With a crash and a squawk a pair of birds come tumbling out of the tree landing almost on top of me. There is a flurry of black and white feathers, beaks pecking, twig feet kicking. I let out an involuntary shriek and leap into the air.
‘What the…’
Dan is behind me laughing. ‘It’s just a pair of magpies bickering. Haven’t you ever seen birds fight before?’
I don’t like to be laughed at. ‘City birds are much more civilized. I’ve never seen pigeons do that.’
He takes my hand and drags me gently forward.
‘Come on city girl. The countryside isn’t so scary.’
We continue walking along the trail. My pack is uncomfortable, we haven’t been gone for more than an hour and already I find its weight oppressive. The idea of a whole weekend of this, trudging under the bulk of our provisions, fills me with despair. Why I ask myself did I agree to this? Who was I trying to impress?
The hedgerows seem absurdly high, I can’t even see this countryside that I’m meant to find so spectacular. You can get a better view from Parliament Hill.
As we walk on the air is filled with the noise of chattering and whistling. Who knew the countryside was so loud, that birds were, well, so bloody noisy.
‘Did you hear that?’ asks Dan, breaking his stride.
‘Hear what?’ I say, stopping dead, straining to hear.
‘A blackbird, they sound so distinctive.’
I’m surprised once more; since we got here Dan has amazed me with these tidbits of pastoral knowledge.
‘I had no idea you were such an outdoorsman.’ I say, a snide edge unavoidably creeping into my voice.
Secretly though I’m impressed, the countryside is like another world to me. Growing up in the city the only birds I know are pigeons, scraggy feathered, stumpy footed, pecking at the crumbs of discarded sandwiches. Until this trip I’ve only ever been with Dan in the city, I didn’t know there was this side to him, this wealth of knowledge tucked away. There’s something oddly attractive about it, this competence, the whole ancient man, hunter-gatherer thing.
‘Seriously, how do you know all this stuff?’
He smiles at me. ‘My dad, he used to take me camping when I was little. He would point out everything, the birds, the bugs, the trees. It was like we were explorers in a foreign land, discovering it all for the first time.’
I try to sound enthusiastic but fail. ‘Wow, that must have been…amazing.’
‘I know what you’re thinking, you’d far rather have been sunning yourself on a beach somewhere.’
‘Well, now you mention it.’
‘But seriously. It was really fun, I loved those trips. They were such an adventure. We’d go fishing and climbing, all this really outdoorsy stuff. It was great.’
My inner sceptic softens a little seeing him so enthusiastic. I’ve missed this, he’s been so beaten down by work recently that I forgot how positive he can be.
‘I guess I probably would’ve liked it too. It sounds the sort of thing most kids would like.’
‘Exactly. See you’re already coming round to the idea. We’ll make a happy camper of you after all.’
We stop and hug, awkward with enormous packs on our back. Like two courting tortoises.
‘Now prove to me you know what you’re doing and show me where we are on that fancy map.’
Dan lifts the map up to eye level, he’s wearing it round his neck in a plastic cover. It’s upside down so he can see it better, but this makes it even more confusing for me. Also hanging round his neck is a compass. I don’t know why but I always assumed compasses were round and sort of old looking, like the types they have in films. This one is clear plastic and rectangular, with lines marked on it that you use to help find where you are or where you’re going.
Dan peers at the map and traces a line with his finger.
‘See, that’s where we started, where we left the car, and here’s where we’re going to camp this evening. I reckon that we’ve walked about five miles so we should be somewhere around here.’
I’m amazed that he can do this, read a proper map, use a compass. The only maps I ever use are Google ones and I’ve not the foggiest idea of what to do with a compass. Dan has promised he’ll show me and secretly I’m quite keen on this idea, if only because the thought of being lost in the countryside is absolutely terrifying. I had joked about bringing my mobile phone but Dan was adamant. He did not want us to be disturbed. He would have his phone in case of emergency otherwise it would remain switched off. He seemed to think I would be incapable of 48 hours without texts, facebook or twitter. I’m slightly irritated by the thought that he didn’t believe I could go cold turkey. I’m even more irritated by the fact that I’m secretly missing my phone. I push this thought from my mind.
‘And what about lunch. Where are we stopping for lunch?’
