New Heights of Incompetence

Happy chappy on Kinder Edge

When did it all go so horribly wrong? I think it started the moment I thought I was going blind.

I should have known better. The weather forecast for the next fortnight had looked reasonable when I had suggested a wild camp to Geoff.  Despite him being known for having a modicum of common sense he agreed.  Weather forecasts always gradually get worse when I plan to be in the hills, and being an observant sort of chap I couldn't help but notice, a week or so later, as I drove along the M67 near Manchester, that the outside lane was closed because it was full of snow and that my windscreen wipers were working overtime to keep the sleet off the windscreen. If I had been planning to go out on my own I could have turned round and headed home to the log burner. But Geoff was waiting for me, desperate for my company.  I'd show him. I'm no wimp. Well I could at least try to fool him.

So after the Crowther's had kindly provided me with lunch, and Pebbles the Boxer had tried to kill me with love,  Geoff and I set out for a shortish afternoon walk, heading in the direction of Kinder Downfall. The walking was pleasant, if you ignored the slippery, oozy mud that we were sliding through. Every step left me feeling I was about to go A over T.  But I didn't.

We arrived at the spot where Geoff had planned to camp, and pretty pleasant it was too, with excellent views of the Downfall, through the gloom and mist.  More snow was clearly imminent, and I raced to pitch Daphne, the Z Packs Duplex, behind a large lump of gritstone.  Geoff was putting up his tent a few yards away, with no fuss and achieving a lovely taught pitch.  Whilst he was busy my mind went walkabout.  I had earlier jumped at his suggestion of me taking the spot behind the boulder, without realising it was one of those places that seemed almost horizontal at the time it was chosen, but one which would gradually tip towards the vertical, and would leave me and my sleeping mat in a heap at one end of the tent every few minutes throughout the night. But that was for later.

Daphne was almost up when I realised that the position of the boulder would stop me getting in a couple of key guy lines. Which is pretty incompetent. I should have taken the poor girl down and started again from scratch, but Geoff might have seen. A man has his reputation to consider. Couldn't have sniggering coming from the next tent, could I? So I fiddled around with the two trekking poles, both of which are needed to support Daphne. I released the flicklock on one of the poles so I could jiggle it into a new position, and a couple of pegs and guys were also moved. I then re-tensioned the pole. But I couldn't understand why Daphne looked so forlorn when she was up, and why the doors (no zips to save weight) did not overlap as they were so cunningly designed to do.  It was only the following morning that I realised that after that particular bit of faffing with guys and poles I had set one trekking pole 10 cm lower than the other.  Her normal graceful lines were missing. She looked a sorry mess.

Daphne the Z Packs Duplex looking almost as if she had been pitched correctly

I got my gear into the tent as the sleet and snow arrived. As I went to untie my boots to follow the gear into the dry everything became a blur. Literally. I was going blind!  What was happening? Was I having a stroke, perhaps, after all the stress and effort of the last few minutes? I put my hand down to steady myself and then felt one of the lenses from my spectacles lying on the ground. So I was not going blind, which was something of a relief. My next thought was to wonder how I would survive the following few hours to bedtime in a tiny tent, unable to read my book. Then I remembered I had a 70 mile drive the following day, impossible without glasses. "Oh fiddlesticks", I said. After a pathetic conversation with Geoff, he came to the rescue with some insulating tape and repaired them for me. He was then my hero - but in a very manly sort of way, obviously.

You'd never guess from this picture that she was pitched on a 45 degree slope. Or so it felt at 2.00am

There being no streams I walked back down to Mermaid Pool which we had passed earlier and collected the dirtiest water I had ever had to use on the hill. But the Sawyer filter would sort it. And it did. At first. I filtered a mugful. I got out the Sidewinder and meths burner. My Torjet lighter then gave up the ghost. No problem. I'm not incompetent. I carry a spare lighter. That didn't work either. Box of matches? Of course. I was a Boy Scout. Always prepared. I had those as well. And they were special waterproof matches, bought and brought for a rainy day.

