It is possible to grow to dislike a mountain. A hill, even. Perhaps it's making a mountain out of a molehill (ba-dum tish!) to start to dislike inanimate objects, especially ones of significant age. But by the end of 2011, I was beginning to dislike Carnedd Llewelyn.
Now, don't get me wrong, I respect the hill. At just a few metres shy of the height of Snowdon, Carnedd Llewelyn is a decent size, and sits perched in the centre of the Carneddau ridge, amongst other respectably tall hills. No, I respected the hill. I just couldn't make it to the top of the bloody thing.
Back in early spring 2011, Dave and I were still full of Canadian-style enthusiasm for getting outdoors at every opportunity. We climbed Moel Siabod with snow on the ground, and so set off in March to try and climb up Carnedd Llewelyn from its northern side. On a cold, blustery and sleeting day, Dave and I plodded up from the car, got as far as the abandoned slate mine under the hill's flank before deciding to retreat. The sleet had turned to snow, the wind had picked up and the peak was shrouded in fog. We took shelter in the ruined buildings, ate our lunch in the rapidly worsening weather and then trudged gloomily back to the car. 1-0 to Llewelyn.
The months passed, and with my birthday approaching, Dave asked what I'd like to do on the day itself. Another crack at Llewelyn seemed on the cards, this time accompanied by Steph & Ben Van Loo (Dave's sister and her husband). The shorter autumn days left us struggling to make the most of the daylight, and although we had a beautiful day's walking in glorious sunshine, we'd set off too late and decided to make a tactical turn around at 2.30pm. It was lucky we did, as darkness had entirely fallen by the time we made it back to the car. We settled for drowning our sorrows with some delicious prosecco to wash down the birthday meal of fish and chips. Llewelyn was thrashing us: 2-0.
When 2012 dawned, I decided that I wasn't going to be beaten. I wanted to walk up Carnedd Llewelyn - damn it, I was going to enjoy it too! So in the first few weeks of January this year, we found ourselves back at the foot of the Carneddau, approaching from yet another direction, but this time with a secret weapon. That secret weapon? Not Kendal mint cake. Not walking poles or a fancy GPS. No, our secret weapon was my mum's sister, Lesley. With the power to summon us from our beds at a reasonably prompt hour of the morning, multiple previous ascents of the hill (thus requiring no navigation from us) and a cracking route to the summit, Auntie Les was the key we'd been missing. We started from Ogwen, climbing steadily out of the valley while the sunshine bathing the hills started to thaw the frost which iced the turf and stones.
The fantastic shape of Tryfan behind us as we climb from the valley.
Our first peak was Pen Yr Ole Wen, before we continued along the ridge to Carnedd Dafydd. Not only were we going to bag Llewelyn - we were seeing the tops of two other 3000ers for good measure!
Auntie Les and I stride off into the distance. The walking group leader from Plas Y Brenin said to Dave and I (separately) that we were setting a cracking pace. Of course, Auntie Les was setting the pace, which I think he knew...
The route was a triumph. We'd scrambled, we'd climbed slowly and steadily and we'd stepped out along a stunning ridge with glorious views in every direction. The skies were clear and the sun was shining as we climbed the last few metres to the top of Carnedd Llewelyn, and I was so glad to have had such a beautiful day to finally make it to the top.
We slowly and steadily returned to the valley; the sun faded and the temperature dropped. As we walked, we started to eye up other peaks, with Auntie Les egging us on every step of the way: "Ooh, you'd like the north side of Tryfan. And once you're up there, you can do the Glyders. Have you thought about doing all the 3000ers in 24 hours?". This way lies madness - either that, or we keep giving the impression we like a challenge!
So we got there in the end, but despite it taking three attempts to finally get to the top, I can't feel bitter. I wouldn't have swapped all the walks we've been on over the last 12 months. Now to get on to the rest of the list...
