Category: Personal

Mountain Leader Training: Part 1 of 2

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Becoming an official Mountain Leader has been in the back of my mind for several years, but until recently I’ve elected to spend my finite annual leave gallivanting, unsupervised and unqualified (but not without hard-learned experience), around mountainous areas, sometimes with friends in tow. I just never got round to booking onto a course, and the pull of new, personally uncharted mountains was always stronger than the desire to plod around familiar areas re-enacting my DofE and army cadet days. This unjust premonition of formal mountain training was upended in October, when Ryan’s long-awaited week-long fishing trip to France robbed me of a climbing partner and gave me the impetus to sign up to a six-day Mountain Leader course in Snowdonia with Lou Tully at Freedom Outdoors.

Sunday: Capel Tanrallt

I pulled up at Capel Tanrallt at 4pm on Sunday afternoon, immensely relieved that Scabbers, our beloved, twenty-year-old, peeling, mossy Toyota Yaris, had completed the journey. I’d spent the previous 24 hours wild camping at Llyn Edno and hiking up Cnicht, the “Welsh Matterhorn”, but I’ll write that up separately. I was the first to arrive at the slate grey converted chapel near the small village of Llanllyfni and was greeted with smiles by Lou and her husband, who showed me round the accommodation and kindly found me some clothes pegs to air my tent.

The chapel was spacious, modern, cosy and well-equipped, with three large storeys, several two-person bedrooms, three bathrooms, a drying room, two living rooms and a large communal kitchen, which boasted tantalising views across to the dark, alluring summits of the Nantlle Ridge. I picked a first-floor bedroom adjoining the big living room, keen to not miss out on any social goings-on, and dumped my unnecessarily extensive array of bags by my bed (I’m not much of an unpacker, so the wardrobe remained redundant all week).

The other course attendees trickled in as I laid claim to a corner of the fridge, and Lou left us to settle in. Our first group activity came unexpectedly early, when several of us were summoned up a narrow road behind the chapel to push a van out of a ditch. With one successful team effort already under our belts, the first evening was spent making polite conversation around the long kitchen table, and on my part cooking up an overly large chorizo and chickpea stew. This would become a chore to consume over the next few days and an amusing subject for the group, all of whom refused to help eat it despite my increasingly desperate pleas.

Photo from the end of the week, hence the hastily abandoned beds!
View from the kitchen

Monday: Navigation near Nantlle

We gathered around the kitchen table at 9am for “formal” introductions, a course overview and general group discussion. Lou split the twelve participants into two groups according to where we were sitting and allocated my group to Geoff, the other instructor, who would become our exalted mentor and fountain of all mountain-related knowledge over the following three days. We then split up and shared lifts to our different destinations: Lou’s group went to hike around the Nantlle Ridge, while my group met at an incongruous little car park ten minutes down the road to practise low-level navigation on the western edge of the National Park. Everyone politely declined a lift in Scabbers, a pattern that would continue throughout the week. I’d have done the same, given the option of relying on an equivalently small, mossy vehicle, so was thankful for the lift with Connie.

Map, Compass & Pacing

The first thing Geoff taught us was that everyone has the right to roam, ie. go anywhere on foot regardless of paths, on open access land, which is coloured in yellowish on an OS 1:25,000 map. He then covered the “four Ds” of navigation (distance, duration, description and direction), parts of a compass and pacing – how many steps it takes to cover 100m, counting every other step. We followed a wide path slightly uphill across rugged moorland, counting and testing our pacing. I have an attention span comparable to that of my parents’ young labrador, so in my excitement to be in the hills I miscounted, fell slightly short of 100m and made a mental note to practise at home.

Bearings

Once fully ensconced in the rolling, hummocky moor, the topic turned to bearings. Many of these techniques are most useful in poor visibility but we’d been blessed with clear, still, sunny weather, which was helpful for practising. For ease of recollection I’ll summarise my learning in bulletpoints:

  • Basic bearings: starting from a wall, we each hid an object, shared a bearing and distance with a partner, and went to find each other’s hidden items. I lost Jack’s bottle and he lost my apple, until we realised that our proximity to a metal gate was skewing our compasses. We were reunited with apple and bottle respectively after some searching.
  • Back bearings: once at the apple/bottle, we returned to the starting point by rotating the compass 180 degrees so the south needle was in the “red shed” of the bezel, then following the direction arrow while re-pacing our steps.
  • Boxing: we learnt how to “box” around a smallish obstacle by adding 90 degrees to a bearing, pacing until at the edge of the obstacle, continuing on the original bearing until past the obstacle, subtracting 90 degrees from the original bearing and re-counting paces back to the path. Sounds more complicated than it is.
  • Aiming off: on approaching a linear feature (eg. river, path, or boundary) perpendicular to our direction of travel, Geoff taught us to take a bearing to either side of the point we were aiming for, then – on reaching the feature – to turn left/right and “handrail” it until reaching the desired point. I’ve used this in the mountains several times before and was reassured to discover that it’s an official technique.
  • Handrailing: a simple favourite, with no bearings required – this means following a linear feature until reaching a destination, eg. walking along a path.
  • Attack points: this technique involves taking a bearing to any feature that is more obvious than, but near to or in line with, the destination and navigating towards that feature so the destination becomes closer and easier to find.

Duration

As we tramped across the moor, Geoff explained how to use duration as a rough gauge of distance. He estimated that we were moving across the undulating ground at approximately 4kph, so 1km every 15 minutes, plus about 1 minute for every 10m elevation gain (ie. every time we went up a contour on the map). He then demonstrated aiming off by taking a bearing to an imprecise spot on a wall ahead, to the left of a crossing point. We followed that bearing off the path and down a tufty slope, then stopped for lunch at a little rocky outcrop by the wall.

Practice

After inhaling the first of many PBJ sandwiches I’d consume that week, we handrailed the wall right, then crossed it, hopped over a stream and divided into pairs. Each pair took turns leading the group around the rugged ground, which was flanked by the steep, sweeping sides of the Nantlle Ridge to the south and east, and sloped down towards the villages of Nantlle and Talysarn to the north and west. One at a time, Geoff instructed the pairs to navigate to a pinpoint location on the map, usually denoted by some vague feature (eg. a slight hump shown by a contour, as opposed to an obvious trig point), and the others would follow and deduce the exact location on arrival.

We wandered around the rough ground in this way for the rest of the afternoon, taking turns to lead. It was an excellent way to practise navigating and to get to know each other; I learnt that my partner, Darren, was already maddeningly competent with a map and compass, so it was helpful to discuss with him which techniques were best for each leg. All three groups successfully reached their various destinations using mainly timing and handrailing, given the good visibility, although we noted that timing was particularly unreliable on the steep, rugged sections – at one point Mohan and Graeme were tasked with leading us down a steep slope covered with knee-high bilberry bushes, which everyone took appropriately slowly, with great humour and only a couple of slips.

Our route took us across open, undulating moorland to a vast re-entrant beneath Mynydd Tal-y-mignedd, a neat, grassy summit topped by a distinctive obelisk, then along the base of the Nantlle Ridge’s hulking Craig Cwm Silyn and Garnedd-goch. Their sheer, craggy faces towered menacingly above us as we hugged the lowest contours to minimise bog contact, then we skirted around the pathless southern edge of glass-like Llynau Cwm Silyn, wading through shrub and clambering over walls. The balmy afternoon sun cast long shadows which accentuated the ruggedness of the landscape, and the dark, flat water stretched temptingly below us. There was nobody else around and it was blissfully quiet.

There’s an obelisk up there somewhere
Craig Yr Ogof

After a short climb we walked along a bank that followed the curve of the lake and rejoined the grassy path back to the car park. To me, this long, gentle downhill section felt almost dream-like. Ahead of us a flat strip of fields, hedgerows and villages separated our peripheral moor from the wide, hazy blue sea, and in the distance the dark, isolated peaks of Gyrn Goch and Gyrn Ddu floated serenely above a sublime cloud inversion. We got back to the cars at 5pm and returned to the chapel along a tiny little road.

Mountain Weather

Back in the kitchen, we found the other group spread out in front of a projector, full of excitement about the cloud inversion they’d experienced on the Nantlle Ridge and raring to absorb a crash course in meteorology. Lauren distributed cups of tea while we settled into chairs – I don’t think the two kettles were ever cold the entire time we were “at home” that week – and our lesson kicked off with a Met Office video explaining synoptic charts, which we unanimously agreed was crushingly fast-paced. Thankfully Lou translated the video and delivered an interesting session covering forecast sources, mountain weather, pressure systems and fronts. It’s been a long time since I learnt so much in a day.

The rest of the evening was spent attempting, unsuccessfully, to make a dent on my stew and talking in the kitchen with my new friends. I thrive in a group environment and the camaraderie made it feel a bit like being (many years) back at an army cadet camp, but with very interesting, experienced outdoorspeople, rather than a rabble of kids – although we were quite apt at performing that role, too. I was in my element.

Tuesday: Hiking the Nantlle Ridge

With Scabbers judiciously excluded from the group carpool, Graeme gave Mohan and I a lift to Rhyd Ddu the following morning, where my group met Geoff at 9am in a layby. The plan for the day was to hike up and along part of the Nantlle Ridge, covering various topics on the ML syllabus and practising navigation skills along the way.

Following the same format as the previous day – taking turns navigating in pairs to a pinpoint location – Mohan and I led the first leg up the grassy side of Y Garn (633m), the easternmost summit of the Nantlle Ridge. Shortly after being assured by Geoff that this was a quiet part of the National Park, being further west and significantly less well-known than the Snowdon area, we bemusedly stood aside as dozens of uniformed soldiers trailed past us in large groups. Geoff accepted our gentle ribbing but was otherwise right – we barely saw anyone else that day.

