So, this morning I packed my son off to Dartmoor for a practice hike and camp for the
Ten Tors Challenge. I double-checked his rucksack, his rations, his waterproofs and overnight kit. And felt a huge wave of nostalgia wash over me at the sight of him, in his girt big walking boots and gaiters.
James and I don't share much in the way of common pursuits. Outside school, he lives for sport and gaming. He's a sociable animal on the whole. Whereas, at his age, I spent the majority of my spare time in my room, painting, drawing, dreaming by candlelight, listening to music, strumming my guitar (poorly).
So it's pathetically pleasing to me that my fifteen-year old self and his share one pursuit - getting out into the countryside with a bunch of pals and doing stuff, usually in bad weather, usually in considerable discomfort. When I was fifteen or so we used to go to the wildest places we could (geography and funds allowing) and camp (usually in mud and rain and sleet) and then head off hiking or kayaking or whatever. Return to our tents soggy and shattered, and usually try to brazen our way into the nearest pub in the hopes of drying out in front of the fire (if we managed to snaffle a pint or two of Old Peculier or similar, so much the better).
'You're so lucky,' I said to James. 'In my day...'
'You didn't even have a tent? And you walked barefoot.'
'Ha ha! No. But we didn't have all this high-tech kit. It took weeks of blisters to break in a pair of walking boots. We used to douse our feet in white spirit to toughen them up.'
'Not drink it?'
'Ho ho. But seriously, my rucksack weighed a ton before I even put anything in it. And there just weren't tiny super-warm lightweight sleeping bags and our waterproof gear wasn't breathable so, at the end of a day's hiking in the rain, we'd be all soggy and cold.'
He just nodded, blithely unaware of just how much has changed in the last forty years.
'Now turn off your phone, okay?' I said. 'So you don't run out of battery.'
I mean...mobile phones, for pity's sake! Sat nav! We had to rely solely on map and compass and orienteering skill.
In fact, we used to do bonkers extreme stuff, like hiking all through the night in teams with bizarre challenges being thrown at us. For instance, you'd be wandering along when someone would come racing out the trees at you, waving his arms and shouting in some foreign language - the challenge being to discover what he wanted and how to help him (or, alternatively, how to disarm and disable him). Or you'd come across a mocked-up accident scene and have to triage the whole thing. Or get across a river using bits of wood and pulleys. Or rescue people from smoke-filled basements. Now I come to think of it, it was all a bit odd. But the idea was that you had to work as a team, problem-solve, keep a clear head and just...manage. I loved it. So much so that, our team having retired after a few years, we used to return to take charge of the accident scene. Having a dramatic and macabre turn of mind (and being overly partial to gory horror films at that point) I masterminded scenes of ever-increasing carnage until the organisers quietly thanked us and said our services were no longer required (this might have had something to do with the four boys who fainted when confronted with the dilemma of what to do first: take out the axe-wielding madman on the roof of the mini, torniquet the various stumps, put scattered limbs on ice or slap the hysterical shock victim.
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| I could never figure out pulleys, sheer legs and so on...that was Jennie's job. |
Anyhow. I digress. Today I am staying warm and dry (in the car, hopefully later by the fire) while outside it is pretty foul. But, you know, I envy my son, I really do. Out on the moor. In the wild. In the wet and wind. Wonderful.