Almost without noticing, the summer of 2011 has become the official ‘summer of learning’. Earlier this year, I took the decision to learn how to lead climb; the worst summer weather since 1993 has conspired against me, so that practice hasn’t been as frequent as I might like, but then again I’ve also realised that learning to lead climb is going to be a lifelong process. As I tried to step up my fitness, I found myself signing up for a ‘crash course’ in swimming, and within a few days I was able to swim a length of the pool with front crawl. It was like getting the keys to a new kingdom, and although I’m still practising the swimming, I really enjoy the feeling of improvement. So, to top it all off, I decided to learn to ride a bike. Now, I know what you’re thinking. I’ve had microadventures on my bike; I’ve followed national cycle routes. I can definitely ride a bike. But put me on a bike with fat tyres and wide handlebars, when the trail gets bumpy or steep, then I’m not really a happy bunny. Perhaps seeing the bike I’ve been ‘borrowing’ for the past few months will demonstrate why:
Makro’s finest mountain bike, of about 10 years ago. Loving those colours, too. But we’re heading back to the continent of North America, which includes a stop in Whistler for Dave to try and injure himself in an entertaining and non-permanent way. Would I hike? Sip caramel cappachillo all day? Or would I try and ride down a mountain (on the easy trails)? To decide, and to help me prepare, I headed to mid-Wales for a course with Forest Freeride. Day one started with me getting fitted with a borrowed bike. Ooh, proper front suspension! Disc brakes! And it’s purple! (Sadly by midway through day two, the bike had succumbed to my uncanny ability to fly headfirst over the handlebars, and it was replaced by an altogether less sparkly grey number).
Before I had chance to demur, we biked up into the forest which clads the hills around. Body position was discussed, and I finally learnt why Dave kept suggesting that I stand up while I ride. Then it was on to the brakes, climbing a short way up a track before pelting down again, learning to trust that the brakes would stop me swiftly and safely (and probably more quickly than the brakes on my car, these days). That day, and the next, passed quickly in a flurry of principles of movement, basic physics, and battling my subconscious desire to jam the brakes on at all times. I learnt to look ahead, rather than directly down at whatever obstacle – tree root, rock or log staircase – I was actually travelling over. I learnt to adjust my feet and lean when going around banked, sweeping corners, whilst keeping speed low and turning my shoulders when encountering a slower corner. I can now lift the front of a bike with a pedal stroke (though I haven’t mastered the famed ‘shopping trolley’ manoeuvre yet, which would allow me to land with both wheels at the same time.) I’ve also learnt that I’ll have a go at something scary, even when my initial instinct – and that of my companions – is to feel the fear and refuse. And I’ve learnt that falling off hurts a little bit, shakes you up for a while, but that it isn’t the end of the world. At the end of the weekend, as I started back towards phone reception, traffic congestion and the flatlands of the Midlands, I was exhausted (mentally, more than physically) and exhilarated. I felt much as I do when I’m on the ski slope; I might not be going quickly, and I might not be stylish, but I feel like I could, at the very least, have a go at getting down a lot of the routes I might encounter. So I'd be having a go on the trails of Whistler. The question would still be, would the course be enough to prepare me for life on a bike in British Columbia?
"EEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" went the noise outside my window. I tapped away at my computer keys; it barely registered.
"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeee!" it continued. Now it penetrated my consciousness. What is that noise? It sounds like a squeaky toy, or a balloon being let down very slowly.
"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!". Nothing makes that noise. Nothing happy, anyway. I could hear the jingling of the bells on the collars of next door's cats. Slowly, the cogs turned in my mind. Cats don't play with squeaky toys. I leapt up and dashed downstairs, running to the back of the BBC van parked on our drive. The cats were there, staring at an unmoving frog. I chased them off; the frog remained, silent and unmoving. Oh dear, I thought, they've killed another one - Dave had already spotted them batting one around a few days before. Now he joined me outside, wondering what the commotion was. I was just contemplating how best to transport the unfortunate frog to the bin when Dave stopped me, pointing out it was still breathing. With no obvious injuries, it was hard to tell whether it was wounded or just traumatised. We decided to give it a chance to recover, and as Dave put an inch of water into a bucket, I scooped the frog up and into the dark, damp bucket. It shuffled about and resumed a more frog-like form. The bucket was moved to the kitchen to allow the frog to recuperate.
With no obvious water sources near by (and no hint about where the frog had come from), the question was, where should the frog go? The stream running through Highfields Park seemed an obvious spot - a nice shallow stream, with plenty of woodland and even other frogs. Plans were made for a release into the wild.
During our discussions, the frog had made a remarkable recovery. So remarkable, in fact, that it was now lurking in the corner of the kitchen, having leapt out of the bucket. I was suddenly very glad I'd put the bucket on the floor, not the table. However, this made its chances of a successful life in the park more likely, so with the frog loose in the kitchen, it suddenly became an urgent task to take it somewhere more hospitable. I lunged towards the frog, almost grabbing it, before it leapt from my grasp. It bounced off the patio doors, trying to escape. Every time I got near it, it sprang away, until finally! Success. It was back in the bucket. Sadly, I hadn't really considered the fact that the frog was palpably capable of escaping the bucket, which it promptly did. Back to square one.