Local Folklore: a floating fairy island

As we climbed, Geoff told a fascinating story about the little lake nestled in the valley to our right, Llyn y Dywarchen. The small island in the middle was once thought to be floating, driven around the water by the wind, a fancy that was “verified” in 1698 when the astronomer Edmund Halley swam out and purportedly steered it around like a boat. The island is also known in folklore as the place where a man once joined a fairy dance and, on awakening from his enchantment, discovered that he had been dancing non-stop for seven years.

Llyn y Dywarchen, with Snowdon on the right

Y Garn

We reached the grassy plateau of Y Garn after a sustained climb, snapped a couple of photos by the summit cairn and took in the landscape, which had opened out behind us in a broad sweep of valleys and layered mountains that sprawled, blue-grey, through a thin veil of haze. Just across the wide Nantlle Valley the bulky mass of Snowdon dominated the surrounding peaks, its long, sandy green flanks stretching down to rugged hills and its dark, craggy western cwm accentuated by the shadow of a low autumn sun. Over the top of our ridge, rough slopes flattened to fields, villages and finally a wide, blue sea. Once again we’d been blessed with good weather.

Scrambling

We continued south on the knobbly spine of the Nantlle Ridge towards Mynydd Drws-y-coed, a vague summit gained by a delicate hike along a lofty strip of protruding boulders. The left side of the ridge sloped a long way down into the valley like an enormous grassy slide, while the craggy right side dropped vertically into a vast, shadowy bowl. As we approached the unmarked top, hugging the less perilous left side, the gradient increased and provided some short, straightforward scrambling sections, where we learnt how to assess a scramble by gauging its difficulty, protectability and consequence. We practised assisting others by spotting – standing below, ready to control their direction of fall in the event of a slip – and by pushing their boots at 90 degrees into any dubious footholds.

The scrambley bit ahead
The group holding Jack up

Mountain Weather: a live demonstration

After the innocuous summit we descended a short way to grassier terrain, following a flattish path that hugged a contour and afforded far-reaching views across the broad valley to distant, easterly peaks. The panorama was briefly interrupted by a white mass of cloud, which blew in and hung dramatically over the dark green swathes of Beddgelert Forest that filled the great basin below. As we rounded a corner we were treated to a real-life demonstration of the previous evening’s lesson on mountain weather: a relentless southerly wind whipped up the long, green Cwm Pennant valley then, on hitting the narrow ridge at its head, sent low clouds streaming almost vertically up and over the steep ground. It was fascinating to watch.

This ridge was all that stood between us and lunch, so we wasted no time in heading for the distinctive obelisk – which we’d looked up at from Llynnau Cwm Silyn the day before – at its far end. The middle section was narrow and scrambley, with a disconcertingly steep drop left into a bowl-like cwm. We hugged the windward side, which meant that we took a fair battering the whole way across but couldn’t be swept into the even steeper right hand cwm, then climbed a grassy slope and stopped by a wall for a relatively sheltered lunch. Geoff talked us through the requirements of a Quality Mountain Day for ML assessment purposes, then we returned along the narrow ridge.

Coming back along the narrow bit

Triangulation

At the end of the ridge we turned right and headed south down a long, grassy spur, which provided lovely views over Beddgelert Forest and across rugged hills to the sea. We stopped halfway down the spur and learnt how to triangulate as follows (this probably sounds more complicated than it is):

  1. Find a landmark identifiable both in the landscape and on the map, eg. an isolated peak
  2. Take a bearing to that landmark
  3. Transfer the bearing to the map by placing the long edge of the compass on the location of the landmark and (without turning the bezel) orienting the north-south lines with those on the map
  4. Draw a line along the edge of the compass which is long enough to represent the distance between you and the landmark
  5. Repeat twice more with different landmarks – your location is where the three lines intersect

Flora

We traipsed down and along the undulating foot of the spur, still taking it in turns to navigate to vague pinpoint features, and turned left into Beddgelert Forest. All day Geoff had been educating us on flora, and we were all captivated; he taught us to identify several types of moss, lichen and wildflower, and we learnt (through the medium of poetry) about sedges, reeds and grasses. Each species came with an interesting anecdote about its properties, characteristics and historical uses, and I learnt far too much to capture in this blog post (which I had intended – and have already failed – to keep quite brief). I may attempt to recite these in a later post.

Sedges have edges
Going into Beddgelert Forest

A Neat Conclusion: weather, flora, fauna & mythology

We followed a gravel track which wound through the forest between thick, mossy swathes of spruce. After a mile or so we emerged onto a rugged moor at the base of Mynydd Drws-y-coed, crossed a stream that had carved a wide groove in the side of the ridge, and – now out in the open – noted the darkening sky. An ominous, hazy grey curtain was approaching us from behind, so we quickened our pace and were slightly relieved when the cars came into view. Geoff’s teachings did not stop despite the looming cloud; on this final section we ate wild sorrel, examined the dazzlingly purple shell of a violet ground beetle and learnt that the rocky lumps I’d mistakenly taken for quartz, which were strewn sporadically around the landscape, were actually remnants of the skin of a white dragon that had been defeated at nearby Dinas Emrys by the very same red dragon that features on the Welsh flag.

The rain came in as soon as Mohan and I had downed our rucksacks and clambered into Graeme’s van. To conclude, it was an outstanding hike, a great social and the very best kind of school day.

Pub

Respecting the fact that all good hikes should end in a pub, we drove a short way to the Cwellyn Arms at Rhyd Ddu and reconvened over a nice, cold pint (and waited for it all to blow over). However, it wasn’t time to switch off just yet: Geoff adorned the table with an interesting assortment of literature covering the ML syllabus, local flora and fauna and first aid, then launched into an interactive lesson on mountain hazards. We covered the multitudinous ways in which a group can be afflicted by terrain, weather and animals, came to the conclusion that mountains accommodated a disconcerting number of things that should be rigorously avoided, and decided – on my part – that no amount of peril could put me off a PBJ sandwich on the summit of something (with proper risk management, obviously).

We left the pub just as two sodden hikers entered and returned to the chapel bone dry, by the skin of our teeth, for another very pleasant evening spent chatting, drinking baileys hot chocolate and eating – once again – the interminable stew.

Wednesday: Weather, Legal stuff, Ropework – Llanberis

The weather forecast for Wednesday was fairly miserable, so Lou had arranged for the twelve of us to have a morning classroom session in a community centre in Llanberis, half an hour’s drive from Capel Tanrallt. Once again Mohan and I jumped in with Graeme; we parked by a grim looking Llyn Padarn and walked to Y Festri up the wet but resolutely cheerful high street, with its colourful painted buildings and quirky shops and cafes, and although it was nice to be back in the village I was saddened to see Pete’s Eats (the well-known outdoorsey café) still closed.

RIP Pete’s Eats

Y Festri

We sat in the old chapel, which had a cosy, classic “village hall” type feel with its wooden floor, wainscotted walls and PE benches, and started off with a session that built on the weather lesson we’d had on Monday evening and covered forecasts, synoptic charts and the geostrophic wind scale. Lou then led an in-depth discussion on the various administrative and legal aspects of being a Mountain Leader, such as training requirements, how to demonstrate experience, risk assessments, insurance and professional memberships. We then moved on to ropework, which involved a talk about helmets, gloves, equipment care and appropriate rope types for leading a group hike in the mountains. For my own reference, Geoff uses (I think) a 30m long, 8mm diameter Beal twin rope.

The weather did not improve when our time at Y Festri was up. We returned to the cars, drove a short way up Llanberis Pass, met in a large layby and donned full waterproofs for an afternoon ropework practical. Lou and Geoff led us up a steep, grassy, rocky bank above the eastern end of Llyn Padarn, where we split back into our two groups and paired off. The first exercise was “confidence roping”, which is used to help a nervous walker descend a slope.

Confidence Roping

I paired up with Graeme, who was as sure-footed as a goat and clearly not at all nervous, but I’ll use his name (rather than repeating “the other person”) to recall what I learnt:

  1. Tie a waist-sized loop in the end of the rope using an overhand knot
  2. Get Graeme to step into the loop and pull it up to his waist, then adjust the knot if need be – the loop should be secure but not too tight
  3. Tie another overhand knot to stop the rope slipping through your hands, close enough to make Graeme feel secure but far enough to allow him to move freely (roughly a full armspan)
  4. With your downhill hand just below this knot, thumb at the top, stand directly uphill from Graeme and assume a stable stance – facing sideways, legs at least shoulder width apart, elbows bent, with your uphill hand holding the rope above the knot
  5. Keeping the rope taut, lead Graeme diagonally downhill, switching the hand below the knot as you change direction
  6. “Bend” the rope into a Z-shape to gain additional leverage with both hands if need be
  7. Maintain tension on the rope and reassure Graeme that there’s a pint waiting for him in the Vaynol Arms at the bottom of the slope

We found that maintaining tension while changing direction was surprisingly awkward over rocky terrain, and even more so over loose scree, so this is on my “to practise” list. With thanks to Graeme, who had the grace to act nervous.

Anchors

Once we’d got the hang of it and finished giggling at the others, who resembled strange, role-playing dogwalkers, we moved on to selecting and attaching the rope to anchors for the purpose of belaying and abseiling. The principles are familiar as I use them when trad climbing – find something that is:

  • big enough to easily hold a person’s weight, eg. a boulder, rock thread or tree trunk (at least thigh-thickness),
  • the right shape, ie. not tapered in such a way that the rope could slip off, and
  • in line with the person on the end of the rope,

and secure the rope to it by wrapping it round and tying the end to the “live” rope with an overhand knot.