Waterproof but not windproof note. As you will be aware, matches blow out when it's windy.  After much "fiddlesticking", and about half an hour later, I had a cup of hot soup. Now for the dehydrated meal. Filter some more water. No chance. Nothing was getting through the Sawyer, no matter how hard I squeezed. I'd backwashed it and tested it before setting out. And now it was next to useless. "Fiddlesticks", said I, yet again.  I had about 600ml of tap water from home with me. I could go and ask Geoff for use of his super doopa, very posh MSR filter. A filter that works. But no, I thought, I can survive such a minor calamity for one night. I would make up the dehydrated meal with the tap water, and it would leave just enough for a brew in the morning.  I could forgo the Bird's Instant Custard I had planned for pudding, and could also miss the breakfast porridge.  I had chocolate and cereal bars instead.

I gave the Torjet a good talking to and it came back to life. Just. As I applied its feeble flame to the meths burner I knocked the pan of precious water over and lost half of it. I had another bout of saying fiddlesticks. Mountain House food can be awful at the best of times. I forced it down, only partially re-hydrated through not adding enough water. I took a slug of scotch from the hip flask. I thought of putting my boots on and taking some whisky over to Geoff. Then I thought "sod that, it's cold and horrid out there" and had another slug to cheer myself. It failed. I got out the Kindle. I'm currently reading Les Miserables by Victor Hugo.  All I can say is that, as I lay there reading, I was thinking that those poverty stricken Les Miserables had it cushy compared to spending a night on a hillside with a knackered Sawyer water filter and two useless lighters.

The morning after: Geoff and Islay on Kinder Edge

Geoff on Kinder Edge

The good thing about being dehydrated is that I did not have to make use of Mr P Bottle very much in the night, and could have slept surprisingly well. Every half hour or so, however, I had to do that thing you do when you do not have a level pitch. You know the one. You gradually slide in your sleeping bag into a heap at the bottom of the tent. You are still on your sleeping mat, but three feet of it is climbing up the lower wall of the tent. You grasp the top edge of the mat. To move it you have to get all your weight off it. You don't want to roll on to the cold, hard floor of the tent. So you do this sort of horizontal leap about three inches into the air, getting all your weight off the mat, and in that split second before you land you tug the mat up the tent. You then drift off to sleep and repeat the process every 30 minutes for the next 9 hours.

I'm not that resilient these days, and can let small mishaps get me down, but as dawn dawned it dawned on me that the meths and the Torjets would light better if they were warm, so I put them into my sleeping bag and managed to brew up twice with the remaining water. And amazingly, as so often is the case, all became well with the world. Geoff came over to inspect Daphne. He was polite enough not to laugh, and almost seemed to believe me when I sang her praises and explained that she was simply having an off day and did not always look like that.

Out of the clag at Edale Cross looking back towards Kinder

Islay

Then we packed up and headed up a steepy bit into the clag and snow flurries. This steepy section felt remarkably easy, all things considered, which was a very good thing suggesting that I might be getting slightly fitter, and onto Kinder Edge, along to the Downfall, on to Kinder Low and then we dropped down to Edale Cross and back to the Crowther's. Most enjoyable. Islay had a lovely time. Geoff enjoyed himself. I think. And so did I. It's amazing how quickly you can forget the discomfort and set backs when the scenery and company are good. And to cap it all when we got back to his place the hero produced bacon. A whole frying pan full of it. And bread. And fresh coffee. And what more could a man want after such a day and night?

Death Awaits....

Eagle Crag

A National Trust Land Rover pulled up in the car park at Rosthwaite as I was getting my pack out ready for the off.  I watched the ranger as he got out. Suddenly his nose went in the air and he sniffed.  His eye balls started to bulge and roll around their sockets.  His tongue lolled out and he began to drool.  I recognised the symptoms.  I had seen them before. Cuben fibre envy!  He rapidly took in the scene in the car park, sniffed the air again, and then headed over to me.

“Nice pack.  Z Packs cuben fibre Arc Blast?  I want it.  And I want it now.”