By this time, Dave had stopped laughing long enough to pick up his camera. Help? Dave? Why would he do that when he could film the whole rescue? He asked me to name my unwilling rescue-ee. Mr Frog was settled on. ( The film's here, if you've got 90 seconds spare). I spotted the kitchen compost caddy, and realised that, deeper than the bucket, and with a lid, it would make a perfect frog-carrying receptable. Its contents were hastily dumped in the bin, and with trepidation I approached Mr Frog. I expected resistance, but Mr Frog, perhaps understanding my altruism, graciously accepted being picked up. Only when I got him over the bucket did he try to escape, leading to a more forceful descent into the bucket than I'd anticipated. The lid was on! We were on our way!
Living near Highfields Park, I know its streams and paths fairly well: I've walked Mavis the dog there; I've run round the lake; flown a kite on the field; and walked to and from various jobs or courses on campus over the past few years. Soon enough, I was crouching by a small footbridge over the trickling stream, trying to encourage the frog from his comfortable compost bin home.
After a slow start, he made it onto the mud, and then into the stream. I left him submerged in the water, his eyes and nose protruding, as he enjoyed the water flowing gently past, and contemplated the insect life he might feast on later.
With a few days to fill while Dave is on a mountain-biking holiday in France, and with a climbing trip to Wales having fallen through, I was left with a dilemma. Should I head to the hills for some hiking? Get out on my bike? With weather undecided, I made an early dash up to see family, with a plot to check out climbing opportunities in the vicinity. I've already eyed up Helsby Hill (a bit of a serious prospect at the time, as I didn't own a rope, although it did have an unexpected delight of an Iron Age hill fort atop it). Surely the time was right to check out the bouldering located on the next crag along the valley? So, without further ado, I give you: How to have an entirely unsuccessful bouldering trip (You'll have to do without photos. I was so unsuccessful, I didn't take any) 1. Dither about whether to set off early or late, or indeed whether to set off at all The morning started optimistically, with the grey skies and cloud cover of late being replaced by bright sunshine and blue skies. I'd checked the weather forecast though, and it said the whole day would consist of sunny spells, so instead of running to my car, I decided to do a bit of work first. I'd check out the crag later, after lunch - after all, it's west facing. Afternoon sunshine will be lovely. What could go wrong? I watched with horror as heavy cloud piled in during lunchtime, ate my sandwich to the accompaniment of torrential rain and eventually decided that I should bite the bullet and go - remembering my rain jacket. 2. Go somewhere new I'd never been to the crag, even on a recce. I'd never walked in the woods which surround the crag. I didn't speak to anyone who'd been there, post a question asking for advice on a forum or read the details in the guidebook (at least I had a guidebook). I just followed the directions and turned up without the slightest idea of what to expect. If I'd read the guidebook more closely, I would have noticed a few vital pieces of information; here's a sample. Firstly, two of the walls described in the guidebook are tall enough to require a rope and rack, with the writer suggesting that regular climbing grades were more appropriate than bouldering grades, and even that such walls were always tackled by the 'terminally confident'. I was planning to boulder - that is, to climb low problems unroped. I wasn't confident, and certainly had no wish to be terminally so. Secondly, I'd have noticed a comment to the effect that some of the landings are a bit dicey - though they failed to mention quite how steep the slope is below the cliffs. A bouldering mat, or at the very least, a companion, were recommended, though scaffolding would do. And finally, I'd have noticed that the crags actually face north west, and the guidebook marks them with a little 'Kermit the frog' symbol. This became important later. 3. Get entirely lost As well as not knowing what I was looking for, I didn't really know where to look. The map in the guidebook essentially looks like an insect has been squashed onto a green page. The directions seemed clear enough until the cryptic line 'cross the plantation diagonally'. Which diagonal? A path ran in each direction. Soon I was standing on the top of a peak, admiring the remains of another Iron Age roundhouse, and wondering at the (enormous) size of the rabbits living on the hill. No sign of any cliffs though, and it would be an hour of wandering, guided by my phone's compass, before I accidentally stumbled on (and nearly off) the cliffs. Not before I'd descended a couple of hundred metres, though. Before realising I needed to be at the top. 4. Choose inappropriate approach shoes I hadn't considered what the approach would be like under foot. Not for me the consideration that, after a week of on and off rain, and after a morning's heavy shower, it might be a tad slippy. No, I trudged off across the fields, up the hills and down the slippery paths towards the crag in a pair of Converse trainers. As I carefully traversed a narrow, sloping path towards the crag, I wondered whether I had subconsciously sabotaged my own plans. Surely, I can't simply be that stupid? No. I am. 5. Become concerned for your own safety I finally stood in front of the crag. Holds were chalked up. I sipped from my water bottle, took in the view, and suddenly found myself wondering how I would drive myself home if I were to break my wrist. This is not what the climbing gurus call a 'positive frame of mind'. I checked the guidebook. Eyed up a couple of routes. Laid a hand on the rock, only to grasp the extent to which the 'Kermit the frog' icon truly applied to this green, greasy, moss and mould-covered rock. A tentative toe slipped off. I watched a squirrel, happily perched high in a beech tree, ripping open and eating the beech nuts. I took another sip of water. I walked back to the car, drove home and had a cup of tea and a cake.