We practised on rocks, fence posts and threads, then – to our relief – Geoff announced the arrival of lunchtime. We huddled into his bothy, relieved for the momentary respite from the cold, relentless rain, and I was (for once) thankful for some hot stew.

Apologies to Connie & Darren…

Body Belaying

Fed and warmed, we reluctantly left the bothy and tramped over soggy grass to a short, steeply angled rock slab, where Geoff taught us how to belay somebody up a steep section of a route using just a rope. He roped himself to a large boulder, sat near the edge of the slab and demonstrated how to pass the rope under one forearm, across the lower back and around the other forearm, which provides enough friction to hold a person’s weight. He then showed us the belay motion, which is similar to climbing in that the rope should always be held securely in at least one hand while the belayer takes in the slack. We took it in turns to have a go, and it felt quite intuitive once I got the hang of the repetitive motion. We also briefly covered belaying using an object, eg. a boulder (no sharp edges), for friction.

Llanberis Pass

As we waited our turns, we amused each other and took in the exquisite view up and down Llanberis Pass. To our right, the little whitewashed village of Nant Peris looked miniscule between the pass’s hulking shoulders, whose dark, rocky slopes climbed steeply into a thick, white cloud layer that hung suspended in the valley. To the left, swathes of copper-coloured heather swept down towards the eerily still, glassy surface of the huge Llyn Padarn, across which the vast, overwhelmingly grey slate terraces of Dinorwic Quarry rose into the fog like a literal stairway to heaven. The weather’s saving grace was the lack of wind. Occasionally the cloud would part, exuding wispy limbs that drifted in and out at random and revealing windows of slate and rock at improbably high elevations, which gave the impression that the valley sides stretched endlessly upwards. It was incredibly atmospheric and incredibly bleak, and I was glad to be below the cloud line.

Body Abseiling

The final part of our ropework lesson involved abseiling down the rock slab, again using just the rope. We learnt and practised the “traditional” and “South African” methods; the traditional abseil involves passing a single strand of rope behind one leg, over the chest and one shoulder, under the other shoulder, over the forearm and into the hand, while the South African crosses both strands around the lower back to the front, between the legs and a single strand goes around each leg into each hand (or a single leg into one hand, but I didn’t like that as much). A lot of rope-body contact means lots of friction with which to control the descent, which was exacerbated by the wetness of the rope. Once again it helped to have climbing experience, as a lot of crags require a controlled descent, and I enjoyed the novelty and simplicity of rappelling using minimal equipment.

A Cosy Evening

Despite another excellent day, I think we were all glad to return to the warm, dry chapel. Graeme stopped for fuel on the way back and I grabbed a newspaper to dry my boots, which was – in hindsight – a good decision. I couldn’t face the thought of more stew so I had tinned chicken soup for dinner, along with a variety of random snacks, and shared with Connie, Jack and Mohan the delights of Baileys hot chocolate with marshmallows (courtesy of Mohan). We fired up the wood burner and spent another lovely evening sharing stories, speculating whether Jack’s too-good-to-be-true second hand jacket would actually turn up (it didn’t) and generally talking rubbish. I was dreading the end of the week already.

The drying room, pushed to its limits
Just missing Chris & Alice!

2021: My Highlights

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Another year, another fluctuating labyrinth of lockdown restrictions and uncertainties. Like most of my projects I’m behind on the blog, although I did manage to do a bit of catching up earlier this year – who cares if I write about my January 2020 Alps trip 18 months later, with the wistful knowledge that – to my contemporaneous blissful ignorance, the reminiscence of which is bittersweet – the following 17 months would be spent in varying levels of lockdown?

It’s been a whirlwind: I’ve been rejected from a couple of jobs, spent a lot of money fixing the van, lost my beloved dog and a funny, kind uncle, missed family and friends, experienced the stress of buying a house in complicated circumstances and regularly questioned what I want to do with my life. But I’ve also qualified as a lawyer, got my first full-time permanent “proper” job, started the process of buying a house and juggled work with regular running, hiking, climbing, cycling and mountain biking, as well as a few art projects, an ongoing environmental project and this blog, and a bunch of other, less regular activities. Swings and roundabouts.

In keeping with the focus (or lack of) of this blog, here’s a summary of my year in adventure:

January/February

The deep, dark depths of winter lockdown. I saw no family or friends and my only solaces were the comforting buzz of activity at Hill HQ, running, cycling and walking (notably a 15-mile hike one grey January weekend) in and near the New Forest, a bit of snow towards the end of January and wildlife-watching.

March

Lockdown eased very slowly. Ryan’s powerkite gave me an unsolicited flying lesson one windy afternoon, we built and slept in a shelter in Godshill Wood (a very uncomfortable night but stubbornness prevailed), went coarse fishing locally, climbed at Hedbury on the Dorset coast, attempted and failed to surf and paddleboard at Christchurch and saw my parents for the first time all year. I became a fully fledged lawyer.

April

We managed a van weekend in the South Downs, which involved a good hike  and a trip to mum and dad’s. We celebrated Ryan’s grandad’s 80th birthday with a “day at the races” fancy dress party and went to the pub for a drink on the day it reopened. Ryan rescued a baby squirrel (Cyril) from a road at work and we released it into the wood. We visited Monkey World in Dorset, met my parents at a campsite in the New Forest and visited Bucklers Hard.

May

The first “proper” van trip – we climbed at the Devil’s Jump on Bodmin Moor and at Sennen cliffs, visited Porthcurno and Lands End and explored Padstow and Port Isaac. We started weekly indoor climbing sessions with our friend Luke, visited Shaftesbury, both fell off skateboards, had a Hill family fancy dress Eurovision party, saw more friends and family and celebrated our birthdays – Ryan’s with a climbing session followed by pub lunch, driving range and barbecue, and mine with a party and a visit to the local raptor and reptile centre.

June

A sunny weekend van trip to the Dorset coast saw us climbing at Winspit, snorkelling in the cold, clear water over a “coral reef”, exploring Corfe and visiting the naturist beach at Studland. We explored pretty Warwick and impressive Warwick Castle with Ryan’s family and saw more of my family. We spent a few days in the van in Cornwall again, this time climbing at Cheesewring Quarry on Bodmin Moor, surfing, beach exploring, drinking and “rave in a cave”ing at Perranporth, and visiting Newquay, Bodmin Jail and Tintagel Castle. Started a week-long holiday in Pembrokeshire with my parents and brother.

July

Pembrokeshire continued – we visited Castell Henllys Iron Age village, explored St David’s and Whitesands Bay, hiked across the Preseli Hills, had a barbecue on Newport Sands, tombstoned and swam in Blue Lagoon at Abereiddy, kayaked and paddleboarded at Llys y Fran, walked along Newgale Beach, visited Pembroke Castle, explored and powerkited at  Broadhaven beach, climbed at St Govan’s Head, visited Stackpole gardens, surfed (unsuccessfully)/bodyboarded in fierce waves at Freshwater West and came back via Cardiff National Museum. Back home we watched England lose the Euros final, went bouldering at St Aldhelm’s Head and swimming in Chapman’s Pool, visited Blue Pool near Wareham, swam in the river Hamble, trad climbed at Subliminal cliffs (including the Avernus blowhole) and took the van to the Forest of Dean/Wye Valley.

August

Forest of Dean/Wye Valley weekend continued – we looked for wild boar, mountain biked the red trail at Coleford, explored Clearwell Caves, walked into Wales without realising, spent a day canoeing along the Wye from Ross-on-Wye to Symonds Yat and walked up to Yat Rock. Locally we powerkited, swam and paddleboarded on Bournemouth beach (the day before a “large marine animal” was sighted in the water), went clubbing in Chichester and hiked, cycled and indoor climbed. We took the van to the Brecon Beacons, where we mountain biked the epic “Gap” route, did the Four Waterfalls walk at Ystradfellte and trad climbed at Llangattock escarpment. On the last bank holiday weekend we took our friend Gus to the Dorset coast, where we frequented the Square and Compass, paddleboarded from Winspit to Swanage, swam and climbed at Winspit, night-hiked back to the van from the Scott Arms and mountain biked at Puddletown Forest.

September

We put in an offer on a house and the seller promptly passed away (still buying, still awaiting probate). We mountain biked at Queen Elizabeth Country Park and the New Forest, celebrated Ryan’s dad’s 60th, went coasteering at Dancing Ledge, barbecued at Poole Harbour and went to Snowdonia for a week. Here we trad climbed up Little and Big Tryfan, took a road trip round Anglesey (including Beaumaris town, Baron Hill abandoned mansion, Din Lligwy ancient site, Parys Mountain copper mines, Holy Island and South Stack lighthouse),  explored Betws-y-Coed, mountain biked the Marin Trail, hiked/scrambled the Snowdon Horseshoe – Crib Goch, Garnedd Ugain, Snowdon and Y Lliwedd, sport climbed at Dinorwig Quarry, hiked/scrambled up Bristly Ridge, Glyder Fach and Glyder Fawr, mountain biked at Coed y Brenin and wild swam/dipped near Dolgellau.

October

We explored the aquariums, museums and pubs of Lyme Regis in west Dorset, climbed up Golden Cap hill, met my parents’ new puppy, I went on my friend’s stag do near Bath, which involved clay pigeon shooting, paintballing and drinking, we visited Gilbert White’s museum and the Oates exhibition (notably the Antarctic section) in Selborne village, fished unsuccessfully at Todber, walked around the New Forest and went to the local pub for a Halloween party.