As a concession to my urban weakness Dan is allowing us to stop at a pub for lunch on the first day. After this he says we’ll be off the beaten track, too far from civilization for there to be any pubs. To prove his point he made me buy supplies from a specialist camping shop. All vacuum packed and foil packaged, looking more like a polar explorer’s rations than food for a weekend away. Even though I’m not a gourmand I was a little concerned at the idea of eating boil in the bag, dehydrated God knows what. The nearest thing I can think of that has ever passed my lips are pot noodles, and I gave those up after my student days. On the plus side though, we did find some freeze dried ice cream which I insisted on getting as it said it was a favourite food of the astronauts on Discovery. Well, if it’s good enough for them.
‘I reckon we should be at the pub in another hour or so. Then you can enjoy your last taste of civilization for the rest of the weekend.’ He says this with an evil smile; I know he is enjoying seeing me struggle.
Satisfied with his answer I fall silent and we trudge on once more. By now my legs are starting to ache and my new hiking boots are rubbing, despite the expensive anti-blister socks I’m wearing. Thankfully Dan’s timekeeping is spot on and a little over an hour later I am happily ensconced in a rustic pub sipping a glass of white wine and greedily reading the menu. As the only customers we get the full attention of the pub’s owner. He is a giant, hulking man as tall as he is wide. His bear like appearance is increased by a full bushy beard covering the lower half of his ruddy face. The idea strikes me that with a little more watering the hair might in fact take over his whole body. Rather uncomfortably I find my mind turning over his hirsutism, wondering just how furry he is beneath his checked shirt and tatty trousers. The bearman is quick to introduce himself graciously extending a furry paw. His name is Finlay McLennan, he tells us with a soft burr at odds with his appearance. Mr McLennan is clearly proud of his pub which he tells us was a bothy, a shepherd’s shelter, before being bought by the local brewery. Despite the warm weather we are ravenous and both order a hot meal, in my case the idea of a ploughman’s sustaining me for the next 48 hours seems absurd. As we sit by the window eating I look at Dan and realize he looks happier, more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him in the city. He looks, I search for the right word, serene. As though this is the right environment for him. I am struck by how utterly different our experiences of the day so far must be, me feeling like a duck out of water, him in his element. I look out across the landscape and realize that I am in awe of its beauty. It is so wild, so different from what I am comfortable with, what I am used to, that I’ve sort of been tuning it out. I decide there must be something wrong with me if I notice this beauty only once I am comfortably ensconced indoors rather than out there in the midst of it. I wonder what this means about me, about my attitude to life, my cushy city perspective of the world around me. Maybe it just means that I don’t pay much attention when I’m tired and starting to get blisters. Either way I resolve to try and make more of an effort after lunch.
All too soon we are paying our bill and shouldering our packs again. I swear mine has become heavier since I took it off. For a brief, mad moment I almost accuse Dan of adding extra weight to it before deciding that this is absurd. Like old friends we wave goodbye to Finlay who stands at the door of the pub and watches us head away, a little dog scampering around his feet. I take Dan’s hand and match his long, easy stride, hoping to match his mood as well. With a renewed attempt at enthusiasm I look up at the hills surrounding me. They shimmer purple in the summer heat, the flowering heather nature’s hazy carpet. Around us the only sounds I can hear are the humming of bees, the occasional trill of an unidentifiable bird and the trudge of my boots along the stony ground. I turn to Dan.
‘How old were you when you first starting camping?’
I am wondering whether I will ever fall in love with the outdoors like he has, or whether I have left it too late.
‘Mmm well we did lots of little trips with my parents when I was tiny but the first proper trip I remember doing with my dad was when I was ten. We came up near here for my birthday.’
I ponder this for a while, lost in thought, wondering whether this love is innate, is it a matter of nature or nurture. Do some people just have the great outdoors in their blood.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘No reason. I just wondered how you got started, that’s all.’
‘It’s hard to say. I suppose I’ve always just done it. With my parents, with school, then doing Duke of Edinburgh. I suppose I’ve always liked the idea of being out in the wild. Sort of going back to basics.’
‘But you don’t really like going on walks. In the park I mean.’
This has always struck me as strange. I thought that if he liked camping and the countryside then Dan would also like wandering around the city parks, the nearest I get to the countryside.
‘Well no, it’s not the same though is it. I like the purpose of camping, of going walking, trekking, whatever you want to call it. Of getting yourself from A to B, by foot like our ancestors would have.’
‘So just wandering about outside doesn’t really count?’
‘Not really, it’s just always struck me as a bit pointless. This endless circling of parks. You’re not going anywhere, not discovering anywhere new, not pushing yourself. Just idly sauntering about.
