Sometimes a backpacking trip or a camping weekend is just that - no epiphany, no shinning sunrise or sunset, no barriers or records broken. It can just be grey, damp survival - one day becoming the next.
I suspected this weekend's weather might be amazing so I packed up on Saturday morning to go out. It took me most of the morning and I eventually got going at 11, stopped for coffee then "accidentally" walked out via Fulwood a second time. I almost submitted to the god of lost causes & kept walking through this very poshest of" burbs" My cafe stop turned into lunch.
In Fulwood you don't think twice about leaving the dog outside the co-op so I bought some more calories or continued down into the Mayfield valley - where I should really have started out.
I dropped in at Forge Dam but it was busy, full of children throwing seed at ducks and waste food for the dog to be driven mad. I used their facilities then ran away. Just as I was feeling that nature was a little strained I noticed a hobby sitting in a tree at the edge of the field, waiting to feed on anything that sang. It was grey against a greying sky, but beautiful.
We took another afternoon tea break at the Lama farm. For all that the Mayfield valley was lovely, I finally felt like I started my walk when I got away from all the people commenting on Lena carrying her own luggage. I know they're only being friendly but if you think "you should do that for your dog" good for you - get on with it, keep it to yourself - see you soon.
Peace only came on the final climb, passed by a few runners doing their own thing. I watched mountain bikers cross my path, heading up the bridleway. At the Lama caf I moved a chair under the eaves to a dry spot to eat and put on my waterproofs. I didn't want to get too comfortable indoors. The incoming rainbow was beautiful but meant one thing. I was glad it was cold enough to justify wearing fleece trousers under waterproofs.
We joined the Houndkirk road too late for sunset, only just in time to catch the orange glow against the grey skies but Sheffield always looks superb, receding and twinkling in the distance. As the sun finally disappeared from the sky I got quite sick of trudging the wide dirt road and not a fan of powered vehicles at night, I led us off onto a footpath that crosses to Burbage with a stop to struggle into a new head torch. I made a mental note that a peaked hat is great for shading eyes from the sun but shit on a night hike.
Another couple descending in the dark kept us company to the Fox House road, then they were gone. We had the Peaks to ourselves.
I momentarily considered dinner in The Fox House Inn and turned that way. I considered a close-by building bivi but there was too much chance of unexpected company.
Anyway, this hike was all about testing my tent in some harsh(ish) conditions - cold but not too cold. It would hardly do to sleep in a building. Before I went any further up the hill I turned tail towards Longshaw. I could use another Landslide-favourite spot... but before turning in the right direction, my brain thought it might like to have dinner in the Millstone pub instead. I knew they were dog-friendly and welcoming of muddy walkers. The path down the hill was new to me and - so completely engaging that I forgot about the pub - I clearly wasn't hungry enough anyway. It was 530pm. I'd fallen into the trap of believing dark = dinner time then bed. My body clock has gone "back" but my brain still has not and it's a while since I've done this winter camping malarkey.
For 40 minutes) we stumbled through the woods on the lookout for a flat piece of grass or woodland floor between the boulders. I even considered the famed cave bivi but I didn't have the GR. Anyway, this hike was all about testing my tent in some harsh (ish) conditions - cold but not too cold. It would hardly do to sleep in a cave. We followed a few side paths toward the river. One led to some boulders- perfect for a summer swim but not a winter dip in this raging torrent. We cursed our way back up, stepping into a side stream on the way. The second path led to a lovely flat rock, a perfect size for our free-standing tent but on inspection, it leaned too much for sleeping on and the water noise would have been too much. I returned to the main path and memories that a friend had once been moved on from here while out bivyng with her children in the mid- noughties. I looked at the Garmin screen. We were almost at Froggatt Edge and Grindleford Station so I started up the hill and crossed the road - now noisy with normal people fleeing from the darkness. Frogatt held no better answers. Had I been here before with TSK & Landslide. We'd been to a pub then camped elsewhere- couldn't remember where. Was it the Maynard? Wasn't that too posh now?
Walking up the hill away from the road noise, I started to see pairs of tiny glowing eyes in the light of my headtorch. A few at first - occasional golden blinks Then more and more, around 30 pairs of eyes, adult deer, watching us stumble into their world. They were eerily silent, not a wheeze, bark or foot - stamp, just watching. Momentarily my heart raced as I imagined them to be demons come to ambush us, then I snapped back to rural England in the 2020s.
