A big thank you to the camper for taking us from the mechanics of Calais, to from the mountains of south eastern France, through the fruit fields of Collias and finally to the Mediterranean. It’s been a rollercoaster (literally when the breaks cut out, or teetering on the side of the verdon gorge) but it’s been a pleasure. 🌎 Traveling – it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.” – Ibn Battuta
A couple of weekends ago, Nathan, Sam, Louise and I spent a night camping in the Peak District. Sam recently bought a great little VW T2 camper, and Nathan and I were keen to experience a night in the van, cooking up dinner on the camping stove and pulling on all our hiking gear in the 2×2 meter roof space. We arrived early on the Saturday morning, stopping once for a toilet break in the strangest little petrol station -come -convenience store for some camping snacks and once again at a lakeside somewhere in Derbyshire, where I took some pictures and marveled at how truly good it felt to be outdoors, shivering at the waterside with three of my best friends in the world. There’s something unbeatable about the feeling; the feeling of beginning an adventure and heading somewhere unknown, about spending the weekend in the rain and the mud and it being an adventure nonetheless – it’s definitely something I crave more and more each time we get out.
Our vague plan for the weekend was to camp at the foot of Mam Tor, Mother Hill, a 517m peak rearing up between the two sides of Hope Valley and just outside of Castleton town. On coming into Castleton, we parked up the van, celebrated the good fortune of a broken parking meter, and set off on a quick recon of the area, hoping to find a camping spot off the main road and away from the bustle of the central village. With a couple of hours left before sundown, we looked to the nearest hill and decided to start climbing! Without any clear direction, and determined to avoid stumbling into any of the 3 pricey cavern tours, we started hiking up the clearest ridge towards summit – a mound atop of ‘Peak Cavern’ which peers down over a breathtaking ravine on one side, and the quaint stone cottages of Castleton on the other. Several slips in the mud, and a crumbled and rebuilt dry stone wall later, we ‘summited’, panting, peeling our thermals from our damp skin and wishing we had proper walking shoes, but giddy with accomplishment. From atop ‘The Devils Arse’, the views are spectacular, and we sat – as close as we could edge towards the drop into the ravine below – looking out over the dramatic landscape, chatting about how tiny the trees looked from so high up and quizzing Sam about geology. It really is a simple cliche, but up atop of nowhere in particular, messing around on the edge and looking out over a formidable drop towards Edale, I couldn’t help but pause, reminded of my own insignificance. Against the rolling landscape, we seemed the smallest of things in a sprawling mass of fields and peaks, humbled by the might of nature….. and it felt good. Like a funny sort of ritual whereby every little worry buzzing around in my mind fell silent and mother nature patted my teeny head as if to say ‘you silly thing, it means nothing at all, now enjoy the view’. I took some pictures, and Louise and I returned to our ‘woman in wild’ instincts by throwing some sticks off the edge. UGG UGG. After a quick nature wee, we began to head back down, following the ridge in Z formation – much more quickly than we ascended, with the promise of a hot cocoa and duvets waiting at the van.
There’s something about the first tentative sip of a hot drink out of a plastic camping mug after coming in from a long hike in the rain and the cold bluster of the peaks, which I’m quite sure has the power to make almost anything a little bit better. Freeze-frame: the four of us squidged onto the back bench on Sam’s camper, nursing steaming mugs of Azera and waiting for our hands to warm up again before setting off to find a place to camp for the night- my morning coffee never tastes quite as comforting.