Garden Micro-adventure

Sunday night, a little fed up and bored and with it being a warm starry night, I thought "Bugger it, stars are out, I'm going to sleep under them!"

Such ideas are best acted upon on impulse, before you have a chance to think about them.

I quickly grabbed and unwrapped my as yet unused sleeping bag and mat, and took them outside onto my little patch of front garden. I had on my fleece and tracksuit bottom, and my little wind up lantern added to the sense of (very low level) adventure.

I pitched up, got in, rested my head upon the old cushion laid out on the ground, looked up at the stars and failed to fall asleep.

I failed to fall asleep for a fair while actually, as although the silver mat kept me well insulated from the ground, it didn't provide much in the way of cushioning  and it wasn't massively comfortable. And then when I did, I was woken up by Falco from next door and his owners looking in and wondering what the hell was going on. They work nights you see, and  although we are up  a secluded drive, we have front gardens rather than rear ones.

They thought I was mad, probably.

Indeed, so mad that Ewalina came out a little later in her dressing gown and explained she couldn't sleep for worrying I had lost my house keys. I explained that I was fine and I wanted to test out my camping gear on a nice dry evening. Surprisingly she agreed with us, saying she loved the outdoors as well.

A  surreal conversation at 4am.

Next up, I was woken at 530 by the dawn chorus and in particular the angry football rattle sound of a couple of squabbling magpies amidst the usual chirps and whistles. The thing that became apparent was how different the air felt on my face, how fresh and calming it was.

I then slept through until 9am, when the other goggle eyed neighbour appeared to hear my daft  explanation. Ah well. Those nearest to me think I'm insane, and I don't care.

It was practice for further adventures.

Si

All text and images copyright CreamCrackeredNature 04.09.18

A Map and a Rucksack

I have not forgiven the trespasses of my Trespass rucksack, as it finally falls to pieces in a great orange mass of frayed material and dangling zips.

Utter rubbish. Hardly used.

So, I've picked up a 25l Eurohike one now, which only cost me £10 from Millets and will be far better for bike rides and walking. In the sense that things won't fall out of it.

I also bought my first ever map, an OS map of the surrounding area so I can learn to read maps, and find walking, running and cycling routes I haven't yet discovered.

You will find my bleached skeleton in a ditch, 400 yards from the nearest village I couldn't find.

Si

All text and images copyright CreamCrackeredNature 29.08.17

The Rough Sleeper on the Cycling Track

Christmas Eve too busy to run. Christmas Day too stuffed to run. Boxing Day I was too tired to run, but I still made it out, to run along the cycling path to owl country, my new favourite route.

The path was its usual self; blackbirds bathing in the drains and flinging leaf litter about; dunnocks and wrens crossing the track at ankle height; great and blue tits at work in the trees at eye level; gulls sailing the grey skies above.

And fire...the copse near the Gypsum factory seemed to be on fire.

The flames coming through the trees was quite distinct, but as I got nearer I realised it wasn't a fly tip being burnt, or an isolated patch of stubble burning, but rather it was a campfire being tended by a chap dressed in winter gear. There was a small tent, which seemed to me to be more like a kiddy's summer one for the garden, and also some sort of lean to open to the warming flames.

I was intrigued, but didn't want to disturb the man as he made his breakfast, convincing myself he probably wanted to be alone. I kept on running, and gradually his camp and his fire were left behind as I reached the bridge, and struck off across an owl country decorated by goldfinch, partridge and winter thrushes. There have been rumours since the summer that there was someone living wild off the cycle track, possibly an Eastern European fellow, but this was the first time I'd seen any evidence of that.

In retrospect, it almost seems like a folk tale, a Brothers Grimm affair set in the cold woods out of town. I should have approached the old hermit and offered him my help, and then listened to his tragic story of being chased out of town on a false premise. On promising to help restore his good name, he would have revealed himself to be a deposed prince, bishop, or magician, and given me a trinket of some kind before imparting an impenetrable wisdom.

Eventually, long after he'd been restored to his throne, I would have found myself in a sticky situation, and the nature of this knowledge would have suddenly become clear as crystal in my time of greatest fear. I would have escaped, and found my fortune and true path in life, in a different town, in a different occupation.

All because I stopped to help a poor man in a straggling wood.

Of course, I didn't do that. I shunned mystery, and kept on running. As the snow fell last night, I thought often of this chap; who he was, how he was getting on, and how he found himself sleeping rough in an undistinguished small town off a cycle track.

And I wonder if he was indeed a mysterious prince, looking to reward anyone who offered him a small kindness.

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