Everywhere I walked in the woods around the rocks had paths. I didn't want to camp next to a path and be woken up in the morning by an inquisitive spaniel. I found moorland and peered over the wall - barbed wire, a block-built shed, probably locked. A road beyond the wall with the comings and goings of traffic. We'd be overlooked.
I did a few laps of the open space but everything was tussocky, sloped or boggy to the point of sinking. This wasn't fun anymore. I needed something better. We were both running out of energy. To avoid the traffic I made a beeline for some low, scrappy deciduous trees, bared like twigs stuck in the ground. Beneath the twigs were more boulders, possibly quarried stone. Ripples of land out into trenches then over-grown with moss, lichen, brambles, gauze and trees so tenuous I couldn't identify them. I was glad I'd worn my old waterproofs as I forged my way through spiky things. I paused occasionally to wait for Lena who followed tentatively. If a dog can look worried, her expression said, "I hope you know what you're doing".
Eventually I found it - a flat patch of broken bracken boarded on 4 sides by scrubby spiky things. Even if anyone spotted us, there was a fortress of thorns that might persuade them to leave us in peace. I trampled the area. The occasional rock meant there was just a one-woman-and-her-dog-sized pitch The porch and extras would need to overhang space but that was Ok, the footprint I had with me was only big enough to protect our sleeping area. The less weight we put on the spiky bracken, the better. A good test of my supposedly bomb-proof tent.
I was glad it was at raining as I set down my pack, laid the footprint out then laid myself out to check the spot. I could have fallen asleep then and there. I didn't need to worry about the dog - she'd already started building a bracken nest.
Tent out, poles in. Rucsac in, dog went in, straight to her place she had been shown in the loft at home. She fell down a hole - that worried expression again - climbed out and went and sat at my foot end. I threaded her mat underneath her, dried her paws and covered her with her coat and duvet. Now to sort me out.
I peeled off boots and waterproof trousers and just for a while, I fully shut out the world, closing tge tent door to see how cosy it could be. It really was proper cosy inside. Aware of condensation building up, I opened some vents then set about organising. The rucac tucked out of the way in the dry porch. I climbed out of sweaty socks fettered out my mat and inflated it then fluffed out my sleeping bag and inflated my pillow. As part of the process my stove, mug, coffee and general useful kit were unpacked and stacked for when I felt ready. I hunted for the sleeping bag liner as I knew it would be chilly and put on my thermal layer. I do love that time of year when walking in fleece trousers is the base load and you don't get too sweaty doing it.
I made a list of things I had to do outside the tent so I wouldn't forget:
- pee
- put some tent pegs in
- get some water
- put the rain cover on - we were currently sat under a chimney with the rain cover dangling limply down one side of the tent.
My boots were still dry-what a relief after stepping in the stream earlier.
I could hear the stream behind us so I fought my way through the brush in the opposite direction to go pee. Finding the water was more of a challenge. I retraced our approach route but had to fight my way over 3 rocky ridges & through gauze and briar and still couldn't see the stream. Eventually I found it, plunging 2 feet down through a 6inch hole in the grasses. I had to balance on two tussocks - a foot on each - and lean over the hole with my bottle, trying desperately not to fall in or let go of the bottle as 2 litres per second pounded past my hand. There wasn't much room for pegging out guys but I managed 2 and put in 2 pegs on the ground sheet as a nod to the gods or something. I flipped the rain cover over the vent panel and secured it in the direction of whatever paltry breeze was around. I hadn't actually checked the weather to find out what the wind was meant to do.
Back indoors it felt late and I was tired. The poor dog hadn't moved. She had carried 2 days of food and her own 1st aid kit. I felt a little guilty. I gave her some dry food and offered her water but she stuck her nose away and resumed sleeping.
I could be bothered with cooking. I didn't want the door open so I didn't want to set fire to my new tent yet. I was too busy looking at it. I was also working hard at staying dark and not being picked out by drivers on the road or late evening dog-walkers. The food I packed to "get it used up" would need to wait for another trip. Instead I ate my cold co-op lunch and enjoyed every mouthful. I had carried a bottle of chocolate milk half way across the Peak to make hot chocolate only to be too tired to start the stove.