"Surely it's got to be Paul Simon?" "Got to be." This was not how I'd expected my day to end, coming last in a pub quiz in Long Preston, having a few drinks and enjoying the free chips. But then it had been a day in which I'd already learnt a lot: that Grenadine is made from pomegranates; that Carl Douglas, singer of 'Kung Fu Fighting' looks like Fatman Scoop; and that Dave and were capable of walking 23 miles and ascending the three tallest hills in Yorkshire in a day. I hadn't expected Dave to agree when I had floated the idea of doing the Yorkshire Three Peaks, months before when the nights were still long and the thought of taking on such a challenge seemed reassuringly distant. I certainly didn't expect him to agree to try it on his birthday. But the fates conspired with us, and so shortly before 9am on Friday June 24th, we shouldered our rucksacks and walked out of Horton-in-Ribblesdale.  The first thing you'll notice, if you or anyone you know has done this challenge or anything similar, is that 9am is not a particularly early start. Neither Dave nor I are constitutionally capable of being morning people, so eating breakfast at 7.30am and walking before 9am actually represents a success for us. It also means that you're unlikely to see many others taking on the same route, as they all left at least a couple of hours previous to us. When we overtook a group of blokes at the end of the day, it felt like being a Formula 1 racing driver lapping a backmarker, rather than the truth that we'd managed to catch up another group of people whose grip on what constitutes 'a good time' was as loose as ours. I can also confess to you now that, although I'd actually gone and bought the right OS map for the walk, we started out planning to navigate simply with four pages extracted from an old walking magazine. They are somewhat easier to handle in a stiff breeze than the full OS map, but did have the downside of being a bit sketchy on details, distances and directions. We maintained the usual confidence we show in these situations (see navigating around Canada by table napkins and postcards), although the actual map did come out as final arbiter on a few occasions.  Starting from the village, we took a track up from Brackenbottom to meet the Pennine Way, before climbing the steep and rocky slope to the summit of Pen-y-Ghent. Taking a little over an hour and ten minutes, this three peaks malarkey seemed like a breeze. Time for a summit photo, a quick cup of tea, and a check of the map to get the right descent route. Little did we realise that the next ten hours wouldn't seem quite so straightforward. The rain started splattering as we cut onto the track which leads across moor and bog towards Whernside. Waterproofs came out, and hats and gloves were donned to stave off the biting wind. As it got damp underfoot, we commented to one another, 'ah, well, it does say it gets boggy'. Boggy would be an understatement for the next few miles of walking. The undulating moorland provided a clear view of Ingleborough and Whernside in the distance, but the topography also meant that the recent rain collected in each hollow, leaving soggy moss, reeds and peat bog to cross. Footsteps showed that our predecessors had gone wider and wider in each attempt to get across. We rapidly learned to distinguish between plain old mud (wet, slippery, but likely to have a solid base underneath) and bog (superficially similar but seemingly without end). My sharpest lesson was when, feet sinking rapidly, I took a bold plunge to try and get across a wide channel, only to find one leg had disappeared to thigh level without hitting anything solid. You know the noise you hear on wildlife programmes when baby animals find themselves in this predicament? It turns out that noise is involuntary, as I honked and squeaked at the fact that I was flailing, trying not to sink, struggling to escape with my boots and body intact. I made it out but I don't fancy doing that again, if you don't mind.  