November

I played rugby for the first time since before lockdown, visited the puppy as much as possible, went to a best friend’s beautiful wedding in the New Forest, spent a day exploring Bradford on Avon, took the pup to Meon beach and tried to keep up with a heavy workload. We spent a weekend in Brecon with some friends, which involved completing the Pen y Fan horseshoe hike (Fan y Big, Cribyn, Pen y Fan and Corn Du) in below freezing 70mph gusts and drinking enough to write off the next day.

December

Suddenly Christmas loomed. We walked the pup (and my parents) up the zig zag at Selborne, I went for a tough 32 mile mountain bike ride across the Forest in freezing winds and explored Bristol after a practically unheard of day in the office, we mountain biked the blue and red routes at Swinley Forest, bouldered and climbed at Portland with Ryan’s younger brother Adam, rode our bikes at Moors Valley with Gus, had a Christmas climbing social and have spent Christmas seeing a lot of family and getting (quite frankly) fat and drunk.

And so ends a turbulent year. I think I’m getting better at keeping my life in order – occasionally I tidy my room now and I’m sure I eat more spinach. Progress is progress. I’m never really sure which direction I’m going in, but wherever it is I just have as much fun as possible along the way, and although sometimes idiotic I try to be a good person. I’m not yet rich enough to travel the world or influential enough to stop climate change, but I’ll keep trying – maybe next year.

Endnote: I’ve kept it to one photo per month for the sake of my ebbing sanity, and that was tough enough… read my other posts for more pictures!

A quick(ish) reflection on 2020

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Well that was a year I didn’t see coming. I thought global pandemics were far-fetched works of fiction and cinema, not real, inescapable beasts that tether our ankles and incarcerate us in lonely little microcosms.

I’ve been luckier than many in that I’ve been living for the most part in a house of eight lovely people, I’ve been able to see my family and a few friends a handful of times (but not nearly as much as I’d like), and I’ve been working from home since it all kicked off in March. I’ve been unlucky in that I moved work from Reading to Bristol (same organisation, different office) in February, which meant renting a little cottage in Warminster for a grand total of three weeks before the pandemic started and I moved in with (ie. was adopted by) Ryan’s family in the New Forest.

I’ve done less “gadding around” than usual this year, although I’ve still managed a few escapes…

January: week-long trip to the Alps in January, which I’m extremely happy to have squeezed in before anyone had heard of covid. Skiing, snowboarding, winter hiking etc… amazing

February: overnight stay in the South Downs before a social trip to Butlins; a trip to London to see Touching the Void in theatre, followed by a few days in the Peak District

March: last pre-lockdown night in the van on the Dorset coast

April: nothing really, thanks lockdown (although I did spend a lot of time in and around the New Forest)

May: tried coarse fishing for the first time, went cycling and kayaking for my birthday, stayed local

June: took a week’s leave but couldn’t go far – couple of days’ bikepacking, walking and mountain boarding in the New Forest, slept in a cave on the Dorset coast

July: VAN TRIP! Great week hiking, climbing, mountain biking and canoeing in the Lake District

August: was supposed to camp in Snowdonia with the Hillbillies but weather said no so we camped in the New Forest and explored Avebury stone circle instead

September: Made it to my favourite place… Scotland! An amazing week in the van exploring the Highlands, Cairngorms and Edinburgh. Climbing, hiking, scrambling, mountain biking etc

October: Four days in Cornwall with the other Hillbilly children, exploring around the Lizard. Climbing in Dartmoor en route home

November: Lockdown #2 stifled my dreams, incarcerated once again. Managed a day’s climbing in Dorset with Angus and an overnight fishing trip

December: Lovely, much-needed van weekend away to Exmoor. Christmas was supposed to be on the Isle of Wight but last-minute-Boris said no

I’ve spent much of my “free” time running, walking, cycling, doing the odd bit of art and generally trying to a) be productive, and b) not go crazy. My blog has been neglected because the vast majority of my non-working laptop time has been spent working hard on an environmental project that I hope to launch fairly soon, but as always the intention to write about all of my adventures listed above remains. Hopefully soon.

I have some good news – I was worried that keeping my beloved campervan Bjorn would be financially unviable because of the rust underneath, but a lovely local garage has given me a reasonable welding quote and booked him in for the end of Jan. I have everything crossed for our future together. In other good news, unless I mess something up I’ll qualify as a lawyer in March, which is kind of scary. I still plan to use this to save the bees, trees and seas from meddling humans.

If anyone reads this (and I don’t mind if nobody does – I write to keep a personal record of what I’ve been up to, unless anyone decides to sponsor me, in which case I’m available for negotiations) then I hope you have a happy, healthy, more certain 2021. I can’t wait for more freedom and more adventures.

Endnote: I would find some photos of highlights from this year, but quite frankly there are too many and I can’t be bothered right now (classic lockdown). Here are a couple of pictures taken on Christmas/Boxing day, just so you can put a face to these ramblings:

Lakes Rampage 2020, Day 3: Six Summits

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Monday 6th July 2020

Scafell Pike, Great End, Esk Pike, Bow Fell, Crinkle Crags, Sca Fell

This was one of those rare days that I know for certain I’ll never forget. It started innocuously enough, with Ryan cooking breakfast and me making sandwiches at our camping spot on the edge of Wast Water, overlooked by the rugged, imposing mountains and ridges of the Wasdale valley. We knew it’d be a long one as our route encompassed six summits, a lot of miles and a serious amount of elevation gain. Bags packed and bodies fuelled, we drove to the car park at Wasdale Head and set off at 10am.

Scafell Pike, 978m. Summited 11:55

The path began in the lowest point of the valley, just 80m above sea level. It crossed a wide, shallow river, Lingmell Beck, before climbing a little way up the side of a high, grassy ridge, Lingmell. It followed the contour of this ridge through scrubby sheep territory until we rounded the corner, at which point the sheer, dark west face of Scafell Pike emerged at the head of an immense valley. Lingmell Gill flowed high and fast on our right and we followed the path alongside it until the rocky crossing, which wasn’t particularly crossable due to the rainfall. A few hikers had gone quite a way upstream before crossing and heading back down to regain the path, but we didn’t go far before hopping across five or six sturdy-ish looking rocks in an ungainly (but dry) manner and continuing up the mountain.

The rocky path led the way clearly up Brown Tongue which, as well as the multitude of other hikers and my vague memory of the route, made the map redundant for the time being. We took the left fork and approached the summit from its northwest side, the slightly longer but more popular approach. From the fork, going as the crow flies to the summit would have necessitated a serious multipitch rock climb up its ominously sheer west face, which gives the mountain its wild, dangerous appearance.

Our legs were already feeling slightly sore from flying up and down the Old Man of Coniston (803m) the previous day, and I’d forgotten that although popular, the path up Scafell Pike is surprisingly long and steep. Shortly after taking the fork we were hit by a sudden heavy rainshower, which – as they always are, once you’ve committed to getting wet – was exhilarating. We pulled waterproofs on, snapped a couple of pictures and carried on, turning right up the steep, scree-covered path that leads to the summit. The clouds were stubborn but intermittent, and we had our fill of the stunning, rolling mountain scenery in glimpses as we made our way up.

The top section is pretty much a huge pile of jagged rocks, as if the tip of the mountain has been shattered into millions of pieces. At the summit is a trig point and a raised war memorial, and we delighted at being the highest two people on English soil for a minute before finding a sheltered spot for a sandwich. Although perfectly warm when we were moving, our sweaty backs got cold quite quickly in the bitter mountain wind so we took a compass bearing to ensure we were heading for Great End and descended the awkwardly boulder-strewn, loose northeast side of Scafell Pike.

Great End, 910m. Summited 13:06

The cloud subsided when we reached the trough of the col between Scafell Pike and Broad Crag, the mini-top just before Great End. The path to Great End was fairly steep and quite direct, although when it came to branching off the path towards Esk Pike for the actual summit Ryan took us an unecessarily awkward way over a series of rocks. We pulled out the Jetboil and had a brew at the wind shelter on the summit, wondered at the panoramic views and seemingly endless mountains and descended the proper way back to the main path.

Esk Pike, 885m. Summited 14:02

Esk Pike wasn’t easily discernible as the ground on the east of Scafell Pike is all quite high and the rocky ridges and summits seem to merge together. Experience has taught me to be wary of paths as they often look obvious on a map, but much less so on rocky ground where everything is the same colour, and it was around this point that I commented on how the path thus far was suspiciously clear and well-marked by plenty of cairns.

Bowfell, 902m. Summited 14:47

Next up was Bowfell, which had a more obvious summit as there was a group of people having lunch on it. For some reason I remember the scenery here being particularly unforgettable, even though we’d been fortunate enough to have a clear view of the surrounding mountains since before Great End.

The nearer peaks were rugged and olive green, and all had unique shapes with sides that occasionally fell away to reveal sheer, unvegetated rock faces. They weren’t jagged like the gargantuan mountains of Patagonia or the Himalayas – in fact they’re not even comparable – but they had their own wild, majestic kind of beauty. Rivers ran like tiny veins far below in the steep-sided valleys, some so perfectly U-shaped it was as if they were carved out with a giant ice cream scoop, and the mountains further away glowed in mysterious, hazy layers of grey-blue. This is perhaps what I love most about the Lake District: it’s the only place in England where I feel truly immersed in the mountains. I can’t imagine how incredible it must have been up here before hiking became popular and there were no paths scratched into the surface or bright down jackets pock-marking the wilderness.

