After a fitful night's sleep I awoke with the first sliver of daylight filtering through the trees outside the tent. 5.15am. Arse. Terry was out for the count so I tried to get back to sleep but that was it, I was up. I unzipped the tent as quietly as I could and saw a large deer staring at me not fifteen metres distant, matching my gaze as it tip-toed off into the wood. I got up and wandered around the tent looking for something to keep me occupied and decided to investigate the wood with the benefit of daylight.
I've often thought I could spend hours wandering around a wood investigating, and I was right. An hour, anyway. I took a walk up to the main track and noticed we'd pitched right next to a long-deserted track down a straight line of planted trees; two moss-filled tyre ruts marked its boundaries as it ran from the track to the edge of the wood. Knowing this the night before would have made things so much easier! The tent was almost invisible from the main track, so marking a route to the tent is a must in case of future emergency. Lesson learned.
The wood was obviously a good hunting spot for foxes, with occasional feathery carcasses littering the floor. Fungii attached to dead wood everywhere, prospering in the unkempt undergrowth of this wonderful forest. Years-old stumps crumbled under my boot revealing centipedes, wood louse and pill bugs aplenty. Brambles offered tempting but not-quite-ripe blackberries and striking pink foxgloves took advantage of every light position. Eventually my rumbling stomach drew me back to camp and I munched on seeds and nuts while building a miniature woven fence from pine twigs.
I remembered I'd packed my penknife; I found some recently-dead wood and a perfect waste of time was born. I fashioned a small totem peg with a point, a face and woodchip hair and stuck him in the ground near the tent to keep watch, then spent twenty minutes carving a butter-knife for Terry, who'd forgotten to bring one with him. I found the whole process very satisfying and I'll definitely keep carving to kill time. I'll be just like Ray Mears, but without the paunch.
As I chuckled away to an amusing book a squirrel hopped down a tree nearby and looked inquisitive as I prepared a small handful of nuts, seeds and dried fruit from my supplies. I was about to place the food out for the squirrel when ZIIIIP! I jumped, the squirrel fled and Terry peered sleepily from the tent.
"Tea."
"Morning Terry."
Tea was made, the tent and its contents were packed away in under fifteen minutes and we were soon making our way to Oakham: the place of my birth. I have few memories of Oakham as we left when I was three but it's how I know of Rutland Water having visited the town, but not the lake, in 1999. As we approached the town centre I had a sensation of depth of time, a feeling of wonder at being in the area I was born. We approached a roundabout and there in front of us was a sign for the street I first lived in. We parked and wandered around looking for my first house, without luck. We dropped into a couple of newsagents to find breakfast - apparently Oakhamers don't eat fruit - and continued up the road to find another house I lived in with more positive results.
Something we'd noticed is that Rutland is populated by hippos. Occasionally you'll spot one by the roadside, or by a tree, or at a school. They're playfully decorated, part of an art project and a trail of some sort. It's quite amusing to spot the bright little fellas around the place and go "Ooh, another bloody hippo!"
Once we'd had our fill of Oakham we headed off to Whitwell to see if we could camp at the sailing club. The previous night's excitement made it satisfying to pitch our tent by the lake near holiday-makers and windsurfers, with wetsuits drying in the breeze and a social buzz, kids laughing and people milling between tents. Terry cooked up more meaty treats and we relaxed for a while in the windy sun before hiring a bike and setting off for a few miles around the lake.
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