We decided to call this the bog of eternal doom. We squelched on across the moor, picking the driest path we could find, but it made for painstaking progress. The alternative was thrown into sharp relief when we were passed by two fell runners, covered from head to food in bog mud, and likely to be finished on their circuit long before us. I was wet and soggy, but not that wet and soggy. Firm ground under our feet, the sun broke through the cloud to greet our arrival on the road to Ribblehead. When I'd seen the viaduct on the horizon, I had been disbelieving of the notion that I would be able to walk all that way. Now, despite the heaviness I was feeling in my legs, Dave and I were sitting right beneath its arches, eagerly devouring our lunch. I think deciding where to stop to eat was the closest that we came to an argument all day - more than a little amazing, considering our ability to stubbornly hold diametrically opposed views on the most minor of things. But it wasn't surprising that we were a little grouchy by that point - with a fair few miles gone, and six hours since my porridge breakfast, I was famished.  To be deemed to have completed the Three Peaks challenge, your walk needs to be done in under 12 hours. Not satisfied with that as a target, Dave had concluded that 10 hours was a nice round number to attempt. As we sat at the foot of Whernside, I began to seriously doubt how possible that was. The route picked out by our anonymous magazine writer took a direct (and steep) route up the front of the second peak, shaving distance but also making for tired legs. With a final effort, I joined Dave at the top of the 45 degree slope, and we walked the last few hundred metres to the summit shelter and trig point.  The view from the top of Whernside was outstanding - by far the most satisfying of the three, the shape of the summit providing a great panorama, and, through a combination of good weather and visibility, being able to see Ingleborough and Pen-y-Ghent clearly. Pen-y-Ghent now seemed a satisfyingly long way away (although I was concerned to remember that our car was over there) and having made it to the top of two hills, a psychological barrier seemed to come down and I began to believe I was going to be able to do this without my legs dropping off.  We were still trying to stick to our schedule so after the briefest of stops on the summit (quick photo, and a chance to apply gaffa tape to my heels to stop blisters), we were off down into the valley, and looking up at the final slopes of Ingleborough. We had a quick stop to chat to a walker who pointed us in the right direction for the path across the Nature Reserve, and who assured us that the descent into Horton was around three miles. Later in the day, I would reflect on how inaccurate his estimate was, and wish all sorts of vengeance on him. I apologise if he suffers any stabbing pains in his knees on future walks.  Ingleborough, like Whernside and Pen-y-Ghent, is surrounded by peaty bog but unlike Pen-y-Ghent, Ingleborough (and Whernside) both have delightful paths with large stones or boardwalks to give the tired and ailing walker a nice solid surface to walk along. This also makes for super-easy navigation, despite being somewhat dubious when I saw that the path we were on took a very direct, nay vertical-ish, line towards the summit plateau. It is possible that I may have been over-exaggerating through exhaustion. Or perhaps not. In any case, with the aid of my newly-invented coping mechanism (it's easy: take 100 steps; stop and rest. Repeat til the top), we were soon striding across the plateau towards the last trig point, where we celebrated with a drink of water. As we huddled in the summit shelter, preparing for the last part of the journey, I dug deep into my rucksack and pulled out the fruitcake I'd made and iced for Dave's birthday, lighting a candle which threatened to go out instantly, while I sang 'Happy birthday'. He seemed pleased, surprised, but most of all, hungry! Camera is actually balanced on the trig point! With Pen-y-Ghent as our directional marker, we started down the descent, all the adrenaline of completing the peaks draining away, to be rapidly replaced by tiredness and the overwhelming wish for the day to be over. The walker who'd estimated 3 miles from the peak back to the village proved to be inaccurate by an order of almost 100%, and so the confidence that we'd make our arbitrary 10 hour target was stymied by the extra hour it took to walk those final few miles. The rain had just started as we got back to the car, pretty much exactly 11 hours after we'd left. My smile was broad as I donned my flipflops and we headed back to our B&B, for a shower, a meal, and that pub quiz. You can see the whole set of photos Dave took on the day here.