Crinkle Crags, 859m. Summited 15:51

Crinkle Crags was a bit disheartening because gaining the summit would mean scrambling up a rocky path a kilometre long, starting at the unimaginatively named Three Tarns, only to scramble back down the same way and continue our route. Ry insisted that he wanted to do it despite his knee hurting a little, so we went up the now-elusive path-come-series of rocky scrambles and after what seemed like an age, arrived at the (also unimaginatively named) Pile of Stones marking the summit.

This is where the real fun started (English for where it all went wrong). We looked across two wide valleys towards Sca Fell and it looked terrifyingly far away, leering at us from the horizon. Ryan suggested that if we descend Crinkle Crags off-piste, we should hit the footpath we were aiming for low down in the first valley which would take us parallel to and then across a river, and we would then walk [a really long way] to the base of Sca Fell on flat terrain. This would remove the need to turn back along the annoyingly rocky and long path we’d just come along. He was correct and I agreed – indeed, we should have hit that footpath by the river.

The descent was pretty sketchy, super-steep and more of a downclimb in places via huge boulders, mini waterfalls and loose, scrubby bits of ground. We were careful not to disturb vegetation, rocks or sheep, and although I was inwardly questioning our decision, it was kind of thrilling to be off the beaten track. I was super happy to discover some bilberry bushes (bilberries are like small, sweet wild blueberries) as I’d always wanted to find some but never had before, so my fruity mid-descent snack perked me up.

The Trough, 350m ish

This section deserves its own sub-heading because it would unfair (on the mountain) to attribute it to a mountain. It was a trough in both senses of the word – the low bit between peaks, and a sustained dip in the extent to which the hike was going as planned. As they say, peaks and troughs.

After what seemed like an age we reached the bottom of the treacherous descent down Crinkle Crags, only to discover that the footpath we had hoped to join was untrodden to the point of non-existence. Instead we were met by soft, tufty, awkward ground covered in long, yellow grass. In the absence of a path and an obvious place to cross Lingcove Beck, we looked at the map and decided that the best course of action would be to walk south parallel to the river until we came to the fork, where we would join another path that runs alongside the other branch – the River Esk – to the base of Sca Fell. It would extend our route by a couple of long, slow miles over difficult terrain, but at least we’d be certain of where we are and that we could cross both rivers.

This was frustrating enough, so when my left foot punched through a hole in the ground and into over-the-top-of-my-boot deep muddy water, I became tetchy. After a couple of hundred metres of tramping with one wet foot through boggy ground in an exasperated sulk, it dawned on me that I’d only eaten half a sandwich, half a bag of mini cheddars, an apple, half a flapjack and a few bilberries. We wanted to press on but I self-diagnosed myself as hangry, so we stopped and munched a whole sandwich each. It tasted incredible and I perked up magnificently.

We maintained our course by keeping Lingcove Beck on our right hand side, which took a long time because of the awkward, soggy ground, occasionally picking up scraps of what looked like they could once have been path. Eventually we reached a stone bridge at the fork we were aiming for, glad to finally cross the river and start walking towards, rather than away from, Sca Fell. This time we kept the River Esk on our left, relieved that we were now following a clear path.

The first bit was steep, then it levelled out and we walked for a mile or so across a great, open plain in the belly of the valley between the towering ridges. The path was better than the previous one although ambiguous in places, so we kept a close eye on the map, noting the shape of the river, the contours around us and the bits of drystone wall marked down as boundaries. Unhelpfully, the path disappeared at the river crossing. We’d hoped for some rudimentary stepping stones, but there was nothing. The river was about eight paces wide and higher and faster than usual, and we followed it upstream in search of a way across for 20 minutes or so. Eventually we accepted that our feet were wet anyway and committed to a crossing place that was far from ideal but slightly less terrible than some other places and hopped across.

Sca Fell, 964m. Summited 20:17

We tramped across pathless ground to a long waterfall leading up Sca Fell, which was a mile away as the crow flies. The next section was a steep scramble up a dubiously labelled footpath, keeping the waterfall/river on our left. It was tough going but good to gain height as it made us feel closer to finishing the day. We got to a crossing place and stopped to make a decision. We could either cross the river and approach Sca Fell from the south, carry on along the clear path and approach it from the west – which would mean branching off left and going up and down the same way – or call it a day and continue on the same path, which would take us safely through the col between Sca Fell and Scafell Pike and back to the van, potentially with time for a drink in the pub.

We were tired, hungry and at risk of losing light, but stubbornness prevailed and we crossed the narrow, rushing river, hopeful of completing a circular route up and down the mountain. It looked as if there was a path on the other side, but this quickly disappeared and we were once again tramping through the wilderness. We knew the approximate direction of Sca Fell and we knew we had to do a lot more “up”, so we made a beeline for a high, steep scree slope on our right hand side.

This was one of the crippling low points of the day. The terrain was very rough (scrubby vegetation interspersed with loose rocks), we were exhausted, our phones were nearly dead, the summit was an uncertain, invisible concept beyond a serious amount of elevation gain on poor ground and there was a real risk that we’d lose daylight. We had everything we needed – headtorches, an emergency bivvy shelter, warm clothes, foil blankets and porridge – but we were damp, hungry and determined to get back to the van.

On either side of the scree slope were high rock faces and from a distance it looked as though a figure of a person was suspended from one of them. At first it looked like someone leaning back and taking a photo of something higher up, then it looked like a climber who had  reached the top of a route, then it looked like someone hanging there eerily limp, as if they’d fallen and been caught by the rope. It’s funny how the mind plays tricks when you’re tired, as it turned out to be just a black, figure-shaped void between two slabs.

The scree slope took forever to reach, and once there it was even more terrible than we thought. I did something very unusual: I pulled out my last-resort snacks, an energy gel each, in a desperate attempt to boost us up the terrifyingly steep ascent. The scree was mostly saucer-to-dinnerplate sized reddish-grey rock, and I was careful not to climb above Ryan as I could have sent a rock tumbling down on him at any time. It took just about all our strength to reach the top, and I was almost too exhausted to feel relieved by the sight of the landscape opening out in front of me as I pulled over the brow.

We turned right and headed along the high ridge, relieved to be on more manageable terrain but uncertain exactly how far it was to the summit. Our phones pinged as we received signal for the first time in a few hours, but we were both on 1% so couldn’t faff around taking photos. The scenery either side of the ridge was beautiful, hazy in the fading light, but we didn’t appreciate it as much as usual. The ground got rockier and we finally came to the pile of stones and crude rock shelter that marks the summit of Sca Fell at 8.17pm. It was a huge relief to finally conquer this last peak, the bleakest and wildest of them all, after it had tormented us for the age that had passed since Crinkle Crags.

Return

It wasn’t over yet as we still needed to get on the path back before losing light. It’s common knowledge among mountaineers that most accidents happen on the way down, so we were careful not to get reckless. We descended down the path north east of the summit, which was once again ridiculously steep but this time marked by the odd cairn. It was a relief to be going down but our knees weren’t having a great time, and we half-slid down the loose slope. The path then bore left at the tiny Foxes Tarn and took us literally down a small river/waterfall, balancing on wet, slippery rock on whichever side of the water looked least treacherous.

Once we were at the bottom, miraculously intact, we munched our last snack bar and looked exasperatedly to our left at the next rocky slope we were required to climb to gain Mickledore, the col between Sca Fell and Scafell Pike. It was almost funny, and we just got on with the slow, awkward drag to the top, trying to keep on the vague, loose, steep, zig-zagging path. My concern was that the path over the col on this side of Scafell Pike wouldn’t be obvious (or even in existence) as I took this route the first time I climbed the mountain in 2014, and I remember scrabbling up a steep, scree-covered slope in claggy conditions following no obvious path and hoping for a cairn to appear through the fog. If this was the case, there was a risk that it’d get too dark to navigate and we’d have to bear a cold, damp, rocky night out.

At last we reached the top of the slope and spotted the emergency metal shelter on the ridge up to Scafell Pike. Its straight sided boxiness looked very strange against the rocky backdrop, having seen nothing but natural, jagged shapes all day. Then we experienced the best feeling in the world: pulling up over the lip of the col at Mickeldore. All of a sudden we could clearly see the path that would lead us back, and my concern evaporated. The world seemed to open out in front of us. We had Sca Fell on our left, Scafell Pike on our right, and in front was the vast valley that we’d hiked up eleven hours earlier. We could see the fork where our footpath met the path that we’d taken left up the other side of Scafell Pike that morning, the sun was low, and there wasn’t another person in sight.

We descended down the steep scree slope (see the pattern emerging?) that was the top of the footpath and gained slightly more level terrain, happy in the knowledge that there was no more up. The sun broke through the hazy clouds and glowed a magnificent, warm orange ahead of us, which illuminated the valley and accentuated the wild beauty of every rough, rocky, rugged corner. It felt like nature’s way of saying well done, you did it. I’ll never, ever forget that moment. The walk back along the strangely solid path was slow and unlike my vivid memories of earlier that day, I remember it vaguely as if it were a dream. We talked all the way back to the van, but I have no idea what we talked about.

We followed the path round to the right at the end of the valley, the same way we’d come up, through the steep sheep fields of Lingmell in dwindling light. We didn’t quite need to pull out the torches because the path was good, but it was dark by the time we reached the flat field and river at the bottom. We got back to the van at 10.30pm, equal parts exhausted, triumphant and famished, drove ten minutes to last night’s camping spot near Wast Water, and didn’t have the energy to cook stir fry so ate tinned soup, bread and cheese. Nothing has ever tasted so good.