When I climbed into bed I took off my fleecy layers, slept in my VBL and put all my warm clothes and battery equipment in the bag around me. I played a few games with my dry bag and pillow to try and make camp sleeping more comfy than ever, but gave up.
I realised my brilliant peaked fleece hat (great for bright sun on winter days) was actually shit for sleeping and wished I'd brought a beanie. I gradually closed the vents on the tent door with the dropping temperature.
Through my early light sleep I listened to a few showers hissing on canvas and there was an occasional flap when the breeze blew. When I stepped out for one final wee I popped in a couple more guy ropes just in case and tightened down the rain cover. The tent did not say another word all night.
The dog was spark out and refused a short walk. I considered making some notes but fell asleep hard. In he night I woke up a couple of times to a full bladder and each time had to wait for the rain to stop before stepping outside. There was a thick cloud every time I unzipped, the familiar lights in the bottom of the valley took on another eerie appearance and nature seemed cloaked in the visible cloud of silence. There was no noise except mine, the dog snoring and the stream gurgling behind us.
For the most part I was warm in my neutrino 400 and VBL wearing thin layers and no socks. I could feel the temperature difference when I stepped outside. At one point my feet swelled and toes started to hurt so I put socks on to prevent the skin being damp. It seemed to work. The tent never pissed me off.. Feet and head were always well-away from the walls of the tent and the bags I had dangled from the roof stayed out of the way. A tiny amount of condensation built up in the corner that hung down the slope of my not-perfectly-flat tent pitch. The only things down there were spare clothes in a dry bag. Each time I went outside for a moment, I had a wonderful anticipation of crawling back into a warm cocoon and zipping up the doors.
The second time I came back to the tent I secured my VBL at my chest and wore my synthetic down coat for the rest of the night. The VBL still worked to keep my bag dry but a nice, warm coat kept my upper body happy.
I'd set an alarm for 5 to be awake pre-dawn. The end-of-night shivers had set in so I snuggled down and survived another 30 minutes before making the necessary brew and cereal. I did so with the door open then shut it to eat to stay warm inside but kept the vent patch open so I could see the trees.
The inevitable dawn dog walker passed on the path below. For one awful moment I thought they were coming over but they weren't - or my protective cover of gauze and brambles served its purpose. I had a legitimate boring nerd excuse for big out as the woodland outside exploded into dawn chorus and my inner birder threw open the doorway to let the sounds of nature in.
The dog and human passed without comment but I realised it was well over due time to get moving. I checked the train times deciding whether to walk to Grindleford and get the train and bus home. The alternative was to walk home but I'd need to get a pick-up because I really couldn't bear to do the townie bit again. The first train was at 09:47-there was no way I could kill 2 hours 45 minutes. Was there? I decided to get breakfast at Longshaw or see how I felt about the walk home.
While I had the tent up in a safe space, and wasn't actually planning to use it the next day, I decided to have a play and see how dry I could pack it up. There's a lot of condensation because the outer is VERY waterproof but the inner tent prevents the condensation getting inside. My test was to dry the outer with a cloth to "mostly dry", but inevitably, not completely dry. Then I would pack the tent away fully assembled, walk all day, then see if I'd still like to sleep in it again by the time I get home later. The inner collapsed beautifully so I could wipe the outer tent from underneath with the dog still sleeping. In theory this feature leaves space for me to remove wet kit and dry the dog without getting the inner tent wet. Seemed brilliant. I wiped roughly a pint of water from inside the flysheet.
Outside I removed the pegs then gave the whole thing a shake to knock off the molten sleet which had just dabbed down out of the sky. My wet-pack test was turning into a true test as the weather obliged with continuing the sleet-shower as I folded the poles and fabric and rolled the whole assembly together and into the bag. The dog finally woke up and I had to intersperse my packing with leaping on the lead each time it disappeared into the bushes. For one horror moment I thought she was off to say hi to the passing dog Walker that I had earlier seen striding towards us.
Finally we were ready. We set off down the hill to the stream, stopping where there was better access, to filter some fresh water into my camelbak. The dog's saddlebags acted as a good plug to stop her running through the narrow stiles onto the road.
I decided Longshaw was not somewhere I wanted to go to park the dog and wait in a queue so we did go to Grindleford caf and I parked my dog and walked straight to the till. Second breakfast, tea and enjoying sitting under a brolly at the outside table in fresh air because we were (both) dressed for it.