Fearful that I was about to be mugged, I calmed him down and we got chatting. It was fellow outdoors blogger and Backpackers Club member, Trevor Morgan. After the normal gear chat we went our separate ways.  Him to work, me to continue to enjoy my retirement.  I can't recall the name of Trevor's blog.  If you know it please could you tell me?

After 42 years of walking in the Lakes I should know that on 90 per cent of occasions it will be wetter and windier than the forecast, which had been for fair weather, and so it proved to be. I pulled on my waterproofs, today wearing my Z Packs Challenger Jacket.  I have been told by people who have never worn one that it will not keep me dry and I will die in it. A black cuben fibre shroud. The Death Jacket. As the rain came down I headed up Eagle Crag, the ‘back way’ via Greenup Gill, to avoid the more exciting, but very steep direct route I would probably have taken if I was wearing my day pack.

Greenup Gill. looking back to Borrowdale

Sergeant's Crag and Langstrath from near the top of Eagle Crag

After Eagle Crag, with it superb views up Langstrath, it was on to Sergeant’s Crag.  Then back to Eagle Crag to collect my camera which had fallen off my hip belt when I took my pack off there.  Forty minutes of unnecessary effort because of carelessness.

There followed the long plod over grass to Low White Stones, then High Raise, and on to Sergeant Man.  Memories of my first visit there in 1973 in thick mist on a school Combined Cadet Force expedition.  We couldn’t find the top on that day. We had sat on some rocks taking bearings and wandering around, always ending up back in the same spot.  Eventually we headed off down into Langdale, giving Sergeant Man up as a bad job.  A couple of weeks later, back at school, we watched some training films about navigation.  By coincidence they were filmed around Sergeant Man and we discovered that the rocks we had been sitting on were its summit.

After Sergeant Man there followed a long descent to little visited Tarn Crag, collecting water on the way ready for my overnight  camp from the stream that heads down to Codale Tarn.  The forecast had said that the previous day’s near gale force winds on the tops would abate in the afternoon. They hadn’t really done so.  Not gale force, but very strong at times.  The near constant showers persisted.  I spent some time finding a spot to camp.  Reasonably dry, reasonably sheltered and reasonably flat. Result!  By now I was wishing I had brought my Scarp 1 which is a great shelter in such conditions.  Thinking the weather would be clement I had chosen to bring my very lightweight Z Packs Duplex tent, also known as Daphne, which many tell me (including some who have never used one or even seen one in real life) is a calm weather tent. The sort you die in when the going gets tough. A cuben fibre coffin for the man in the cuben fibre shroud.

Daphne Duplex near the summit of Tarn Crag

Daphne braces hereself in the wind on Tarn Crag

Soon after getting the tent up, at about 4.30pm, the rain really arrived, and I spent the next 14 hours inside, cooking, reading, sleeping and worrying about whether Daphne would survive the night.  I dozed off and woke again at about 11.30pm.  The wind had significantly strengthened, and shifted ninety degrees, so that my sheltered spot was no longer that.  Very strong gusts intensified what was already a constantly strong wind.  I was glad that I had taken the precaution of packing up everything except my sleeping bag and mat before bed.  Headtorch in hand in case I had to make a quick get away, I lay listening to the gale and watching the poles flex.  After half an hour or so I fell back to sleep.  I awoke after dawn to complete stillness.  Daphne was fine.  The pegs hadn’t shifted, the guy lines had remained taut.  A good test that has increased my confidence in her.  We had survived and the rain, too, had ceased. Death is for another day.

Brewing up on Tarn Crag, three doors closed and one open. Great flexibility for varying conditions.