I'll let you into a secret. I was a teenager in the 90s. Remember the grunge look? Checked shirts, terrible baggy cardigans and doc martens? That was me. The alternative music of that decade - Smashing Pumpkins, Soundgarden, Nirvana - still fills my iPod now. But one of the best things about growing up in the 90s was the number of women playing in bands. While D'Arcy may have been seen as the token female in Smashing Pumpkins, you would have to have been feeling particularly reckless to suggest the same about Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth. The Breeders, Throwing Muses, Bikini Kill, Sleater Kinney, L7, even PJ Harvey; I saw women with instruments, and so the idea of learning to play and joining a band didn't seem at all outlandish. But I also knew that prejudice was harboured in some quarters: that women couldn't play, couldn't song write or if you were standing around a sound check, you were a girlfriend and not a musician. So I felt that what I was doing, playing in a band and writing songs, however small and insignificant, had a smidgen of wider importance. So when I started climbing, I was already sensitised to the idea that some people might think men and women can or should do different things. I don't think I've ever met, or will ever meet a climber who would say that women can't lead climb. But even without any explicit injunctions about behaviour, when I look around the crag, it's noticeable that where women are climbing, it is most often with men. And more often than not, men are leading and women are seconding. While every individual is different, and climbing isn't a competition (at least for most of us), I felt a bit disappointed. I'm lucky - there are some amazing female climbers, who are pushing boundaries at the top end of climbing. I've also got a hugely inspiring peer group of climbers through Twitter, many of whom are female climbers, way, way better than I'm ever likely to be, but who you'll never see in the adverts in climbing magazines. So that smidgen of wider (self-)importance which I'd felt while playing in a band reared its head, and I finally articulated what I wanted - I want to learn to trad lead. So that's the aim for this year. I'm staying in one place, building up a great group of climbing buddies, and focusing on increasing my competence both as a second, but also importantly trying to learn to lead. I started leading indoors while the weather was still miserable and the nights long; I was surprised at the impact of clipping bolts on my ability to do moves that were well within my physical capabilities. I told my new climbing buddy, Tom, that I wanted to learn to lead on an early season trip to Birchen Edge, and outlined my ideal scenario. The stars were aligned; Tom enjoys helping newbie climbers and seemed to be willing to be bossed around by me, so he found the place (Harborough Rocks), supplied the gear and provided the support and encouragement I need. So it was that I found myself tiptoeing up the short limestone crag at Harborough, attempting to jam a piece of protection into the rock. For my first lead, Tom had picked a nice straightforward route; he led and I seconded, noting gear placements and making sure I was happy with the moves. We then derigged the belay at the top, walked back to the bottom, and I led. My gear placements weren't amazing - the first piece extracted itself and slid down the rope once I'd placed another piece above - but I felt focused, concentrated, and yet remarkably relaxed. Another route followed (onsight, this time, so no practising beforehand) and another and another. Four routes later I was grinning like the proverbial Cheshire Cat, somewhat tired but also exhilarated and grateful. Woo! At the top of my first lead, feeling very pleased with myself This is the bit I'm less good at - placing gear. Must stop thinking 'oh sod it, it'll be fine. So long as I don't fall off'.
I feel something of a fraud writing this review. After all, it isn’t really a review, with technical specs outlined, comparisons made and a final judgement given. No, this is really just an opportunity for me to look over some of the gear I’ve purchased in the last few years and highlight what about it is really, really good. Besides, I still think of gear reviews as being for new models, new designs and new colours, but today’s review has a similarity to the Prana trousers love letter - this top is black. I bought my Smartwool Microweight top back in 2009, and when the parcel arrived at the office, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to dig in and get a look; after all, online shopping often has a lucky dip aspect to it. I’d also bought an Icebreaker long sleeve, and my colleagues were motivated to comment that I looked like I was going on an Arctic expedition (little did they know that I was actually heading off for a year in Canada!). But although my Smartwool top looked functional, it hardly caught my eye – black, long sleeves, a round neck and only the tiniest amount of detailing in the form of a small printed logo on the wrist. Now I realise that the understated charm of the Smartwool top is its greatest strength. Because it isn’t designed to draw attention to itself, the top is enormously versatile and very adaptable, whether you’re out doing something fun or just off to the pub. It’s the lightest merino wool knit offered by Smartwool, so it doesn’t feel bulky or restrictive, and it packs small and rolls up tightly without becoming creased or crumpled. When you wear a synthetic fabric base layer (a Helly Hansen, for example) the design shouts to all and sundry ‘this is not normal clothing!’; the Smartwool top remains mute, and while it is a perfect base layer, it also does a great impersonation of a plain black long sleeve top, suited to wearing under cardigans, sweaters or on its own with a pair of jeans.