We walk on and I consider this. I suppose in a way he’s right. I always think of ladies taking a turn around the park. I think of the Victorians and the importance they placed on being seen, of keeping up appearances, of the intricate dance that society composed.
Ultimately walking in parks is still social in a way that hill walking can never be. Perhaps it’s this removal of yourself from society that people are so keen on. I wonder how to put this to Dan without making him bristle. A butterfly, pale blue and smaller than a fifty pence piece floats in front of me, dancing its higgledy-piggledy drunken dance. I watch it as it disappears and realize that it’s an age since I last saw one. It’s strange as I’m sure there were lots of butterflies when I was growing up. The afternoon is so peaceful, but as I look around me I see there’s so much going on, so much living. By now we’re walking quite steeply uphill, the clouds seem to be almost touching us even though we’re not yet that high up. Around me the ground is covered in tufts of spiky long grass, almost like the kind that grows on sand dunes, it brushes against my bare legs and prickles and stings.
After a while I realize that my feet are no longer aching, I seem to have found my stride and my legs march forwards as though they were automatons. I relax into the walking, into my surroundings, into the silence, into Dan’s company. I feel completely removed from the multitude of tiny disturbances and annoyances that punctuate city life. I think for a moment that I can almost feel my blood pressure going down. There are no barking dogs, no screaming children; the air is absent from the wail of sirens and the impatient shrieking of car horns. Surprised I realize just how stressful I find these things, the punctuation marks to the urban life that I always thought suited me best. I feel as though my body is lighter than it has been in months. Not worrying about stepping out in front of a car, holding onto my bag, pushing my way onto the tube. I can just be, with all the space I need. As we walk along in easy silence I realize I am starting to warm to the countryside, to the idea of spending time away from the demands of everyone and everything I know. Perhaps I wouldn’t spend my time walking, but there is a definite freedom in being here.
I know our plan is to set up camp near an unpronounceable loch. I start to daydream about it, about the water, wondering what it will be like. I have never been to a loch before; I don’t even think I’ve been to a lake, just reservoirs or ponds. I try and imagine how large it is, how deep it is, whether there is a monster swimming around inside.
‘Have you ever been to Loch Ness?’ I ask Dan, my voice, breaking the silence. The question, once uttered sounds odd, even to me.
‘Loch Ness, no, I don’t think so. Why d’you ask?’
‘Just wondering. I’ve never been to a loch and I was trying to imagine what they’re like.’
‘Well not long now until you find out. This one is really beautiful, I think it’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen.’
I want to know more, want to ask more questions but at the same time don’t. I don’t want to know why Dan loves it so much. I want to see whether I’ll feel the same on my own, without him having told me. As we walk down the hill, I see a sliver of silver in the distance. The loch, I think, glad that the end of the day’s walking is in sight.
As we approach the loch I am not disappointed. It is not as large as I had imagined, not the blank, slate coloured expanse of the lochs I have seen in pictures. Instead it is surrounded by trees that taper down to its shores. In the middle is a small island, with several large trees growing on it. I touch Dan’s arm and point, ‘Scot’s Pines’ he says nodding towards the trees and the island. ‘See I told you this place was special.’
The grass is peppered with ferns, and what I think is bracken and gorse giving the whole area a scrubby, wild effect. A few dark clouds float menacingly overhead, looking as though they might bring rain and with them trouble.
‘Do you think we could swim?’ I ask.
Dan shrugs, ‘I don’t see why not. I’m not sure how warm the water will be though.’
I smile at him. ‘Let’s unpack and see how we feel.’
Dan is carrying the tent and I try and help him put it up. It’s clear that he’s more than able to do this himself but I feel like I should at least make a show of helping. In reality I flutter around him getting in his way more than anything else. Once the tent is up we unroll our sleeping bags and put our things away inside. Gently I ease off my boots and surreptitiously inspect my blisters. I don’t want Dan to see them, he warned me about walking in new boots but I couldn’t be bothered to break them in. I don’t want to show him he was right.
With bare feet I walk carefully down to the edge of the loch. It is sandy like a beach, better than the muddy riverbank I had imagined. I cautiously wade in. The water is icy cold but gloriously refreshing. I decide straight away that I will risk a swim. With no one else about I feel totally uninhibited, I pull off my clothes and lay them in a little pile before running into the water. I let out a shriek, the cold is more bracing than I had expected, eye watering, like an ice cube down the back of a blouse. I start swimming further out, long powerful strokes, hoping to warm up a little. Dan, still fiddling about with the tent, stands up and looks at me. He waves and starts to walk down to the edge.
