Intrepid Tales: The Ullswater Camp · Tuesday May 8, 2007
“I call it extreme camping”, she said, and I could understand why. Heavy rain, a non-waterproof tent, and watching a leak appear while thinking, “this could be interesting”. Bora is from Slovakia and for the last four years has spent many annual months in the Lake District. She initially couldn’t understand the appeal, but now does. About two years ago I met a Lake District hotel worker from New Zealand who wanted to live there: quite surprising, considering the splendour of that down under-ish landscape.
It was windy, cloudy, and Saturday night, but despite those suggestive factors Bora set off into the hills from Ullswater, up to the High Street ridge and descending to an overnight camp at Hayeswater, then back down again early in the morning for breakfast and a days work at the Ullswater Steamers. Being a rough, tough, rugged kind of guy is increasingly difficult with young ladies like Bora: my own wild camp adventure was relatively tame, tucked away in a sheltered cove on the shores of Ullswater. Although admittedly the wind was alarmingly fierce, I worried about a mad-axe murderer and, even, had a near-hostile encounter with a local ruffian. Well, OK, actually a nice National Park chap who was obliged to inform me that camping was not allowed, but found my presence perfectly acceptable as a quiet, temporary resident being unobtrusive and respectful of the environment. The problem, he told me, is groups of rowdy yoofs drinking and spraying glass, plastic and assorted litter with obnoxious disregard for the environment. Indeed. I once saw the effects of such aforesaid rabble myself and objected to their unwelcome presence presaged with nasty roaring vehicles tearing up the peace and the roads of the Lake District. A different class of person, sadly entitled to visit and spend time in the area like anyone else.
Anyway, I was dog-tired after a foul night at a Buttermere campsite, with an ominous assembly of huge family size tents and groups of smaller canvas arranged in circles facilitating late night chat. Never, ever, again. It’s about understanding human nature: groups of people, young males in particular, will, always, be loud and fucking annoying at campsites, like having someone romp through your bedroom at home talking stupid rubbish about football. Such places are meant for a peaceful immersion in nature, not talking stupid rubbish about Liverpool FC. In fact they stopped jabbering at 11.30, either acknowledging the noise cut-off for the campsite or perhaps disturbed from their meandering by the wandering light of my head-torch and passing footsteps. If you distract the attention of people when they’re intent on a habitual flow of only half-conscious activity, it awakes them as if from sleep: ah, yes, we’re in the Lake District on a beautifully peaceful campsite and maybe we should just bed down. They didn’t know I’d made a visit to the adjoining house to make a complaint to the owner. Either way, 11.30 aware or just realising that sleep was a sensible option, they zipped up their tents and were silent. To be followed with another band of happy campers with similar circular arranged tents, jabbering and laughing until 12.30 when I decided to abandon friendly bonhomie, prepared for immediate or next-day hostility and shouted “will you put a sock in it please, there’s an 11.30 noise cut-off”. This risks a hostile escalation, but I didn’t care: if they wanted war, they’d got it. But “sorry”, one of them said, and they were also then silent. For fuck sake. I’d been disturbed, made tense, angry, and distressed, because sleep is part of life like food and water, necessary for both normal living and more so when engaged in strenuous outdoor fun. I see nothing effete, or spoil-sporting, in wanting peace – silent, night-time peace – at countryside campsites. Suggesting otherwise is a common, unacceptable attitude with a kind of inverse snobbery. Apparently all across Europe, this is a common understanding. But not in Britain where it gets even worse, when evening alcohol is an additional factor – thus, I will never use a camp near to a pub.
That was the previous night, why I was dog-tired, and why I was more inclined for sleep than a return drive to Manchester. Hence, my intrepid camp beside Ullswater. I was, admittedly, silently impressed to learn that Bora had managed about three hours sleep in her night time escapade, but such deprivation does not suit my constitution. My nervous system needs deep, comfortable rest, and plenty of it.
Anyway the Ullswater Camp had its own formidable character – just listen to the wind at 1.30 am:
I was woken by alarming gusts funnelling down the length of Ullswater, seemingly to arrive at the precise bend in the lake where my tent was situated – where, significantly, an over-blown tree was providing me with a necessary wind break, lain horizontal with roots torn up and now a perpendicular twelve foot mass resting on the shore.
Despite this I managed a decent eight or so hours albeit with what-the-fuck awakenings, when sudden increased gusts triggered primordial concern for my safety despite my otherwise happy slumber. And the morning, though interrupted with the “you can’t camp here” greeting, was otherwise wonderfully refreshing and nourishing: standing on a rock, blown by winds, gazing at grey clouds suggesting a dull forthcoming day, I was nonetheless immersed in uninterrupted morning-time nature. I was having coffee, and fun, in the Lake District. As for the rest I can pretend, at least, that made me rough, tough, and rugged, gazing at the elements with narrowed manly eyes before clambering up the bank to my car.
great pic lov the lake were is it to
— john · Apr 27, 12:02 PM · john">§