Here's me wearing it under a shirt for a casual game of table hockey (no puck, we used a die) at Bear on the Lake hostel, Nova Scotia
When you need the warmth of an extra layer, it’s perfect. I’ve worn it over a synthetic vest top with fleece, down and waterproofs over for skiing, ice climbing, dog sledding and snowshoeing, and it’s ideal. When we spent a few days in the wilderness hostels of the Rockies last September, it got pulled from the dirty laundry and worn the whole time, morning til night, and quite often through the night too. You’ll be delighted to hear that merino wool’s most well known quality – odour resistance – is alive, well and working in this top!
Leaving Algonquin Park, it was cool and grey. The Smartwool (there's the logo on the wrist!) kept me warm, and kept the biting insects at bay too.
The top’s also the perfect weight and warmth for our current spring weather. It’s my regular choice for trips to the climbing wall, out on a walk or on my bike, with just a waterproof or on its own if the sun is shining. The knit is stretchy, making movement easy and with a longish body and nice wrist-covering sleeves, there are no awkward bits of midriff unintentionally on show. And thankfully (given its popularity) it washes easily (the instructions say cold but I just put it on 40 degrees with everything else) and dries quickly.
First extra layer on as we stopped at Garibaldi Lake and the temperature began to drop.
And after more than a year of intensive wash and wear, the top is holding up very well. Perhaps it has stretched a little around the cuffs; there’s a small hole that appeared on one sleeve, which a stitch has sorted out; but the size is still right, the colour is still dark and the fabric hasn’t bobbled. And if you, like me, find that wool is usually irritating to the skin, I can say that I haven’t had any problems wearing the Smartwool – it doesn’t make me itch and I can happily wear it next to my skin without issues. Although all of the merino wool tops manufactured as part of this generation of natural material baselayers claim to be easy on the skin, I’m definitely happiest with the Smartwool – it’s reliably non-itchy, unlike the Icebreaker which sometimes causes a reaction. So whatever Smartwool are doing, it’s working! I hope you're able to find some of their clothing and give it a go.
Since my last post, my biking activities have been significantly curtailed, by the world's lengthiest puncture repair/ inner tube replacement process - and even after finally getting back on the bike, technical issues continue (evidenced by a slightly terrifying experience involving a seized wheel whilst crossing the road in front of a speeding van). So, with biking adventures temporarily on hold, here's what I've been doing. A couple of weeks ago, a friend and I decided to head to 'the most remote village in the East Midlands' for a hike. Burrough on the Hill is tucked into a corner of Leicestershire, and our walk took us from the village, up to an Iron Age hillfort and across possibly the muddiest field in the region. It was 8 miles of walking in mud-platform shoes, and even now, after stomping, scraping and paddling in puddles, my walking shoes make me look like a proper hobo. Shortly afterwards, I introduced my mum to the delights of England's smallest county with a walk round Rutland Water. It was cold and wet, and spring felt quite a way away. Normanton Church, Rutland Water. Picture by Dave Spring has officially sprung, though, so I've been out climbing (again! twice in one year and it's only March!) at Birchen Edge, and hiking in Wales (in rather windy conditions). Me at the foot of Birchen Edge. Picture by Tom Harrison Picture by Dave And yesterday I did my bit for the walking community, going out to survey the paths emanating from grid square SK5234 (actually the middle of the river Trent) on behalf of the Ramblers' Association's 'Mystery Walkers' project. Walking two miles from your allotted square, you report on the state of the paths and help the Rambers' Association to keep up to date with what's happening on the ground. If you can spare an afternoon (and can read a map - I'm so metricated, I had to get a tape measure out to find a 2 *mile* walk), why not sign up? Spring has sprung at Attenborough Nature reserve But life hasn't been one long round of outdoors fun. Actually, it has, but I've slotted a bit of writing in too. It's not what I'd call work, but hey, once I win the lottery, I'll have the perfect life! I followed that up with an interview with Becky Bellworthy - at 19 years old, she hopes to become the youngest British female to summit Everest. Blimey, at 19 it was all I could do to hold down a temping job before sloping off for an entirely traditional gap year. Coming up, I've got a trip back over to Rutland, to try out the dry tooling options - especially pertinent now that the UK winter climbing season is drawing to a close. I've also got a couple of gear reviews up my sleeve (can you guess what I'll be reviewing?) and hopefully an adventure or two with the ever-inspiring Manifesto K. We might even make a dash for some last minute snow - assuming the Fiesta could make it to the Alps. Happy adventuring - and bring on that hour change!
