The End of the Daunder: Reflections on Companionship and other Heady Matters

Early morning brew

I awoke, as is my habit, very early.  This was after a good night’s sleep in the Scarp 1.  It’s a good shelter.  Apart from its practicality of design, and robustness in the blustery conditions we had experienced, it also has a nearly white inner and a light grey outer.  This, combined with the longer end struts, makes for a lovely light and airy feeling.  It seems far more natural than the yellow inner and dark green outer of my Akto, much as I like the latter.  A joy of wild camping is waking early when the sky is clear, opening the tent and porch door and brewing up whilst still in a warm sleeping bag, and drinking tea in the silence, punctuated only by the noise of the wind and birdsong, contemplating the beauty outside.  And this is what I did, watching the sun rise over the flank of Brae Fell, the other side of the narrow valley that separates it from Longlands.

 

On Longlands Fell

 

Croydon does a mysterious and joyful dance as he counts his Kryptonite tent pegs and realises they are all still there

Slowly the group came to life, and we enjoyed a leisurely shortish walk back to lovely Caldbeck.  The Daunder had been planned from the start like a military operation by General Sloman.  It went as all British military operations ie setbacks in the early stages followed by marvellous victory as all comes together at the very end (and even without the help of the Americans on this occasion).  So the weather was perfect, the scenery was perfect, the lambs looked lovely and we arrived at the Oddfellows Arms just a few minutes after opening time and the beginning of the lunchtime menu.  We refreshed ourselves, walked the mile down to our cars back at our starting point, and then set off for home – the southerners back down to Cockneyland and Lynsey to Wetherfield.  I had the long 12 miles trek back to my cottage.  When I write “trek” I am being metaphorical, for I went in the car.

 

The art of Daundering: never pass a bench without sitting down

Caldbeck: Andy points his backside at the camera.  An end of Daunder ritual, perhaps?

Since leaving University, the best part of 40 years ago, almost all my hill walking has been done alone.  Not by choice, more by circumstance.  I am not a natural socialite, but do enjoy walking with others, as long as the group is not too large (the 6/7 of the Daunder would be an absolute maximum in my eyes), and when people have something like the same levels of fitness and pace.  Going solo does give one a particular perspective on life.  I find that I become more self-absorbed and reflective when I walk alone.  That can be a good thing; it can also be hell at times.  It is good to go at one’s own pace, to stop when one wants to, to choose one’s own route, to savour the sound of silence and the sounds of nature.  But going solo can, for me at least, also lead to more anxiety if the going gets difficult or the conditions become bad.  It can be good, on such occasions to have companions with you to share decisions, to laugh about difficulties and, even more, just for general companionship, even the companionship of silence, when nothing more needs to be said.  I think that to get the best from our beautiful British hills and mountains one needs to do both: to walk alone at times but also to walk with others on occasions.  I will be seeking out more opportunities to do the latter over the coming months and years.  I hope that sometimes the opportunity will arise to walk with some of my fellow Daunderers again.

Walking in the Slipstream of Legends

The first night. The boys from the smoke putting their tents up - (try not to notice my very badly pitched Scarp cunningly pitched in the lee of a shed)

Last year saw me do my first TGO Challenge.  This year I received the honour of an invite to the annual Pre-Walk Daunder which a number of TGO Challenge regulars organise each year.  Being young, well relative to the regulars, and foolish I accepted.   After weeks of sleepless excitement I turned up at our pre-arranged meeting place, a nice little farm camping spot near Caldbeck in the Northern Lakes, at the appointed time.  And within two hours the others started to arrive.  Well ok, I had only had to travel 12 miles to get there, whilst others had come from much further afield.    

Pete arrived first.  He introduced himself.

“How do”.  I’m Morpeth”

“Hi, I’m David.  Where are you from then?”

And do you know.  By an amazing coincidence Morpeth came from Morpeth.

A flash car full of dodgy looking blokes arrived.   To go by the accents of the occupants it seemed that they had come up from the East End of London.  They were real cockney diamond geezers.  My mum taught me not to speak to southerners but this would have been impolite so I did, but I kept my wallet hidden.

“You all right mate?  My name’s Croydon”

"Hi, I’m David.  Where are you from then?”