Lake District Rampage 2020, days 1 & 2: towns, hiking the Old Man of Coniston, Grizedale MTB trail

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Saturday 4th July – Windermere, Coniston

We woke up in a quiet layby near Kendal just east of the National Park, having made the 6-hour journey on Friday evening. We did the grocery run in Kendal Morrisons, giddy about the prospect of our first van trip since before lockdown, and drove to Windermere for a poke around.

Windermere was pretty and as we wandered through its neat streets lined with slate-grey buildings, it felt as if the world was tentatively waking up. The pubs and restaurants reopened post-covid for the first time today and there was a quiet bustle about the town, which I expect is usually a bit too touristy. It’s quite small so we weren’t there long before driving down the road to Bowness (definitely too touristy). We walked behind the shops and bars along the edge of Lake Windermere, where geese, pigeons, crows and other annoying types of bird congregated, and looked out over the misty grey water.

We nearly went into a bar for a drink but decided to carry on to Coniston. The half-hour drive via Ambleside (bustling outdoorsey town, will return) gave us our first taste of the narrow, winding Lake District roads, and we parked in our tucked-away camping spot early afternoon. Coniston is a lovely village set against the scenic backdrop of rugged, high fells and we spent the afternoon enjoying our first post-covid pub visit in The Crown, eating fajitas in the van and talking rubbish.

Sunday 5th July – Old Man of Coniston (hiking), Grizedale Forest (mountain biking)

We climbed the Old Man of Coniston (803m) – see a previous post about a previous (solo) hike here -, a lovely mountain which towers over a valley of old copper mines and overlooks a panorama of fells, forests and lakes, its steep, winding path made interesting by the ruins of old mining ruins, long, forearm-thick wire cables and a high, black tarn. The weather was surprisingly clear until about twenty minutes before the summit, when the clouds thickened and the wind picked up. It’s amazing how the weather can change in the mountains – we watched as thick white cloud rolled unstoppably over the summit ridge and down the escarpment, like the froth spilling over the edge of an overpoured pint. At the top Ryan actually grabbed me as a particularly strong gust of wind caught me off balance, sending us into fits of giggles.

It took us two and a half hours’ quick walking there and back along the same path from Coniston (including a couple of stops to snack on the summit, faff around the old slate ruins and scramble down to a crystal clear, waterfall-fed river) and we were pleased that contrary to the forecast, the weather had held up. It looked to worsen that afternoon so we’d planned to do the North Face mountain bike trail (graded red – advanced) at Grizedale Forest, twenty minutes from Coniston.

The bike trail was very technical and very different to others we’ve done. What seemed like more than the first half was uphill, on fairly gradual gradients made complicated by large, sharp rocks protruding at all angles and constantly threatening to throw wheels off the trail or bottom-out the chainring. There was no smooth, flowing downhill, real berms or jumps, but there were quick rocky sections towards the end and  it was really enjoyable in a different way – it felt much more “raw” and rugged, which was exacerbated by the fact that we didn’t see another person on the trail. Surrounded by an untamed melee of firs, ferns, grasses and foxgloves, with the occasional clearing showing off the magnificent mountainscape behind the dark, glassy Coniston Water, it felt like wild, “proper” mountain biking.

Soaked, muddied and elated, we loaded the van and drove an hour-and-a-half to Wasdale Head. That evening we planned a (really) long hike for the next day and went to bed blissfully unaware of the epic that was to follow. I’m still gathering up the energy to write about it…

A Week’s Leave in Lockdown

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A couple of weeks ago Ryan and I took five days’ annual leave with the hope of taking the van up to the Lake District. Unfortunately lockdown rules still prevented overnight stays, so we decided to make the most of some local adventures.

Saturday – MTB, Swinley Forest

Saturday morning saw us up bright and early to try the mountain biking trails at Swinley Forest, Berkshire. We went with Ryan’s brother Adam and Ryan’s new bike, which deserves a mention as he treats it like a second girlfriend (I think I’ve been subtly usurped).

It was well worth the hour-and-a-quarter drive from Hill HQ. We did the first half of the blue trail, then the whole red trail, then the second half of the blue to end up back where we started. The blue is 6.25 miles in total and the red 8 miles. Like most purpose-built trails, each is broken up into sections of varying difficulty and length, which meant there were ample opportunities to stop and gabble excitedly about how we nearly hit that tree, overshot that berm or slid out on that corner.

The trails are mostly quick singletrack through mixed forest, with plenty of lovely, sweeping berms, technical rooty sections and smooth jumps (not that I’ve learnt to actually jump yet). There are plenty of exciting downhill bits, but strangely it doesn’t feel like you’re spending much time going uphill. I might do a more detailed post another day, but overall this was definitely, definitely, definitely a place to return to.

We nipped in to visit my parents in Alresford on the way back to Hill HQ and spent the evening drinking cider. Day 1 – great success.

Sunday – Hiking, New Forest

We had a chilled morning sprawled over a map in the garden planning the upcoming week, then went for a walk from Telegraph Hill car park on the Roger Penny way. We headed south into a lovely ancient woodland in search of the site of a Royal Hunting Lodge, tramping between the vast old oaks and beeches whose leaves glowed bright green in the sun. We could hear a beehive high up in the trees and the foxgloves grew above my head, and there was nobody around – we could have travelled back in time a thousand years without knowing. The site was just a small clearing in the trees with a slightly raised mound around the edge, and we poked around before heading back to pack for the next day.

Monday and Tuesday – Bikepacking, New Forest

Unsurprisingly, bikepacking is backpacking on a bike. Our first bikepacking expedition took us on a meticulously planned route across the New Forest via gravel tracks, bridleways, the odd road section and the occasional resort to “as the crow flies” navigation through woods, thicket and bog.

We started at Hill HQ in Fordingbridge and travelled southeast, ending up in Beaulieu on the opposite side of the National Park after a great day of cycling on variable terrain through variable scenery. Highlights include a Portugese fireplace, trailblazing through wild, scratchy, boggy bits of forest, a weird bit of old woodland where all the trees (mature and deciduous) had died but still stood tall, dry and leafless, and a lot of leafy enclosures.

We wandered round Beaulieu in an unsuccessful search for a shop, ate a delicious panini snack looking over the estuary and reluctantly agreed that we should continue to Brockenhurst for further snacks. Those 8 miles dragged, especially the road climb out of Beaulieu, and at one point we found ourselves on a very narrow, very overgrown path. Eventually we reached little Tesco, stocked up on snacks and cider, and found a perfect camping spot in a little gorse clearing on some heathland just north of the town.

We heated tinned chilli and rice, chatted rubbish and drank cider. We didn’t bother putting the tent up because it was quite warm, so we just slept on the groundsheet and a sleeping bag. It was cloudy when we went to sleep but I woke halfway through the night to a sky full of stars, which was amazing. In the morning we had all-day-breakfast and porridge (respectively, not together), packed up and squeezed out of our little gorsey circle.

Having cycled 41 miles on day 1, the most fearsome enemy of day 2 was the saddle. Even the flat, straight old gravel railway line out of Brockenhurst was uncomfortable at best, even though the views over the scrubby, pony-spangled heathland were lovely. We headed west and stopped in Burley to peer through the windows of the famous witch shops, then slogged up the hill for lunch overlooking the grassy, gorsey valley at Picket Post.

Apart from going off-route in the last enclosure and inadvertently extending the ride a little, the cycle back to Hill HQ was uneventful and verging on type 2 fun due to the unpleasantness of sitting down. We got back mid-afternoon and sprawled on the grass, sweaty, tired and relieved to be out of the saddle. We’d done a further 28 miles that day, bringing the total mileage to 69 on the dot.

Despite the soreness, we’d both had a whale of a time. The only thing we’ll do differently next time is carry more on our bikes and less on our backs – everything was in backpacks except for the things in my handlebar and frame bags, so we’ll get some panniers/saddlebags. Bikepacking allowed us to cover a significant distance – the breadth of the New Forest and back – in just a couple of days, without rushing and mainly offroad. We saw forest, heath, hill, valley, river and bog, a whole load of nature and some pretty villages. There’s no feeling of freedom quite like camping out under the stars and being able to carry everything you need. 8/10 overall (minus one for each sore arse).

Wednesday – Exploring and Mountain boarding, New Forest

We hadn’t made a concrete decision as to what to do due to a post-cycle inability to do anything productive, so on Karen’s suggestion (mummy Hill) we went to Hurst spit across the other side of the New Forest. We stopped on the way for a quick wander round a pond, parked in Keyhaven and walked through the saltmarsh nature reserve to the spit, which is a long, stony peninsula between the mainland and the Isle of Wight. We had lunch on the beach while watching a kiteboarder, decided that we quite fancied kiteboarding, and walked the length of the spit to Hurst Castle. It was closed due to coronavirus but the walk was nice.

On the way back to Hill HQ we stopped at a spot with a little slope to play around on the mountain board. We took turns whizzing down it before deciding it’d be a good idea to try sitting on the board. It wasn’t – I ended up with a leg peppered with gorse splinters and Ryan friction-burnt his ankle on the wheel.

Thursday – Chill, Warminster

The heavens opened on Thursday and we allowed ourselves a chill day. We went back to my cottage in Warminster via Ryan’s in Bowerchalke (we’ve been staying at Hill HQ throughout lockdown) and sorted out our climbing/camping gear, Ryan cooked Thai green curry, and we watched films. Stepbrothers is still funny.

Friday and Saturday – Camping, fishing, climbing and paddleboarding, Dorset

We left mine in the morning and drove to Worth Matravers, all packed up ready for camping, climbing and fishing. We parked in the usual car park and walked the other-worldly path down to Winspit Quarry, where I learned to climb a couple of years ago.

