the myriad sites of historical significance to be found in Britain and to rank them according to their perceived importance to the historical development of Britain. I don’t remember numbers 2-10 but, to my mortification there, at number 1, was Whitby Abbey! Count Dracula was not mentioned. The reference (as everyone should know) was to the fact that the Abbey was the site of the AD 664 Synod of Whitby when the Anglo-Saxon King of Northumbria, Oswy, opted to swap from the Celtic Christian tradition to the Roman one, the long term consequence of which was to bring England into line with the European mainstream. The next time I need to impress a ‘northern virgin’...

Conversation on The Moors

Two miles from the nearest hamlet, off a B road and up a long, snaking track, lies the farm which was to be our campervan site for three nights. It’s on high ground above the market town of Helmsley on the edge of the N. Yorkshire Moors. Many sites are in such places, on working farms, so it is an opportunity for us to see how life is lived in the real countryside. Lonely is how I would characterise it.

It was spring–time and the lambs had just been born. The whole of England was enjoying fine, sunny weather but, despite that, ours was the only van on the site. The farmer, relieved at seeing humans again since their retreat to the towns last autumn, was talkative in a way that one observes in those who don’t spend much time in company. When we told him where we were from, his response was a twenty minute account of how some relatives of his nearly went there, or at least the airport near there, once but didn’t. I have come to accept that these one-way conversations are often the real price one pays as ground-rent for such lovely, remote places. But we had arranged to rendezvous that evening for dinner in Helmsley with our relatives who had travelled from London so, with apologies for having to curtail the conversation, we left the farmer half way through his account of the birth of each of his lambs and walked the three miles into town.

The next morning I asked the farmer how much we should pay for the site. “Oh, wife deals wi’ books like. You’ll ‘a’ see ‘er, onny she’s tekkin dog out” is what I think he replied. When I caught up with her later she invited me into the kitchen to complete our transaction. Because her accent was less pronounced than her husband’s - or maybe because she had a full set of teeth – I soon got her drift, settled the account and turned to small-talk about the weather. The topic is usually considered to be a good starter for conversation because it’s uncontroversial – unless, that is, you are the contrary type who prefers cold, rainy days to warm, sunny ones. On a farm, however, the topic is far from uncontroversial – as I should have known by now. Too much rain, not enough rain, blah, blah, blah...

And so I got stuck in an endless loop of weather-talk, becoming increasingly anxious for a gracious way out of both the conversation and the cosy (dark and pokey) kitchen. My dilemma became more acute when she confided that the unseasonably warm weather had caused her to break with tradition and switch from flannelette to cotton bedding earlier than was usual. I could see the direction this might take and was keen to extricate myself before the topic of underwear came up, so I pretended to take an interest in the dog – there is always a dog in a farmhouse kitchen. It was a smart move in one way – the underwear minefield was sidestepped – but I then had the problem of trying to follow the minute particulars of this dog’s pedigree. In situations such as this I try to keep a light in my eyes and not allow them to glaze over completely – it’s another life-skill that I have acquired. In the end, however, I resorted to the excuse that I needed to get my boots on and start our planned hike before it got too late.

That evening, as I was preparing to barbeque, the farmer “happened to pass by”. There was something unfamiliar about his appearance which, as he came nearer, was explained by the fact that he was not wearing his flat cap! He was holding it, carefully, as it was full of hens’ eggs he had just collected. “So that’s what those caps are for!” I quipped. Whether his responding smile was of amusement or bemusement I could not tell; but, either way, I was in for a detailed explanation of the egg-laying habits of his hens. I was careful not to ask too many leading questions lest I should become obliged to lay another place for dinner.

Shropshire Time Warp

The wise mother of an old friend of mine famously dismissed camping as “a complicated way of getting wet” and, after several failed attempts to disprove this theory, I am nowadays inclined to agree with her - which is why my preferred accommodation, when exploring the countryside, is my campervan. I have noticed, however, that the recent, extended spell of dry, sunny weather, combined with a spate of public holidays, has resulted in a rash of ‘reverse city breaks’ and I can reliably report (from the swivelling seat at the front of the campervan) that the practice of camping is currently thriving - which is good news for the local economy of many a rural community.

In our own exploration of the rural idyll, we met up with friends on a fully booked-out campsite just outside Bishops Castle - that gem of a small market-town in the Welsh Marches. We parked our campervans in a formation reminiscent of pioneer wagon trains on the American prairies, served ourselves gin and tonic, weighed up our neighbours and evaluated their varying types of equipment. Some, I concluded, would have brought with them a pop-up privet hedge had such a thing been on sale in their local camping centre. One item we all had in common, however, was fine, dry weather - an essential requirement for a satisfactory camping experience.

Those of you who are perplexed as to the purpose of camping will now be asking questions such as “So what?”, or “Then what?”- the answers to which are of a soporific nature and, perhaps, best left to professors of sociology. Those of you who are not troubled by such esoteric issues will probably want to know more about the facilities on offer since it is well known that they vary considerably from one place to another. This particular site had the advantage of being on a hill-top and, therefore, had great views of the surrounding countryside. Balanced against this, however, was an almost total lack of water pressure in the showers and a merciless exposure to the prevailing wind (neither of which is of concern to campervanners, by the way).

Any niggles, in my view, were cancelled out by the site’s close proximity to Bishops Castle which boasts (among other attractions) that Holy Grail for lovers of real ale - The Three Tuns, Britain’s oldest licensed pub and brewery. As if this were not enough, my delight was compounded by the discovery of a pub around the corner which was staging a three-day event of live music with a bar dedicated to locally made ales and ciders. That evening, unable to recruit a companion, I rolled down the hill solo to take advantage of this unexpected culture-fest. Entry was free (a mixed blessing, since free entry usually promises amateurism,) so my expectations in respect of the performance were modest as I tried to make up my mind whether to have an evening of ale or cider.

Having decided on the ale, I began to take notice of the assembling audience. It comprised people of all ages and types. In front of me a small group of excited Hooray Henrys joshed each other, one of them declaring that this was the best pub he had ever been in - ever! Their city accents cut sharply into the softer burr of the local voices and they were oblivious to the anxious-looking chap of around forty who stood nearby wearing a top hat over his shoulder-length hair and a one-piece black body-stocking with a white skeleton printed on it. Most of the rest of the audience, apart from a couple of single ladies out together, had not really bothered to dress for the occasion which was a shame because, when The Smoking Aces finally  took the stage, it was apparent that they had gone to a lot of trouble in that respect.

Their act offered very authentic-sounding, crowd-pleasing 1950’s rock ‘n roll - complete with appropriate costumes and a replica cylindrical, chrome, slotted microphone. Far from being amateur, this was a polished performance by talented musicians and the audience loved it. The Hooray Henrys were captivated by the irresistible simplicity of the rhythms, their clumsy, drunken dancing revealing its origins in the clubbing circuit, while the man in the skeleton suit claimed his dance-partner and showed off their exhibition-standard jive techniques. The two single ladies swayed rhythmically and looked around occasionally, hoping, I was sure, for a dashing partner to approach with a smile and a polite “May I?” All the while, grey-haired old-timers, having long ago given up on the jive, tapped their feet, smiled wistfully and inwardly assessed the authenticity of the songs compared with the original recordings stashed in their attics.

The end of the gig coincided happily with the limit of my capacity for ale consumption and I made light work of the ten-minute up-hill trek with the encore reverberating in my head – The Smoking Aces’ inspired version of the original ‘Hound Dog’ as performed by Big Mama Thornton. Bow-Wow!