Sample chapter from "Walking it Through: An asthmatic’s walking diary" by Stephen P. Smith
ISBN: 979-8845944085 Available on Amazon
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November 2012 – English Nuttalls. Hill and Mountain Walking Club AGM Weekend
Friday 16th of November sees me setting off for The Hill and Mountain Walking Club AGM weekend with my new hill-walking accessory – Hugo the camper van. The purchase came after years of inaction, deliberation and procrastination. I've christened him Hugo because of his number plate. He sports heating, a loo, two beds, a table, hob, grill, sink and fridge.
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The bean-counting side of my brain has concluded that, over a twenty-year period, I can recoup the entire purchase price on the savings I'll make on my annual spend on holiday cottages. Furthermore I've calculated that I can save on motorway service station meals by cooking in the car park. This latter scheme lasts until I'm hungry, pull off the M6, follow the ever-confusing blue circle signs (which allegedly point you to the car park), pull up and decide I can't be bothered to cook so go in hunt of food.
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There's an array of outlets in the service station but only two do hot food. The first has one of those A4 photo frame kind of things on the counter, declaring 'Today's Delicious Vegetarian Meal.' The snag is there is no staff around. I wait, wait and wait a bit more. Somebody mopping the floor glances my way, then carries on mopping. She eventually wrings out the mop, pats her hands on her uniform and comes round behind the counter.
"What can I get you?" she asks.
"I'll have this vegetarian option," I say as I helpfully point to the display.
"I'll just see if we've got any left."
She disappears and, to give her her due, she's less than five minutes. She returns, shaking her head, explaining they've sold out.
"What else would you like then?" she asks, pointing at the variety of meat-riddled meals currently being incinerated under powerful lamps.
I pick up the A4 self-standing photo frame kind of thing (proudly declaring today's 'Today's Delicious Vegetarian Meal') and hand it to her. "Best take this down I guess."
I wander off, annoyed as ever. What did I expect? This is Britain after all – poor service and ignorance all at top prices. When I traded in my VW Golf for the camper van, the offer I got was low but, knowing I'd have to spend some money on it to sell it with a clear conscience, I accepted their offer. A few days after picking the camper up, and saying goodbye to the Golf, the salesman got in touch asking if I'd send them £100 as "They've found that a bearing on the alternator pulley needs replacing". Victor Meldrew was misunderstood I tell you. A fictional character maybe but the fellow deserves a knighthood for all his suffering.
Anyhow I advance to Burger King, buy the preverbal bag of bean burger and chips and pocket as many little tubs of milk that my pockets can muster. Given I hadn't bought a hot drink, technically this is stealing. Somehow I vindicate myself because they'll be useful for the camper van.
I press on with the drive, wondering if such a long trip is worth it for a weekend. I question my membership of the club; it's a long way to go. Should I quietly let my membership lapse?
I pull off the M6 and take the B roads across to Dufton. It's dusk and the headlights pick out the road, snaking through the open moorland. I feel tired and am grateful when I reach the hostel, find a spot to park and make my entrance to the common room.
I'm greeted warmly like an old friend, a comfy chair is offered and I sit in a daze as I'm included in the conversation. Graham Gledhill comes and sits next to me and we discuss our years to date. I tell him about the camper van, he asks about my trips so far.
"South Wales, mainly," I explain.
"Have you been to the Brecons?" he asks.
"Yes," I reply and within moments a map is produced and we are looking at suitable walks for the Club's April meet. Moments later I find I've promised to attend the meet and organise the walk. Thoughts of leaving the club have well and truly ended.
Dave Handley arrives; his opening gambit is, "I'm joining you in having a vegetarian this evening."
"Do we know the young lady?" I reply.
"Not that I'm aware," he adds.
He then announces a prospective new member, David Milton, is in the same dorm as us and that he has been enjoying reading my blog. I bask in the limelight but play it down with a nonchalant rising of my forehead.
"Been away much?" he asks.
"The Lakes, Yorkshire and Devon."
"Where did you go in Devon?"
"Oh," I reply guardedly, "it was a writing course."
"How is the writing going?" he asks.
"How do you mean?" I reply, feeling defensive.
"Well the course, what was it about?"
"Novel writing," I reply hoping to draw this conversation to a rapid close.
"Are you writing a novel then?" he asks.
"Having a dabble," I add.
"What's it about?"
Oh for Christ's sake, my head is screaming and wishing the ground would open up to remove me from my embarrassment. I give a brief plot synopsis, hoping that'll end the conversation.
"You ought to have a word with my wife," he says, "she's been writing a novel for a few years now."
"What's it about?" I ask.
"Haven't got a bloody clue," he replies.
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Over dinner, and joined by Ron Reynolds, we get to discussing Waggy (aka Steve Wagstaff). Apparently he's already been spotted in the village hall with his famous beer barrels, one for him and the other for general consumption. The meal is delicious; as are the seconds and the fruit salad tops it off nicely. Dave is ploughing through a bottle of red wine that he generously offers around, including surrounding tables.
"Have you had any further thoughts about my wife?" asks Dave.
