The mud is heavy, claggy. A steady squelch underfoot. The three of us exploring a little woodland that my wife knows well. We are a running late and the light is fading a little already. The small glades off the main path are carpeted with bright red and orange leaves (and an amazing array of fungus).
Autumn colours in full force.
Back on the path we pick our way through the mud until we find a better path. Violet skipping along until we get back to the car just before dusk.
From the top of Ivinghoe Beacon there’s a path that leads along the top of the ridge and into the woods on the Ashridge Estate. It’s a managed woodland, but part of the joy of walk though here is that it’s not overly managed. Clumps of fallen timber and rotting leaves sit under the broad leaf canopy, making it a haven for all kinds of plants, wildlife and hurtling children.
Some things take longer than others - a lullaby (demo)
This is a demo / work in progress of a tune I started writing just before our daughter was born at the end of last year. It’s a bit rough and ready at the moment, but I’m hoping to ‘gloss’ this up shortly into a more polished and complete version.
Half-term with COVID travel restrictions in place. It feels like everyone is trying to find somewhere quiet to get away from it all. At the same time.
There's ways to avoid the crowds and still enjoy the best the UK can offer at the end of May. Which for us means a 3am start, driving though the dawn to arrive at Stonehenge for the 5:30am shuttle up to the stones. It's a beautiful warm morning. Our group of 20 or so other early risers are greeted by a couple of skylarks as we walk across the dewy grass. With a quiet reverence we move amongst the stones. The hour passes quickly and before we know it we are back in the car park feeling dazed and ready for breakfast.
As we leave the roads are already filling up with the holiday traffic. People passing through to Devon and Cornwall, but we aren't heading quite so far. We fill-up with a breakfast deluxe and then head up the Tor.
In the afternoon the A-roads are thronged with cars. We soon swing off to our campsite, quietly tucked between the Quantocks and the coast. For once on one of our camping trips, the sun shines none stop. We hang out with family. Potter about quiet lanes. Grab ice-creams.
At the end of the day we sit out round the fire. Talking until late in the evening and wondering why people drive through Somerset instead of stopping here.
I've always been interested in boats without actually spending much time on the water. Born by the seaside, my dad had worked in the customs on the Humber. I had plenty of childhood stories of jumping from ship to ship on rummage crews. As a child I devoured Swallows & Amazons, reading the series again and again. But apart from the occasional ferry to Arran I didn't really spend much time afloat.
I did convince my parents to let me try some dinghy sailing. But the romance of sailing wore off in the cold of a Sunday morning on Hollingworth Lake. I was clearly destined to be a landlubber.
Years later, I managed to spend some time commuting along the Thames by the underused river boat service. From Greenwich to Charing Cross on the clipper. Then if the connection ran to time you could transfer to a small boat down to Chelsea. This seemed like a hidden service. A chap called Peter at the helm who seemed to be straight out of a Graham Greene novel. He'd tell you about what was "app-nin on the river" or ignore you as the small boat nipped along the grey Thames.
A few years ago we moved to rural Northamptonshire. As far from the sea as it's possible to live in the UK. At first glance without much in the way of waterways to need anything more than a pair of wellies to navigate by. Firmly landlubber territory.
However, on our annual trips to Scotland I started to do some sea kayaking. Inspired at first by Nick Ray in Tobermory. Then with the family paddling round Castlebay. I rediscovered the quiet joy of travelling under my own steam by Kayak.
Like most people our horizons have been a little closer to home in 2020. We've managed to keep this going on the more sedate waters of the Nene and The Broads. The odd bit of portage aside it's a pretty relaxing way to spend a day as a family. It opens up the landscape and wildlife in it's own unique way.
At the moment it’s not possible to get away so we’ve reverted to make believe adventures and camping in the garden. And somehow it works. Not a substitute for a real night under canvas, but it turns out some of the effects are the same.
As night falls and we hunker down in the sleeping bags, the sounds of the village seem amplified. The owls in the trees down by the old fish ponds sound like they are perched on the guy ropes. At one point in the night I’m convinced there’s a pair of foxes in the porch of the tent. Then in the morning as the dark fades the cacophony of the dawn chorus jolts us awake. We wriggle and turn, then drift back off to sleep in the warming tent.
Over breakfast thoughts turn to some of our favourite camping spots. That one on Barra that overlooks the perfect hebridean beach. The one with the wild horses in the new forest. I remember some of the places I’ve pitched a tent. From the top of alpine climbs to midge infested sites by the lake at Coniston.
There’s something about a night in a tent. No matter how broken the sleep, it slows you down and gives you a different perspective. I only wish we’d chosen a warmer weekend to get started this year.