It’s just incredible. By an amazing coincidence Croydon came from Croydon.

The coincidences just kept on coming.  Here was a bloke called Walker, who does lots of walking.  There was another chap called Sloman.  And he likes to make the group rest regularly and not go too fast.  There was someone called Pooler.  Now as any classical scholar will tell you, the surname Pooler is a corruption of the Latin word “puella”, which is what the Romans called girls.  And lo and behold Lynsey, for it was she, was a woman.  And finally, we had a Lambert. And we were camping in a field surrounded by new born lambs.  I didn’t half feel left out with my ordinary name, I can tell you.

We ate in the Crown at Hesket Newmarket.  Someone asked the waitress what the seasonal vegetables were.  “I don’t know what they are called, but they are green”, she replied.

Over the meal I told Alan of some good wild camping spots for the next day.  This was, he suggested, unnecessary.  He had looked at various satellite photos, courtesy of NASA, and had identified a brilliant spot.  I can’t remember his actual words but they went something like this  “It’s a beautiful bit of manicured turf, about the size of Wembley stadium.  Perfectly flat, but well drained.  A crystal clear babbling stream runs adjacent.  Views to die for.  We can get the tents up, then I’ll get the croquet mallets out and we can have a game before the cheese and wine do at 8.00pm”.

I was up at 6.00am the next day, and ready for the off by 8.00am.  The others emerged from their tents shortly after, and we were ready to walk by 9.30am. To be fair to them that was the agreed time.

 

On the way up High Pike

We headed up High Pike in lovely weather.  At first.  Then it became marginally inclement ie almost impossible to stand up because of the wind, or to see because of the mist.  Oh, and it may have rained.  Somewhat.  It was lovely walking though. I normally walk solo and it was a nice change having companions other than Hyperdog to talk to.  Having said that I often get sense out of Hyperdog. That's a joke, Andy, and not aimed at you.  No not at all.

 

Sheltering near the top of High Pike - Phil, Lynsey, Croydon, Alan and Andy.  Not certain why I'm not in this photo

Morpeth turned back, still suffering the after effects of an illness.  We carried on, enjoying the cairn shelter just below the summit and, later, the Lingy Hut.  Alan and Phil looked like they were set there for the afternoon.  Getting quite cold, Lynsey and I prodded them with walking poles until they got up.  Well we didn’t realise that the purpose of a Daunder was to daunder.

Handsome chap in a hat

Waiting in vain for a train

The weather cleared as we headed towards Skiddaw House.  Alan and Phil were bringing up the rear.  "We’ll head off this path about 500 metres from the house", shouted Alan.  About 1 km before the house we turned round.  Alan and Phil were already well off the track heading purposefully through deep, tangly heather.  The rest of us reluctantly followed.  We caught them up as they struggled to cross a stream with steep sided banks.  The remaining four of us walked a hundred yards upstream to an easier crossing ie the bridge back on the main track.  The heathery diversion had been unnecessary.  We followed the track whilst watching two specks in the distance blundering through the heather.  They stopped.  Croydon took out his field binoculars, probably first owned by Field Marshall Montgomery.  “They are putting up the tents", he announced.  We headed off through the heather.  Andy stumbled badly on his bad knee and suffered loudly and colourfully.  Croydon and Lyndsey suffered politely and quietly.  I muttered dark thoughts.  Phil and Alan were now heading back up a tributary stream towards us.  They hadn’t found a suitable spot.  I headed out of the heather followed by the others.  We were now back on the track.  The heathery diversion had been unnecessary.  Yes.  Again.

It is so peevish to say I told you so, but I may have used these words, no more than a dozen times I might add, as we eventually pitched at the very spot I had mentioned the night before and again every few seconds as we had bashed through the heather.  But once I had some food inside me I was much happier, and even more so later on as we partied into the early hours (ie almost 9.00pm) at Trinnie’s place.  For the photos of that you will need to read Alan Sloman's blog.

 

Andy playing esoteric rock music to imaginary fish

It was a very good day.  We had covered no great distances – 16.5km, with 734 metres climbed - but I learnt later that for a Daunder that is as respectable as one of  the Archbishop of Canterbury’s afternoon tea parties.

Lying in my pit