Although the forecast was for sunshine and cloud, the journey was foreboding with very heavy rain showers and monstrous, swelling storm clouds filling the horizon. A classic car got our behinds twitching by blindly pulling-out of a layby in front of us, causing Terry to jump on the brakes and dance on the horn as we swerved past, shaking our heads and muttering obscenities.
Despite the challenges we got to Rutland in one piece, both of us looking for that first sight of the water like kids on holiday trying to be first to see the sea. Tempting glimpses of lake through hedges were all we got until we passed Oakham. We turned parallel to the north shore and there, like a blue sky revealing itself from behind green clouds, was the lake in all its freshwater splendour.
We took the first opportunity to get down to the water at Barnsdale and paid £3 for the privilege of leaving the car in an open space. We wandered down to the water's edge and took in the windy beauty of the water, the peninsular of Hambleton obscuring our view of the far side of the lake. A few small boats were enjoying the gusty conditions and chipping speedily along the waves. We took a short wander along the shore; I can't speak for Terry but I was elated by the beauty of that fifteen minutes spent by the water, with my friend, in the wind with the sun trying to warm us occasionally. That elation didn't wear off for many days after our return.
We spent a while scouting possible locations for wild camping that night - we were determined to do this whole trip on-the-cheap so we hoped to avoid paying campsite fees. A spot by the lake would have been awesome but with an increased chance of being discovered we decided to take a look at a couple of large woods just north, over the main road from the water. I'd prepared us with digital copies of a good map which we pored over looking for good spots; we decided to head to Whitwell and find out how much bike and kayak hire were. We gave our parking ticket to a couple who were just arriving and made our way back to the road.
As it was around 6pm on a Saturday the cycle hire spot was deserted but we checked pricing and went over the way to investigate the kayaking. We spotted a campsite attached to the boating club and registered that as an emergency backup in case we failed to find a suitable spot in the woods.
We left Whitwell and took a brief stop at The Noel Arms - what a fantastic name for a pub. With lovely old beams and fireplaces complimented with modern lighting and clean edges, friendly staff and an interesting menu, I'd love to go back for an evening meal in the future. I bought a half-pint for an informative old boy who told us the history of the pub and the reasons behind its name - Lord Gainsborough of the family Noel no less - and with Terry's pint and my third Red Bull of the day packing us with vitality, we set off to find a place to sleep.
Our first camping recce took us into a small wood signposted as a falconry centre and was instantly deemed unsuitable by virtue of barking dogs and signs of habitation. We took a wander through anyway, three large deer crossing the path in the distance. We started to feel very much like tresspassers so we made our escape without incident. We knew sunset was approaching and we wanted to try and get the tent up before it got dark, so we returned to the main road to investigate Burley Wood, driving along to try and find a suitable entrance as marked on my map. We ended up parked directly opposite a smashed-up hatchback, wrapped in 'Police aware' tape, on the side of a long stretch of main road. Our car nestled comfortably in a gateway and we jumped over a rusting metal gate to investigate the wood beyond.
It was perfect. After a hundred or so metres on a rarely-used track we wandered off into the trees to find a clearing in a good position between road and track. A spot was found and marked and we went back to the car, gathered our belongings and hurriedly headed back to the clearing to get everything set up before dark. We cleared pine cones and twigs from the mossy floor and the tent went up like a dream. As I DJ'd, unpacked sleeping bags and arranged lighting, Terry prepared burned-sausage sandwiches with lashings of tomato sauce - anyone who knows Terry knows he's a lashings-of-tomato-sauce kind of guy.
Joints were smoked and conversations had, my life and his life laid bare before us, laughs and considerations through a haze of hash. The woods darkened and the trees whistled occasionally with the wind, rare spots of rain willed us into the tent but we resisted. After a while it became cool enough for me to don my hoody and a few minutes later Terry lamented not bringing his coat from the car. I was saying we could go and get it when something odd happened.
Now, I've never seen The Blair Witch Project but I feel I've connected somewhat with the feelings involved in watching it. Half an hour of chat followed our meal, brought to a sudden end by some hefty banging from the direction of the car. Thud, bang, crash, thud. A methodical, almost rhythmic banging which had Terry and I glaring at each other in the twilight. Paranoia and fear kicked in and we decided it could be someone trying to break into the car, parked discretely in the middle of nowhere and a suitable target for passing thieves attracted by the smashed car on the opposite side of the road. We decided to go back to the car and check - Terry wanted his coat anyway and we needed to check the car was ok. We grabbed torches and made our way to the main track.
As we approached the track, a thought hit me. It was dark and our tent was forty or fifty metres back there somewhere, in the trees. Even now, before going a couple of hundred metres down the track to the car, I had no idea how to get back to the tent. I raised this with Terry - if we both went, we didn't have a hope of finding the tent in the dark expanse of trees. I felt guilty sending Terry to the car to face the band of baseball bat-weilding car ransackers on his own, but someone should wait behind and keep a general idea of where the tent is. Off he went to the car while I sat on a log by the side of the track, alone in the dark, dark wood.
Shortly after he left I sent him a text asking him to let me know everything was ok when he got to the car. I took my bike-light torch, switched it to flash and pointed it down the track so he'd have something to aim for on his return. Ten minutes passed, no text message. Fifteen minutes, nothing. I was starting to properly worry now. I'd been breathing quietly, listening into the darkness for raised voices or sounds of a scuffle. Finally, the dim light from Terry's torch came up the hill and toward me from the track.
"Is it ok?" I asked.
"No, man, it's fucked."
"What?!"
"Just kidding, it's fine."
"You fuck."
There followed a confusing and frustrating fifteen minutes wandering around the wood in the dark trying to find our bastard tent. Both convinced it was in different directions, we eventually split up and Terry found it a couple of minutes later. Note to self - a flourescent flag or glow-stick in a prominent position near your tent is a must for future wild camping expiditions.
An hour later I got a text from Terry: "All clear!" Thanks, O2. The stresses and exertions of the day caught-up with us soon after and a smoke and some tea guided us into the tent to sleep... Well, for Terry to pass out and sleep soundly for eight hours; for me to take an hour to get to sleep, wake up numerous times through the night and rise at sunrise at 5.15am on Sunday morning.
To be continued...
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