Ever since we moved into our house, I've been curious about the sign at the bottom of the street. Down by the railway line which separates our road from the Rylands area beyond, there's a small blue sign indicating a cut through to the next street; the blue sign has a picture of a white bicycle, and the number six in a red box. But what did it mean? Some time later, when I started a job in Nottingham and could commute by bike, I began to cycle to work, and my route had me following that sign. But as I turned off the canal towpath and headed uphill towards my office, the route carried on without me. And from the bottom of our street, the sign pointed in the opposite direction too. So what is it? And where does it go?  It turns out that national cycle route six connects two of the railway cities of England - Derby and York. It's part of a wider network which criss crosses the whole country, with the Derby-York section being a mere 194 miles. It also swings north from Nottingham up past Clumber Park, although in something of an irony, I didn't ride any of it on my trip there from Mansfield a couple of weeks ago. Being the kind of person I am, my first instinct was to try and work out whether it would be possible to ride the whole thing at some point. (I've got form in this area; when I lived in Wollaton, a long distance walking trail, the Robin Hood Way, came along my street and I started trying to walk the whole thing in sections before deciding that linear walking required more planning and public transport than I was interested in). In any case, I'm a reasonable person so I decided to explore a bit of the cycle route before making any firm plans. I sat down with a trusty OS map and decided to make Elvaston Castle my first objective - a perfect midweek mini adventure.  Elvaston Castle is a house and country park on the outskirts of Derby, and owned by the local authority. The two hundred acres of grounds were originally a monastery but after receiving Henry VIII's unwelcome attentions, it became a private estate. A manor house, part of which is still visible, was built in 1633, with 19th century alterations. However, the building is now in something of a state of disrepair and Derbyshire County Council is trying to sell off the grade II* listed building and its grounds as it can no longer afford to keep it up. Needless to say, I've only found this out since my return - before I left, I established that a) Elvaston Castle is open to the public b) it costs to park (£1!) but is otherwise free, and c) it has a cafe and loos. That was all I needed for it to be a sensible target. The day was grey and overcast as I set my phone to track my GPS signal and finally left the house. I'd packed the map but thankfully, Nottinghamshire County Council have been generous with their signage, and I simply followed the little blue signs as I wended my way off through Chilwell, Toton and into Long Eaton. Crossing the border into Derbyshire, I started to discover things that I'd never seen, despite driving past for years. This sculpture is a carved seat, surmounted by a figure riding a penny farthing; sadly the gate's locked, so you can't actually sit on the seat.  I've often complained that the area in which I live is a bit flat for my liking - however, once you're on a bike, you suddenly become grateful for the fact that you're not climbing or descending much at all. I soon left the town behind, then the villages, and once past Breaston I was out amongst the fields on a lovely flat track. Although the weather was chilly and a bit cheerless, I breathed a sigh of relief to be amongst fields and trees. This is the kind of signage you get once you're no longer on the main road. After a small detour around the edge of Borrowash (alongside a canal, and on the only section of route which was a bit bumpy), I coasted down a hill and cut off the cycle route, onto the country lane which brought me to Elvaston Castle Country Park itself. I'd been taking my time en route, stopping regularly to check the map or take a picture, and by the time I arrived, I was absolutely famished. I wheeled my way across the muddy lawns and reclined on a bench to eat my picnic. You can see the 1633 manor on the right, with the newer addition on the left, and a delightful bicycle to the front. The park itself seemed quiet (unsurprisingly for a weekday in February) but the tea room was teeming with people and after demolishing my sandwich, I treated myself to a scone. It wasn't bad though perhaps a bit too almondy for my liking. The tea room is actually the only section of the castle which you can get into for the majority of the year, and it gives few clues as to what the rest of the building might be like.  Before long, I was heading back to retrace my steps home. Despite enjoying my quick visit, I was feeling a bit contrary - not only can you not go inside the house, but the whole estate was scattered with signs asking you not to do things - don't walk on the grass, don't play in the hedges, don't climb the trees. It seems somehow symptomatic of a disconnection which is being fostered between people and places; and maybe that's why the amount of litter in the hedgerows, on paths and in canals and parks comes as such a shock to me. If people can't be immersed in a place, perhaps they don't feel any responsibility towards it? In any case, my trip home felt very swift - perhaps that's just compared to my return from Clumber Park in the wind - and even with a flat tyre brewing, I was back home with a sense of a few hours well spent. It's given me the confidence to consider cycling further afield, so it's back to the map. Here's my route (roughly - I forgot to turn the GPS on to begin with):
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