The novel writing conversation is a couple of hours behind us now and this sweeping offer takes me somewhat by surprise. And to be honest it puts me a little on edge. Wondering what I might be letting myself in for I reply with a simple, "Erm."
"The writing," he explains, "have you thought about speaking with her to share your writing experiences?"
"Oh," I start (trying to avoid the evident relief in my voice), "well you can pass on my email address."
I wander up to the village hall, two beer barrels fill the entrance lobby along with a sheet complete with names and the number of beers consumed so far. I check Waggy's total – seven and it's only 20:30. He might still be pliable to a conversation.
"Hi, Steve," I start.
"I don't know who in the fuck you are," he replies.
"Steve," I reply, "we speak every year."
He swaggers, shakes my hand (which I fear is a ploy to steady himself) and asks me how I am.
"Good, and you?" I ask, hoping his immediate condition would be overlooked.
"I'm dying," he replies, "I'm in a downward spiral," as he highlights the effect by moving his hands above his head then pressing down on the air either side of his body. "There you are, I could do something about it but I can't."
I must confess to not being able to recall this verbatim. There were words tripped over, pauses, swaggering and alcoholic fumes to contend with.
"Oh," I say, and rather lost for words I add, "Sorry to hear that."
"I could do something about it but I can't," he adds. A true writer does not repeat himself but as Waggy appeared to be emphasising the point I thought I'd continue with the gist of the conversation.
"How are you?" he asks.
Right this moment I'm feeling a bit bloody awkward. I retire to the camper van.
Breakfast is a fine continental 'help yourself' spread. I ensure I consume enough to make only a light lunch necessary.
Big John approaches me and shakes me by the hand. "Well done, lad, for volunteering to organise the walk for April in the Brecon Beacons."
I haven't even filled out the bloody booking form yet.
A few cars make their way to Murton where we disembark amidst an army checkpoint. They do not appear bothered by our presence and nor do we by the youthful young men and their machine guns.
We pull up the track, it's steady going and my recent forays into the Welsh hills pays dividends as I find a good pace. At the path off to Murton Pike I separate from the main group and, with new member David Milton, continue up the track to Murton Fell, a summit of over 2000ft. With grid reference in hand we take a good half hour, amongst peat bogs, surveying the area until we set upon a small stone as the summit. Neither of us is 100% convinced.
We cut across the bog-ridden, mist-clad, terrain until we spy the others approaching the dramatic High Cup Nick. We meet, Big John takes the mick at my deviation, and we swing around this inland gorge, protected by natural stone escarpment walls, which fall away into a wide open valley. It's dramatic and we all stop to admire the view. We climb up Narrowgate Beacon where our orderly line of walkers spreads out to an individual series of zig-zag ascents with chance meetings where one person’s zig meets another's zag.
Then it's around Backstone Edge to the trig point which, akin to this area, is built away from the true summit. Again David Milton joins me for the slight deviation – funnily enough everybody else in the group is perfectly content with the fine view from the trig point and not the obscured version on the blip of a rise some 200 metres from the edge.
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We then drop past Dufton Pike and I conclude a village is only a village in this part of the world if it has a pike. Here some people deviate for the fine view before Dufton itself is reached in an outing of five and a half hours.
Back in my camper van I study the grid reference for Murton Fell and realise I'd completely messed it up. The true point is some 600 metres to the north-west. I slip off to tell Big John in the hope I'll be excused leading the Brecon Beacons walk.
"Don't worry, lad, don't worry," he says.
It looks like I'm leading the Brecon Beacons walk then.
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I alternate between the camper van (where people drop by to admire my purchase) and the hostel until the evening meal. The meal is a fine spread, organised and cooked by Ann and Alvar. I sit next to Ron Reynolds, opposite Bernie and Penny Roberts who sit next to Tim Wood. Tim and Ron are both seventy-seven. Tim, in memory of his wife Kate, has recently walked the El camino de Santiago and Ron, a great grandfather, still runs marathons.
I'm snug and sleep well, waking refreshed I decide to give Murton Fell another go. It's Sunday morning and the day of the club AGM, I breakfast then head back to my camper van and, while arranging kit, there's a knock on the door. Les and Issy Silkowski greet me with a copy of the club's Link magazine. I'd only casually mentioned to another club member that I intend to skip the AGM and word has been passed to the magazine editors to bring me a copy of the magazine before I leave. That's incredible service, I wonder if they could pass on their skills to camper van dealerships and the management of motorway service stations?
The sky is a rich blue and the late autumn light lifts the spirits. I drive to Murton, say hello again to the soldiers of the Black Watch. I climb steadily, using the Land Rover track. Murton Pike hangs on my left shoulder. In under an hour, I break onto mist-clad rough ground and find the same small lake of yesterday. I head north-east, discover an unconvincing cairn, plod on and find the summit cairn described in the guidebook then break off to the real summit. The mist lifts and Murton Pike becomes a navigation beacon back to the Land Rover track. I meet a chap, studying his map. He's heading for Murton Fell and I impart my newfound knowledge of the whereabouts of the summit – I fail to mention my adventures of yesterday.
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If you are interested in joining the Hill and Mountain Walking Club please visit www.hmwc.org.uk
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