Below Codale Tarn. I had camped just over the central skyline

Summit of Blea Rigg, looking towards Pavey Ark and Harrison Stickle

Pavey Ark: View to Stickle Tarn and Langdale

I was away by 7.30am.  Off to another little frequented hill, the lovely Blea Rigg, via Codale Tarn, then back up to Sergeant Man and on to the Langdales.  It is six years since I was last on the Pikes, and the July busy-ness of the hills in this area reminded me of why I now rarely come to what used to be one of my favourite destinations.  I popped over to Thunacar Knott, then on to Pavey Ark, Harrison Stickle and Loft Crag before skipping the final summit cone of Pike O’Stickle, to head to Martcrag Moor.  Another navigational challenge of long ago came to mind.  I had hitched up to the Lakes from home one university holidays.  I remember the feeling of satisfaction when I made my way in thick cloud from Pike O’Stickle, across the Moor to Stake Pass, probably the first time I had ever used my compass in anger whilst walking solo.  Back then, in the mid 1970s, the path was at best intermittent.  Nowadays it would be hard to lose it given the 40 more years of pounding by boots. In places it has been ‘improved’ by Fix the Fells.  I think they were worried that walkers might get their boots a bit muddy in some places.  They have even thoughtfully put a large stepping stone in a stream that is all of two feet wide so shorter walkers can avoid having to take an over large pace to get across dry shod

Loft Crag and Pike O'Stickle from Harrison Stickle

Harrison Stickle from Loft Crag

Martcrag Moor

 Towards the bottom of the Stake Pass, in mid to late afternoon, I met two blokes coming up towards me, in jeans and with map in hand.

Bloke: “Could you help us get our bearings?  Is this the path up to Scafell Pike? We’ve come from a camp site”.

Me: “Where is your camp site?”

Bloke: “Not certain.  I think it’s at a place called Stonethwaite.  The problem is that we are on the edge of a map.”

Me, unspoken: “No, the problem is you are complete dickheads.”

Me spoken: “You can’t make Scafell Pike today.  Nor would this be the best way.  Tomorrow?  Here let me show you.  It might be best if you first drove to Seathwaite and then..…”.

Heading down the Stake Pass to Langstrath

The Stake Pass path has been ponsified by Fix the Fells with sweeping, regular, unnatural curves.  Well we wouldn’t want the path to be too tricky would we?  It drops down into Langstrath.  This valley is long and beautiful and, for the Lakes, it has a wilder and more remote feel than many others.  I plodded along to Stonethwaite, the camp site remarkably empty for the school holidays and on to Rosthwaite.

Trevor Morgan wasn’t laying in wait to pinch my cuben fibre gear. I’m told by some that cuben fibre doesn’t have a long life.  I reckon mine will outlast my knees, which seem to ache badly for days after any walk such as this with long steep descents.  Those visits of discovery to the Lakes in the 1970s seem in my head to have only been yesterday.  What a shame that my creaking body tells me another story.

A Sunny Backpack in the Arans

Creiglyn Dyfi

I last walked the Arans in Snowdonia with my University Mountaineering Club in 1977, whilst staying at the St Mary’s Club Hut at Bryn Hafod.  That was in a cold and snowy February, and I still recall the happiness of youthful play, high in the hills as we turned our orange plastic Karrimor bivvy bags into sledges near the summit of Aran Benllyn, before a night of singing the songs that used to ring out in those days in the pubs in all mountain districts.  Wild Rover, Sweet Mountain Thyme, Manchester Rambler, Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls and the like.  Tuneless we may have been, but joyeous we certainly were.

 

The late and lovely John Bibby, 'bivvy bagging' with the University College of Wales (UCW) Mountaineering Club, Aran Benllyn, February 1977

 

Mike Wiggins, Jess Fitch and ANO in the St Mary's Club Hut, Bryn Hafod, UCW Mountaineering Club Meet, February 1977

As I drove through Y Bala and along Llyn Tegid on a beautiful morning this Easter week I recalled that day from 38 years ago. My memory was hazy as to fact, but vivid as to feeling.  Nostalgia then turned to anxiety about whether the small car park at Llanuwchllyn might already be full.  For those who struggle with Welsh place names, by the way, it is pronounced 'Llanuwchllyn'.  As ever my worrying was misplaced, as despite my latish start there was plenty of space.  As I was doing the rucksack faffing thing another car arrived and disgorged four Welsh teenagers, chattering loudly in English, getting ready for their own walk.  You can sometimes tell by the type of equipment people carry how much hill walking they do, and these clearly weren’t regular hill goers, but good on them anyway for trying, I thought, as I headed off to start the long, long ridge path up to Aran Benllyn and beyond to Aran Fawddwy.