The disused limestone quarry is situated in Purbeck on the east Dorset coast and the path down to it goes through a lovely, timeless valley, flanked by steep-sided grassy fields and lined by hedgerows teeming with wildlife. The sea rises flat and high in the V of the valley and everything is strikingly blue and green. The quarry sits on a rocky, blocky stretch of coastline that falls away about 15 sheer metres to the water crashing over the boulders below.

We turned right at the little bay which divides the two climbing areas, went past the West Quarry and carried on along the limestone platform until we got to the last cave before sheer rock dictates the end of the walkway. It’s more of a dugout than a proper cave, about 4m deep, 2.5m high and 10m wide. We plonked our stuff and Ryan cast a fishing line out over the edge. Unfortunately he lost an imitation ragworm to the unforgiving rocks below, which ruled out bottom fishing, and it was too windy for spinning so our fishing expedition ended there.

We spent the rest of the day chilling in the cave, overlooking the sea and watching the birds go about their long flights parallel to the cliffs. We ate leftover Thai green curry supplemented with (on my part, anyway – Ryan refused to participate) foraged sea kale and sea beet. Despite my strong inclination against sitting still, it was relaxing to just listen to the sea, put the world to rights and admire the long, wild coastline visible to the east.

Sleeping in the open cave on just a mat and under just a sleeping bag was wonderfully liberating and we got up later than we should have. By the time we’d packed up and walked the short distance to the bolted West Quarry climbing area it was starting to get busy, so we shot up and down the easygoing climb Bread Knife while it was free. We decided to try out the Quarryman’s Wall area across the bay, only to find it even busier. People queued for Tom’s Patience and every route at 6a or below was taken, so we dithered bitterly for a few minutes before deciding that Saturday morning shortly after lockdown restrictions were eased wasn’t the best time to be at Winspit.

We plodded the twenty-minute walk back to the car and left for Swanage, hoping to get some fishing in. Luckily we’d kept Tom’s paddleboard in the car just in case, so we parked in a sneaky spot away from the touristy centre and took it down to the almost empty beach east of the popular bit. The tide was low so we cancelled our fishing plans and I took the paddleboard out in shorts and a t-shirt, shortly to discover that even with a relatively calm sea, a river board is definitely designed for use on the river. I was soaked quite quickly after my first attempt to stand, and although I got the hang of it, rogue waves kept catching me off guard and I took some spectacular tumbles.

Ryan trotted out to join me and I alternated between messing around on the paddleboard and indulging in the first bit of swimming I’ve done for several months. I’d been in the sea about an hour before realising I was a bit cold, so I waded back to the beach like some dreadful wet creature and pulled on some dry clothes. We drove back to Hill HQ for cider n chill with the Hillbillies, a bit irked to have had our fishing and climbing plans thwarted but pleased with our impromptu paddleboarding trip and glad to have had a couple of days on the Dorset coast.

  • Queuing for climbs – not my thing
  • Post-paddle

Sunday – Sulking, Hill HQ

It was father’s day so I met mum, dad and brother at granny’s house in Sarisbury Green, east of Southampton, and went for a lovely walk along the River Hamble. Apart from this and an evening barbecue at Hill HQ it was quite uneventful – a day of winding down after a week of as many activities and adventures as possible, given the lockdown.

River Hamble

Alps 2020, Day 5: Chamonix, Italy

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I’m not much of a stay-in-bed person, but given the previous day’s fiasco I granted Ryan a lie in. It was our last day in France, so we had a morning of admin n chill. After our things were packed into Pierre the Polo we stocked up on food at a supermarket in Les Houches and headed to Chamonix.

Considered the mountaineering capital of the Alps, Chamonix is a lively town full of outdoor shops and bars. High, snowy mountains interspersed with dark pine forest provide an impressive backdrop for the colourful streets, and a statue pointing towards Mont Blanc commemorates Jacques Balmat, the first person to climb the mountain in 1786, and his funder Horace Bénédict de Saussure. I particularly liked a mural depicting balconies and shuttered windows busy with old-fashioned mountaineers, skiiers and locals which was painted on the side of one of the five-storey buildings that line the streets.

We poked around a Decathlon and a North Face shop before doing the standard tat shop run for tourist bits – we picked up sew-on badges, car stickers and a small keyring knife. We went for a wander, backtracked after getting a little lost, fell out with an uncooperative parking machine and left for Italy, reflecting that Chamonix would be a great place to stay on a group holiday.

The Mont Blanc tunnel runs straight through the mountain for 12km and cost us €45. In 1999 there was a terrible fire which killed 35 people, so we were instructed by the tunnel’s own radio station to drive between 50 and 70kph and stay 150m (two road marks) behind the vehicle in front. The thought of driving literally through a mountain was cool, but it was quite a boring 12km and the long strips of lights lining the tunnel made it very samey.

We emerged in the midst of the Italian Alps, whose mysterious summits and low valleys were concealed by thick, snowy fog. The imposing slopes stood in contrast to the comparatively visible, majestic French mountains we’d been surrounded by twenty minutes before. The road wound through and under the mountains (driving in this region involves a lot of tunnels) and we got to our new village, Ayez, in an hour.

We parked in the village car park overlooking the lovely, mountainous Aosta valley and settled into our AirBnB place. We had the ground floor of a rustic house, which was basically one big room containing a kitchen, dining table, double bed, a few bits of furniture and a room-dividing shelving unit full of unidentifiable but functional-looking items. There was a bathroom with a bidet just off the main room, and by the kitchen area there was a door into a really cool stone cave (probably meant for storing wine) with a big map of the Aosta valley on the wall. It had a real timeless, rural feel, with its carved furniture, tiled floor and miscellaneous ornaments.

Our AirBnB host, Sergio, knocked on the door after a while. Sergio spoke about as much English as we spoke Italian, which was none. Once we figured out that he spoke French I managed a conversation about the occupancy form we were required to fill out under Italian law, reassured him that the temperature in the room was fine (he was very concerned) and he went on his merry Italian way.

That evening Ryan cooked his signature dish, the whatever-we-have stir fry, and we spent the evening updating our vlog, poking around the various bits of Italian literature (which ranged from local tourism to a huge volume on 18th century French furniture), drinking thrown-together cocktails and planning the next day. The highlight of the evening was  a strangely mesmerising wooden game that I’ve since found is called Tyrolean roulette, which involves rolling little balls at a spinning top  in the middle of a round board and keeping a score based on the numbered divots that the ball pings into. It’s the simple things.

Alps 2020, Day 4: Snowshoe Hiking and Black Ice

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We left the cabin much later than planned due to the reluctance of our slow, hungover bodies and plodded to the hire shop to pick up some snowshoes. We planned to hike up Mount Joly (2,525m) via the ski runs and hiking trails, which was fairly straightforward – navigable using the map in the ski leaflet, or so we thought.

I always thought of showshoes in the typical cartoon tennis racquet sense, which isn’t too far off. Ours were big, flat, foot-shaped bits of plastic with small metal studs on the bottom for grip, with two “settings” – hinged under the toe, which allowed the outside portion of the device to “flap” down and stay close to the ground when lifting the foot, and fixed, which locked the whole shoe stiff. Hinged was better for going uphill and fixed better downhill. It was strange at first and I kept treading on the edges of my own shoes, but got used to it after a little while. It was amazing how much grip we had, and the shoes enabled us to walk on deep, soft snow and up steep, icy slopes that we never would have been able to climb in just boots.

The Ascent

We hiked up blue runs, red runs and through tall, dark green pine forest, all the time backed by jagged, snow-capped mountains. As we climbed higher the mountains seemed to grow around us in size and number, until we reached l’Epaule du Joly (2,135m) – the shoulder of Mount Joly – and the high, white brow we’d been fixated on for over an hour suddenly gave way to a horizon full of rough, majestic peaks.

The hardest part was towards the top of that section. We had to hike up two red runs, which were unforgivingly steep and seemed never-ending. I focused on reaching that post, then that post, then that sign, breaking it down into more manageable bits, and I wouldn’t stop until I reached a more significant milestone, like the bottom of a new run. I watched some Alpine choughs diving off the roof of a cabin and listened to their high-pitched trill. Ryan and I didn’t speak for a long time.

Peril #1

L’Epaule was the highest ski lift, and to get to Mount Joly we had to move up steep, snow-covered rock. We swapped snowshoes for crampons, looked up at the looming white mass, and started upwards, using the leki poles to check that the snow and ice in front of us concealed hard rock, not open space. It was thigh-deep in places and we regretted leaving the ice axe back in the cabin.

We moved sideways up the steep face, front-pointing the toes of our crampons firmly into the ice, until one of mine came loose. I’d borrowed my crampons from Ryan’s dad and my boots were a bit too narrow for them, so my heel kept slipping out the back. While I adjusted, we really had to lean into the slope and find a solid footing as a slip would see us tumbling down the steep, rocky ridge with no means of arrest.

The crampon was wedged tight on the back of my boot, so much so that I couldn’t move it in our precarious position. Neither of us wanted to make the call and for a moment we just took in the near panoramic view, until Ryan expressed his concern in a strained tone that I’d never heard before. Recalling fatal stories of summit fever and remembering his dad’s words of caution, we reluctantly turned round and headed back down.

With hindsight I’m more disappointed now than I was at the time, but it was the right decision. While testing the ground for firmness on the way down, I punched a leki pole straight through a cornice (an overhanging snow edge that looks solid; we looked up at it afterwards and were almost certain that it was a cornice) into thin air, and with one pokey, semi-loose crampon, I couldn’t have pressed on much further. We’d expected a hike, not a graded ice ascent, so didn’t take axes. The sky had been growing thicker and darker all afternoon and we were concerned about visibility worsening; we didn’t fancy an overnighter. There was no other sensible option.