We really, almost, walked back the way we had come in the night which was nice because it was so much more enjoyable in day light. We diverted over to millstone which I had remembered as a single crag but actually it is a whole network of rocky ledges interspersed with green birchwood pastures. There were people there but we all spread out across different levels.
When we crossed on to higher ground the view opened up across the Hope Valley, Mam Tor and Kinder being the only places swathed in sunlight.
Lena and I made our way across the moors below Burbage and Higgar Tor, traversing to Calow bank and a new path into the quarries where we found the perfect bomb hole for me to brew up lunch and coffee. The dog howled for a while which was odd but I eventually got her to lie on her mat under her sleeping bag and she passed out for the full hour I spent boiling water, eating Goulash soup (Smash, frozen peas and bacon) and drinking coffee. I watched 2 e-bikers pedalling easily up the road climb from Scotsman's pack and their conversation, carried on the breeze, bounced around the listening chamber that we sat in, 250m away. I made arrangements with TSK to meet us at the pub with the van.
It took me some time to get Lena moving again and I took pity on her and packed her depleted food bags into my (depleted) rucsac. We crossed the road to Stanage North End then clambered past some boulders to consider crossing the Moor. The Edge was bitingly cold. I'd already had to stop to change into my winter gloves covered with a waterproof shell. I wasn't sure our ears could endure the full force of the biting easterly. I checked in with another dog walker who said it was wet. His boots were wetted out but not muddy bt the spaniel was fully soaked. I decided we could make it using the tracks and animal paths that we knew from summer.
By this point we were nearly back and I could cope with wet feet for a while. Through determination and a few detours I managed to stay dry. Lena took a few plunges into armpit-deep post- holes and in the middle I had to stop and wait for her to catch me up as she had lost her way and ended up in deep heather - her least favourite. After that I moved more slowly and she kept on my heels. Following pheasant runs turned into Quadbike tracks then nothing, just tussocks. We reached the drainage ditch which had solid sides and walked along it towards the pole until we found the path from White Edges then had to find one of the leaky dams that have been built to slow the flow. It held my weight. Lena trusted it less and went for an impressive leap between tussocks.
A little bit more tussock-hopping and we were on the White edge path, more sure - footed on the way down to Redmires. As soon as I found a flat rock big enough to support me and my pack I sent a cry for help. My legs were tired and my collarbones were feeling like they were being crushed by the weight of my pack. We set off walking towards the pub in expectation of our ride coming the other way.
People were everywhere: setting out blankets in cars for muddy dogs, standing in the road saying goodbyes, talking with their kids about school friends, delivering drugs, the kind of stuff that goes on at Redmires in the setting sun. We'd almost made it to Wyming Brook by the time the van came to sweep us away. Too early for dinner, we went for cake and coffee instead with a fractious dog who didn't want to sit still on a hard floor.
When we got into the house, Lena went straight to bed. I, on the other hand, set my fatigue to one side for just a little bit longer and went up into our loft to investigate just how well my new tent had fared in the packed-down-wet stakes. Hilleberg recommends suspending it from its guy lines to dry so it was reassembled and I tentatively unzipped the doorways and gave the floor a pat-down. I'd describe its condition as 'mildly damp' absolutely brilliant, given that I'd packed it away in pretty humid (though not chucking it down) "drizzle and sleet". I lay underneath it as it dangled from the ceiling. What I did notice is, despite being tired from walking and an interrupted night's sleep, I wasn't go-straight-to-bed exhausted as I usually am after a lightweight trip. The tent was generally declared a success, acknowledging that I'd need to get accustomed to carrying it (and more food) for longer trips.
On the surface, I wasn't exactly disappointed with my trip but I wasn't brimming with excitement for it. Over the next week, however, it grew on me. I continued to be hit by memories of things which I had filed away for later - the hobby biding its time, the deer at night, the peace of spending a night with a gurgling stream. Perhaps what was missing was discomfort, pain, the feeling that something nearly went horribly wrong but didn't. The feeling of edginess that comes from being close to too cold, too under-equipped and y'know what, I didn't miss it. When I embrace all that was good and recognise what was missing, I'll keep my bombproof tent, the slow pace - even the back-yarded ness of it. This trip was meant as a training run for something bigger and it delivered.
I can't wait for the next one.
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