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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Handsome chap in a hat |
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| 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.
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| Andy playing esoteric rock music to imaginary fish |
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| Lying in my pit |