Looking back to Llyn Tegid

The teenagers were heading up the same path and were going at about my speed and we kept overtaking each other.  Being an anti-social sod I decided to put on a spurt to get ahead of them, but carrying full backpacking gear and being the best part of forty years older than them, this wasn’t that sensible. Eventually I gave up trying, and sat down for five.  Then it started, a few hundred yards behind me.  Music.  Loud music.  I use the term ‘music’ loosely here.  Being a, trendy, hipster sort of old bloke I recognised it as not just any old music, but what is known as ‘Rap Music’.  I happen to know that your typical teenagers will happily sit in their bedrooms quietly listening to songs with clearly enunciated lyrics, lovely melodies by nice, clean cut young people like Pixie Lott and Will Young on their record players, but as soon as mum and dad get in from Tesco’s they will quickly stick on a long player by the likes of ‘Ghostface Killah’ and then pump up the volume (I told you I knew my stuff) to demonstrate contempt for the older, wrinkle covered generation with their 'O' Levels, and their obsession with good jobs, pensions and ISAs.  I know this happens because many was the time, as a long haired teenager, that I would be happily singing along to Showaddywaddy or Mud’s latest hit single when my parents would return home, and I’d have to reduce the revs from 45 to 33 per minute and slam Deep Purple in Rock on to the turntable and play Highway Star at full volume.

I digress.  As they got closer they glanced at me and changed from speaking English to Welsh. I looked the first one straight in the eye and said “Bore da.  Sut dach chi heddiew?” (“Good morning.  How are you today?”)

Silence.

Then the reply.  “Oh! Bore da. Iawn diolch.  Sut dach chi?”  (“Oh!  Good morning. Well thanks. How are you?”)

From me, “Bendigedig, diolch yn fawr.  Hwyl fawr”. (“Marvellous, thank you very much.  Have fun”).

They sat down and chatted amongst themselves, and a few seconds later the music stopped.  I smiled at them then carried on before I was rumbled, almost my entire stock of Welsh used up.

Along the ridge

On the summit ridge, with Cader Idris in the right distance

The ridge is a lovely walk and becomes increasingly rocky, with the occasional jewelled pool near the top of Aran Benllyn (885m).  I largely had the hill to myself after I had finally managed to pull away from the teenagers.  Then it was onwards and upwards to Aran Fawddwy (905m), which is just a few feet short of 3000.  Another 31 feet higher and it would substantially increase the degree of challenge for those doing the Welsh Three Thousanders.  The weather was almost too good, making the views hazy, but Cader Idris, the Mawddach Estuary, the Rhinogs and the Snowdon Massif were all just visible, whilst the RAF entertained me with jet fighters streaking along the valley over Llyn Tegid.

The Memorial Cairn on Drws Bach

Dropping down from Drysgol and eying up the steep final climb to the corrie

I dropped down to Drysgol (731m) via the poignant cairn and memorial plaque, then continued down a pathless, fiercely steep grassy hillside, thankfully dry or it could have been lethal, and then up by the impressive outflow stream from Creiglyn Dyfi, to a lovely wild camp spot by the lake.  This sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine, masking the sadness that loneliness can sometimes raise above the surface.

My Z Packs Duplex (aka Daphne) at the near perfect pitch

Self-timed selfie

Very simple things can really improve a wild camp.  Apart from a dry level pitch and the beauty of the setting, the solitude and the weather, I was ridiculously over excited to see a low flat boulder just a few yards from the tent, which served as a kitchen work surface and comfy chair as I prepared my evening meal and later settled down with the Kindle.

My designer kitchen boulder

The cliffs of Aran Fawddwy

The peace of the surroundings helped ease the anxieties that I sometimes experience when camping high and completely alone. I knew that I was safe, and that the lions, tigers and bears that sometimes come to my tent as I sleep on wild camps would not venture up here this night.  I slept with the doors on both sides of the Z Packs Duplex open, with just the bug netting to keep this night’s very benevolent elements at bay. 