‘Come in, it’s gorgeous.’ I shout, treading water, my skin tingling hot cold. I watch for a moment as he starts to strip off, then turn around and with a splash dive below the surface. I come back up and lie on my back, floating, looking at the sky overhead. Soon I hear the sound of Dan approaching, I stay as I am until I feel his hand in mine. We float in silence. I can feel the wavelets of the lake lapping against my body, the cool blue depths yawning below. I close my eyes and feel like I might disappear, my body melt, merge with the water that embraces it. We stay like this, silent, floating until our skin is wrinkled and puckered, human starfish suspended in the water. Hunger rouses us and we lazily swim back to the shore, to our clothes, to our vacuum packed rations.
After we have eaten I get the book I have brought. I am a bad sleeper and this was another of Dan’s concessions, an allowed extravagance, something more than the bare essentials the true camper would take. I pace around like a dog, trying to find a comfortable place on the ground to sit down to read. A shadow looms over me, it is Dan.
‘I’m going to go off for a bit of a walk. Explore the edges of the loch, have a look at some of those rocks over there.’ He gestures to the other side of the loch.
‘Fair enough, I don’t know where you get all your energy though.’ I am quite content to be left by myself, happy to carry on reading before going to bed. Unused to the fresh air and walking I am so tired that I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my eyes open for that long.
I watch with one eye as Dan sets out, gradually receding from view. Sure enough I haven’t read more than ten pages before I start to feel drowsy. I make my way to the tent and crawl into my sleeping bag fully clothed, hair still damp. I’ll change once Dan returns and wakes me, for now I’ll just have a little rest. I lie down and within minutes I am gone. For the first time in ages I sleep like the dead. No waking up at every strange noise, no getting up to go to the toilet, just solid sleep for almost twelve hours, right through until morning.
I open my eyes and it takes me a moment to figure out where I am. Drowsily I close them again and roll over towards Dan. I stretch out my arm and put it across him. Except he isn’t there, his sleeping bag is cold, flat and empty. For a split second I am worried, then a reassuring voice pops into my head pushing away the panic. Stop worrying, he’s fine, probably up making breakfast. I lie where I am, unmoving. I want to stay in my sleeping bag, I am warm and comfortable, I know when I get up I’ll feel stiff and cold, the change is not appealing. I try and stand up clutching the sleeping bag around me. I wriggle out of the tent flap and then hop outside. Straightaway I see that there is no Dan. He is not making breakfast; the remains of our little fire are as we left them last night. I hop towards the water, scanning the horizon. The surface is as smooth and dimple free as silk. A wave of panic passes over me; my body goes from hot to cold and then back again. My armpits feel damp and my stomach floats up into my mouth. Dan. Is. Not. Here. I sit down where I have been standing, still in the sleeping bag. I can feel the panic bubbling inside me, a scream that wants to get out. I close my eyes and force myself to count to ten. I try and calm down, a voice inside me rationally explains where he might be and why there is nothing to worry about. I climb out of the sleeping bag and leave it in a circular heap, like a discarded skin.
‘Dan!’ I shout, strangely embarrassed by the sound of my voice. All my life I have been told not to shout. Now I can, now is the right time to shout but I feel like I am going to be told off for disturbing the peace.
‘Dan!’ I shout again, this time more loudly.
I start running down the side of the loch in the direction I saw him go.
‘Dan! Dan, where are you? Can you hear me?’ Every couple of strides I stop to listen. All I hear is the frantic beating of my heart.
When the camp is almost out of sight I turn and retrace my steps. Still I refuse to believe what has happened. He could just be out for a walk. He could still come back.
I return to the camp and sit down on the ground next to the tent, staring out at the loch. Deep down I think I know already that Dan isn’t coming back. Tears fill my eyes as I try and figure out what to do. I go back inside the tent and look to see whether Dan’s pack is still there. It isn’t. There is a pile of stuff he took out of his pack to make it lighter before he set off for his walk last night. Desperately I rifle through the pile looking for the map, the compass, his phone. Gone. Gone. Gone. All gone. It hits me then, a sense of dread fills me unlike anything I have ever known. I am lost, utterly alone.
(3974 words)