IMG_4793

Descent

The plod back followed the same route and was scenic but very, very long. We’d both been a little hungover but Ryan felt really rough coming back down, which I maintain had something to do with him refusing to eat. I returned the snowshoes in dwindling light while sickie dragged his poor body straight back to the cabin, then I tried to revive him with a hot drink and some food. We didn’t have much and had planned to find somewhere to eat out for our last night in France, so we got in the Polo and set off on what would soon become a treacherous journey.

In our normal blasé fashion, we did zero research and intended to stumble across a place to eat. We found that the pizzeria in our tiny village was closed, so we sent Google maps to the nearest restaurant. We followed the innocent-looking little blue arrow off the main road and down a suspiciously steep drive, which narrowed, steepened, became twisty, and – most worryingly – increasingly icy.

Peril #2

We couldn’t turn back, so we crawled along. There’s no way to describe the heart-in-your-mouth feeling of suddenly being taken by black ice. We slid diagonally down the road, picking up speed, as I tried to feather the brakes. Our concern (verging on terror) grew, but luckily the gentle braking worked and we slowed to a precarious halt. It was so tense that we felt that breathing too hard could set the car off again. On our left – the side closest to me and the way the camber pushed the car – was a deep ditch and a bunch of not-very-soft-looking rocks and trees. We ran through our options. We had snow chains in the boot, but no way of putting them on without moving the wheels. Attempting to control the car was likely to result in another sliding session, but we didn’t seem to have much choice. For the second time that day, Ryan spoke in a tone that I’d never heard before.

Stifling the rising feeling of dread, I told myself that although I didn’t fancy losing the €800 deposit on the car or negotiating our recovery in French (then paying the fee), we weren’t going to die. Ryan got out (gingerly) and moved around to the driver’s side, then put all his weight into pushing the car towards the uphill camber, while I tentatively eased off the clutch and crept forward. We slid a little, then I was in control. We slid again, and I was in control again. Ryan left his post and walked/slid in front of the car, directing me to the least icy bits of road, and we moved down the hill this way – just tickling the accelerator and the brake – for what seemed like an age.

Finally we reached a flatter bit and Ryan got back in the car. We crept along, flanked on either side by dark, ominous trees and incredibly on-edge, crossed a bridge over a river, and started ascending the winding road on the opposite side of the monstrous valley. The relief was immense but fragile, as we were painstakingly aware that we could come across more ice.

Relief

We emerged literally out of the woods and onto a more major road. Very few times in my life have I felt comparable elation, mixed with the sudden realisation that I was famished and totally exhausted. Not only had we climbed more vertical metres in a day than either of us had before (about 1,000m), in snow, but we’d barely eaten a thing. It was about 9pm on a Monday and we weren’t near any major resorts, so our hopes of finding anywhere open were low.

By chance, we came to a Chinese restaurant on a road in Saint-Gervais-Les-Bains, the nearest large town to our village. We nearly didn’t get out the car as although the lights were on, it looked dead. We pushed at the door and it opened, sounding a bell, but there were no waiting staff or customers anywhere. We looked tentatively around the warm, colourful room decorated with Chinese art and didn’t dare to hope too hard. A minute or so later a waitress came along, looked a little confused by my desperate-sounding plea (in French) for a table and gave us the second-best news of the evening: that they were still serving food.

I have never tasted such delicious Chinese food anywhere, and I don’t think it was just because of the day we’d had. It was everything I could have wanted – prawns in a lovely spicy sauce and fragranced rice with veg, and Ryan had some noodley thing. He perked up afterwards, but we were both so exhausted that after the thankfully uneventful drive back to the cabin (safe to say we eschewed Google Maps and stuck to the main road) we collapsed into bed like two sacks of potatoes.

The best meal of my life
And his

Coronavirus: Staying Indoors, by an Outdoor Person

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If someone had described the situation we’re in a couple of months ago I’d have thought they were describing some piece of weird, dark and never-going-to-happen literature (probably Russian). Yet here we are, confined to our own little corners and forbidden from going about our normal lives.

In January I was in Dorset, Guernsey and the French, Italian and Swiss Alps, in February I visited Kent, London, Birmingham and the Peak District, and in March I moved house from Hampshire to Wiltshire. Three weeks ago I stepped over the threshold of Hill HQ (my boyfriends’ parents’ house) and I’ve remained within running/cycling distance ever since.

As a hyperactive outdoor person, this is practically Armageddon. I live to explore and discover (hence curious) so being stuck within the same four walls is a little maddening. However, I’m very fortunate to be here for several reasons:

  1. I’m in the wonderful and incredibly hospitable company of Ryan’s parents, dog, two brothers and their girlfriends, so with eight (nine, including dog) of us quarantined together it’s never too quiet.
  2. Unlike my little cottage, Hill HQ has a garden.
  3. The New Forest is right on the doorstep, making this little corner of the outdoors just about accessible.
  4. The Hills are also outdoor people, so there are plenty of books, bikes and bits of gym, climbing and outdoor gear to keep me occupied.

So I’m in the best place possible, but I’m missing the mountains, the sea and all the wild bits in between more than ever. I’m guilty of looking wistfully through old photos, which used to make me twitchy-restless even in the pre-corona days. But I’m trying to make the most of having free time to spend creatively and productively.

Alongside working from home full time, I’ve played board games, card games, drinking games, darts, done quizzes, learnt crevasse rescue in the garden, made silly videos, started learning to lasso, read books, slacklined, been on several bike rides, lit a fire with flint and steel, slept in a tent, had my hair cut, had my ears pierced, gardened, written blog posts, ran, walked the dog, seen lots of wildlife, cooked, built a bird table, watched films, brewed alcohol, practised French, painted a deer, had an easter egg hunt, started painting a fish, caught up with friends, used the garage gym, painted a fence, mowed a lawn and started an environmental e-learning course.

My plan is to continue being productive: learn new skills, improve old skills, make things, keep in touch with people and do everything I’ve been meaning to do for a long time. I hope that this will keep me sane, at least until I can get away to the mountains again.

I hope everyone has the sense to stay home and make the most of having more of the greatest universal asset – time.

Alps 2020, Day 3: Skiing

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Having spent Day 2 of our Alps holiday snowboarding for the first time, I realised that snowsports could become yet another of my thrilling and unaffordable interests. I could happily have boarded for another day (as Ryan did, having done both before) but I wanted to try skiing too. We’d swapped my board for skis the previous evening, so we were wrapped up and back on the slopes bright and early.

Mounting and dismounting the lift for the first time on skis was much easier than on a board. I was still a cumbersome creature but at least I effectively just had two extremely long feet, rather than a clunky slab of wood being dragged around by one foot. We started on the blue run we’d whizzed round the previous afternoon, beginning at the top of the Chattrix ski lift and finishing at the end. It had a good mix of steep, twisty, open and forested sections, and although not ideal for an absolute beginner, I’d probably have got bored with more suitable slopes.

Skiing was much easier to pick up than snowboarding. Skis give you two independent points of contact with the ground, whereas having both feet strapped stiff to a snowboard mean that if you start going over, there’s no intuitive way of counterbalancing. Having thought about it, I won’t write about this too much as I’ll do a separate post comparing the two.

Once I’d got the hang of snowploughing my way down the Chattrix run, we went down the first blue run of the previous day (much more successfully), up the Croix du Christ lift and down the long blue run with the gentle but sheer-sided section. It was along here that I realised how much quicker skis are than boards as I lost Ryan very quickly, which was a shame as he was trying to film me.

I found the poles helped a lot with keeping speed on the gradual slopes and balancing generally, but I still managed a few fairly dramatic, snowcloud-inducing crashes on the steep sections. I preferred crashing on a snowboard as the long skis made me feel giraffe-like; at least on a board you land directly on bum or knees, whereas skis jabbing into snow threaten to bend knee and hip joints in ways they shouldn’t be bent.

Back at the bottom, I tentatively mounted the button lift that had given me so much grief the previous day, back to the top of the Chattrix run. Annoyingly (but to my relief) it was perfectly straightforward on skis. We nipped down the blue route, noting the thickening sky, and back to the cabin for a warming lunch of soup and baguette. It was only then that I realised that I’d been learning to ski with two straps undone on each boot.

The afternoon was spent doing laps of the Chattrix blue run and we both loved it. Occasionally I hated it, but that was only when I was reminded that I wasn’t very good at skiing by all the skiiers flying past making parallel skiing (if that’s what it’s even called) look as effortless as sipping an apres-ski mulled cider. The weather had deteriorated throughout the day and by mid-afternoon powdery snow was laying delicately on the slopes, making it increasingly difficult for this cumbersome infant giraffe to ski at a sensible speed and in a controlled manner, so we gave each other the mutually understood “time for a drink” look and abandoned slope.

We returned the gear to the shop and continued along the road away from the cabin to the nearby village of Saint-Nicolas-de-Véroce to pick up some supplies, namely a bottle of gin. The village was very quaint, situated halfway up the valley side with an elaborate chapel, big wooden chalets and a beautifully presented but small shop, which was crammed with all sorts of fascinating (to two uncultured English louts, anyway) tins, jars, packets, meats, cheeses and bottles.

Unfortunately we couldn’t justify spending €42 on gin, so we settled for c.€20 vodka and some snacky snacks. We walked the half hour or so back to our cabin, cooked improvised pea and ham soup with leftovers and spent the evening drinking far more than intended. The phrase “we’re on holiday” was getting a great workout. 10/10 would ski again, although on balance (and despite being more difficult) I’d pick up a snowboard first.