The temperature plummeted and I woke frequently, pulling on my down jacket, hat and some thin gloves at one point. As I lay watching, the moonlight waltzed across the lake with the dark silhouette of the mountains behind.  The stars twinkled over me, just as they do in the nursery rhyme, and the all night chattering from the stream bursting from the lake lulled me into a state of half-sleep, whilst the gentle breeze that rose in the early hours reminded me of something I miss at night when in brick-enveloped normality.

I brewed tea as the sky to the east slowly turned from black to a dark indigo, and by the time the sun climbed over the hillside I was eating breakfast in my sleeping bag. It was great to be able to have all the doors in the Duplex open and to lie there looking at the stunning views in all directions.  Being able to pack up on a dry, now windless morning was a bonus to what had been the near perfect wild camp.

Morning view from my east facing door

Morning view from my west facing door

Looking back to Aran Fawddwy on the gloriously still secnd morning

My second day’s route was entirely pathless for the first four hours, across quite a lot of boggy ground, tussocky grass and never with the feel of rock underfoot. I crossed several small hills, most of which are, no doubt, on peak baggers’ lists of Marilyn Munroes, Harvey Nuttalls, William Cobbetts or whatever.  I simply delighted in going up them, even the steep slog up Esgeiriau Gwynion, as I completed over the two days what in practice was a horseshoe shaped route around Cwm Du and Cwm Croes.

The magnificent cairn on Foel Hafod-fynydd

As I descended the broad grassy ridge towards the farm at Talardd, with a red kite hovering gloriously above me, I realised that the cartographers of the Ordnance Survey yet again have better sight than me, for they had found footpaths that were beyond my ability to see.  No path as shown on the map descended to the farm, and the access land finished well above the farmstead, leaving me nervously trespassing, quietly untying and retying roped up gates and then walking thankfully on to the road, passing the sign at the entrance to the farmyard stating there was no access for “unauthorised persons”.  No difficult encounters, then, and a happy plod along the lane for an hour to the car in the beautiful April sunshine.

I doubt the London and North Eastern Railway ever came up the Twrch Valley

Friends Old and New: An overnight trip in the Shropshire Hills

The hills of South Shropshire are where, over half a life time ago, I first broke in my walking boots.  Living in Shrewsbury as a teenager, with my best friend in Church Stretton, I spent many, many weekends walking these hills, both day and night, for we not infrequently walked from before it was light until after dark, and on a number of occasions walked all through the night.  In one twenty hour walk, in October 1974 I think it was, I covered fifty miles across these hills, and this remains my record to this day.

Looking up Carding Mill Valley

The other day I was very keen to get out in what was forecast to be the last of our 'Indian Summer', but nervous of a still tender back after a fortnight of some discomfort. The prospect of a trip with good weather, and the chance to try out a new shelter overcame the wise voice in my head telling me to rest up a few days longer.  The compromise was adjusting my original plan of a high camp at a nice spot I have in mind on the top of one of the Berwyns in favour of a favourite short walk, followed by a camp near a village with a pub.  This would save me from twelve hours lying in a dark tent on a Neoair, not the best treatment for lower back pain.

Thus, I headed in the early afternoon to Church Stretton with a pretty light overnight pack by my standards, and set off up the Long Mynd.  For those of you who have never visited, this is delightful, but easy, hill walking country. The Mynd itself is a long heather covered moorland plateau running north to south.  Its east side, facing the Stretton Valley, is disected by several deep, parallel valleys, of the classic geography text book V shape.  Locally, these are often known as a batch or a hollow. Between the valleys are very broad ridges.  Thus, it is easy to combine circular routes to the top of the Long Mynd, Pole Bank, via a couple of valleys or ridges or one of each.  The top is at a modest 516 metres, but on a clear day it has glorious views as far as Cadair Idris and the Rhinogs to the west, and the Urals to the east. Yes the Urals. Honest! See my earlier blog post.

Looking back down from near top of Carding Mill Valley to Church Stretton

Thus, I headed along a cunning path that runs well above the parked cars in the lowest reaches of the honey pot which is Carding Mill Valley, then up that valley itself, passing the school fieldwork parties that always come here, each struggling after such a dry spell to undertake a stream study. The path is a lovely gradient, steep enough for you to get a sweat on and increase the pace of your breathing, but just when you feel you might want to stop for five you emerge on the plateau of the Mynd where you can stretch your legs and stride out for miles in this super walking country.

