Rain, camping and a little bit of psychology | The quest for inspiration ch 2

-the view of Buttermere from the bothy-

The rain wasn't heavy so much as persistent. A constant precipitation that slowly and surely seeped through my coat, soaked my hat and gloves and left me a rather cold and bedraggled individual. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me rewind.

It was the 29th of January, when, following a 12 hour journey (which is another story entirely) I arrived in Keswick for the next chapter of my quest. I had come to the lake district with my sights set on camping at the Warnscale bothie which is perched on the ridge overlooking Buttermere. A simple-enough trip. Just in and out with time to relax in the relative comfort of an old miners' shack and pour forth poetic genius on the open and expectant page. Simple, right? Needless to say, like a lot of my plans, it didn't exactly go to plan. No poetry was written, no creative inspiration attained. But what did pass was an experience not to be missed.

And that brings me back to my point. Where was I? Oh yes. A wet and bedraggled individual.

I had been aware of the likelihood of the rain but hadn't realised what a difference maker it would be. Having reached almost within a mile of my destination, I was rendered in such a state by the adverse conditions (probably not helped by the aforementioned journey) that I began even to question whether I was fit to make that final stretch of my journey.

In seeking shelter from the rain in order to address my position and consult my maps, I stopped under a veranda in a complex of mining buildings. It turned out to be a café and part of the Honister slate mines. I decided to turn aside for a while. The café was empty and the gentleman behind the counter was happy to engage me in conversation about my trip as I stood there dripping water and brewing the world’s most overpriced camomile tea, but it was hot and that was all that mattered. thus refreshed, as I was, at that last homely house I set about the rather unpleasant business of donning again my sopping coat and headed out into the gathering dusk. 'Just a mile to go'. I encouraged myself, but the thought still echoed that it may prove to be the hardest mile of my life.

In the interest of not overstating things, I wouldn’t give it the definitive position of hardest, but it was certainly a contender.

The path rose steeply and arrow-straight up from the road (I say path, but it had turned more into a stream and my feet were soon sopping). With the weight of my pack and the gathering dusk, I was thankful when I made the top of that hill and the path started sloping down the other side. I could see the slag heaps ahead of me acting as my last way marker, from there I knew I didn’t have far to go, ‘just cross the stream and force my way round the shoulder of the ridge and I’d be there.’

The rain, falling persistently all day ( and I do not know how long before that) on the peaks and the fells, had given its waters to the already saturated ground, joining the streamlets: trickling there way down the crags and rocky paths to join the mountain becks: which gurgling ran, swelled and rushed to give their strength to the river: which through its mountain gully roared, the force of nature, hurling headlong down its cleft to the valley far below. All very poetic and that, but I was more concerned that it had risen over the stepping stones, and I had no way across.  

Fording the river, I forced my feet back into my wet boots, not even stopping to do them up focusing instead on reaching the shelter of the hut. Scrambling round the hill, with no clear path to be seen, slipping, stumbling, at last the form of the hut could be made out from the slag heaps and the crags. The hut was once comprised of 3 rooms, two of which had fallen to time and nature, remaining only as walled courtyards, as it were, for that last room into which I entered, stooping low through the doorway and straightening up in a space, not less than 10 by 10 feet by rough estimate. A few wooden platforms making up the only furniture in that place.

I turned my attention first to the fire, but with no wood available in the area and the recycled ‘logs’ left behind by some past camper simply refusing to light, I turned instead to conserve what heat I had and changing quickly I hung my soaked belongings from nails around the roof, partly in some vain hope that they might dry but also from past experience to save them from the teeth of the bothie mouse. I laid out my bed and quickly wrapped myself in my big, fleece, sleeping bag liner. I was beginning to warm up. After fighting with my gas stove, I made a meal of pasta and corn beef. Settling down, I considered what would happen tomorrow, with my already saturated gear and the six miles back. The last homely house was just over a mile away, it was true, and this provided some comfort. But in the storm that ensued that night, perched high on the face of the ridge, I felt in some way cut off from civilisation. That swollen river ran, in my mind, like a great barrier between their world and mine – a small rocky outcrop in the face of the storm.

I will not bore you with the full details of that night but let me instead turn to the point of the whole thing, I promised that this was an experience not to be forgotten. Why is that? Because, in some small way, I had to survive. Now I must clarify that I was at no point hanging onto life by nothing but my fingertips, nor could I condone such reckless behaviour but simply, rather, there were moments out there on my own in the fells when my survival required action. Blessed as we are with the comforts of modern life, our survival is rarely a matter of concern and instead our day to day is punctuated with the worries of far less consequence. Matters, sometimes the most trivial of things, eat away at our lives. But looking back now it was freeing, or eye-opening at least, to be looking instead to ones most basic needs.

This reminded me of something I’d read by the British adventurer Ross Edgely. In his book The Art of Resilience Edgley writes of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. Which, in its basic form is a pyramid graph of human needs, from the foundational physiological-needs up to psychological and self-actualisation needs. Now, while I have not the time nor the skill to fully discuss and discern the true usefulness or applicability of Maslow’s theory, it can provide an interesting mental framework.

Whilst swimming the entire way round Great Britain, Edgley writes that focusing on the foundational and basic needs helped him in the psychological battle which goes hand in hand with the physical battle of swimming 1,780 miles and spending 157 days at sea. In comparison my little one-night camping trip seems hardly worth mentioning, but as someone too often caught up fighting to reach the peak of Maslow’s hierarchy, for a moment I was brought back to its foundation: food, warmth, shelter. And the perspective that provides in life is not something to be passed over lightly.

The morning that followed brought with it the sun in all its glory, as a breeze pleaded back the remnants of clouds from the clefts of the hills. I made my way back, sharing in the joy of life that surrounded me, thankful that even the worst storms and the coldest night must eventually pass.

And next time I’m caught up with the worries of this world maybe I’ll just slow it down and thank God for the simple and the basic things in life.

- Robert