The Portway - a pre-historic track across the top of the Long Mynd

From the site of the old corrugated iron shooting box, which must have been gone for twenty or more years now, there were impressive views westwards on this lovely clear day. A couple of miles to the west is the lovely Stiperstones ridge, with its tors that make the Devil's Chair, and its unmissable sky line, and its ankle breaking quartz rock hidden in the heather that runs the length of its ridge. Further to the south and west is the easily recognised profile of Corndon Hill, still in Shropshire, but right up to the Welsh Border with old Montgomeryshire, killed off in 1974, resurrecting the Powys of old, but without its princes. And on the far horizon, the distinctive shape of Cader Idris, which must be forty miles as the crow flies, and the high mountains of southern Snowdonia.

Pole Bank - the top of the Long Mynd, looking towards the Stiperstones

Selfie at Pole Bank

From Pole Bank I back tracked a couple of hundred yards and then headed off down towards a spring called Boiling Well and the lovely little path down Ashes Hollow, winding through the autumnal bracken, following the stream around its perfectly interlocking spurs.  

Heading down Ashes Hollow

In Ashes Hollow

Right at the end of the hollow is a small but perfectly formed little camp site on the edge of the village of Little Stretton. I last camped here with my little brother when I was sixteen, in my first ever tent, a Litchfield Mistral 1. This served me well in my early forays in the hills, until its groundsheet lost all its waterproof coating four years later resulting in a damp night in an Alpine meadow. That was the day after Elvis Presley died. My memory is a strange and mysterious thing.

Wonderful location at Little Stretton, but rather over priced

It was somewhat fitting that I was back at the site where I tested out my first tent, as I could now try out my latest, my Z Packs Hexamid Duplex .  Alan Sloman has decreed that all tents should have a name, and that tents are female, so the Duplex is now Daphne.  At just 835 grams, with added linelocks, pegs, and in the 'heavier' grade cuben fibre option, she is ultra lightweight for a two person shelter, and she has some pretty radical design features. But I need to know how she will handle bad weather.  Rain should be no problem, but what about a good British hoolie?  She  certainly wouldn't have managed well tonight, though. I tried out a new set of Vargo titanium pegs, and four of the six bent badly and so she was not anchored down that effectively. What titanium is doing bending so easily I do not know, but I shall bring the Clam Cleat Tornadoes next time.

I'm getting my money back. Vargo Titanium V pegs after their first use. The four failures all occurred at the same point on the peg

Before bed, though, I wanted to indulge in some fine dining.  Sainsbury's packet tomato soup is really rather good. Mountain House dehydrated meals aren't.  I am still using up a stock from an ill advised purchase.  Perhaps the walk had been too short to make it edible, but it was in the bin after a couple of spoonfulls, the perfect excuse to walk a few hundred yards to the Ragleth Inn and a very good bar snack. Tempura prawns in chilli sauce, Steak Dianne, sticky toffee pudding and a couple of pints of 'Shropshire Lass' if you want to know, and an hour with the Kindle, before heading back to the tent.

I wasn't to find out this night how well Daphne copes with weather.  For much of the time it was still, and only in the early hours did the slightest breeze materialise.  I bedded down with the doors open on one side, admiring the stars and the moonlight.  For a single skin shelter I was impressed at how little condensation formed.  It was a calm, clear night and I was next to a stream. There was some, but she is super spacious and it was easy to stay away from the walls. There is none of that head in the sides nonsense of many other lightweight shelters, either when lying down or sitting up.

Z Packs Groupie: The Hexamid Duplex, aka 'Daphne' and the Arc Blast aka 'Billy'

Daphne can take two men at once. She is a palace for one

I had to get back home earlyish in the morning, so after my breakfast special of porridge made in a plastic bag I had a back jarring couple of miles by road to Church Stretton and the car home.  A fine little outing for me and the new girl.