My back was aching from the puppy sling. There was the beginning of a blister on one heel and I really, really wanted a cup of tea.
‘What do you think?’ I asked Nesbit, who I’d removed from the sling while we sized up the options. ‘Turn back, or keep pressing on?’
Nesbit cocked his head to one side.
‘Try that footpath up there? I hadn’t evenseenthat one. Now you’ve made things even more complicated.’
I tried not to wish that I wasn’t here alone, that I could hand control to someone else to decide for me. That Dream Man would be so good at reading a map, he’d have us on the right path in no time. Either that or we’d stumble upon a perfect, fairy-tale place to pitch the tent around the next corner, including a pool with a waterfall and a rock for sunbathing, a patch of wild strawberries to replace the squashed box in my pack. Oh, and a miraculously clean public toilet.
I hefted my rucksack onto the grass and sat down, trying to ignore the prickle of tears behind my eyes, the scornful thoughts that assured me that this was bound to happen, of course I was lost and scared. What a stupid, ridiculous idea, thinking that a sleeping bag and a mini-stove could turn me into an adventurer.
No psychology degree needed to figure out why those thoughts adopted my mother’s voice.
‘It’s hardly a disaster!’ I announced, mostly to myself. ‘We may be completely lost, tired and fed up, but we aren’t injured, it isn’t raining, and Nesbit has behaved like a very good boy. All I need is to come up with some sort of plan to figure out where we are.’
I thought about Joan, and her warning, and in rememberingThe Hobbit, I came up with an idea.
‘We should get up high, and look for the forest!’ I said, jumping up and shrugging back into my pack. ‘It’s a thousand acres. Surely we can’t miss it?’
‘Woof!’ Nesbit agreed, tail wagging furiously.
‘And if we can’t see the forest, we’ll be able to see something that will help.’
Endless long, sweaty minutes later, I finally scrambled to the top of the highest hill that I could see from the hollow. Twice, I’d thought we’d reached it only to find another peak mocking me over the crest of the false summit.
We stood there, my ankle throbbing from where I’d twisted it in an animal hole, slowly spinning around in search of Bigley Forest Park, or at least some sign of life. The dark clouds that I had failed to notice rolling in due to keeping my eyes lowered to avoid another ankle twist suddenly erupted with the intensity unique to summer storms as an almighty clap of thunder exploded above our heads.
Nesbit squealed in fright, scrabbling to climb up my leg so that a spurt of nervous wee landed right on my brand new walking boots, which turned out not to be one hundred per cent waterproof, as promised in the guarantee.
‘Okay. Great. Well. At least we’ve found the forest,’ I said, muttering words of meaningless reassurance as I rummaged for the raincoat in the bottom of my bag and, once Nesbit was back in the sling, slipped it on and zipped it up so he was safely inside, just the brown tip of a nose poking out.
It was relatively easy once I’d spotted the river to follow it up to the vast blob of dark green that had to be Bigley Forest Park. The problem was, I had a huge stretch of lighter green, brown and yellow fields to cross before I reached it, and I wasn’t sure which part of the darker green I needed to aim for to get back on the right path. Plus, reading a sopping wet map with the rain dripping in my eyes and somehow up my nose, a dog shivering in terror against my chest while trying to avoid being struck by lightning was not an easy task.
In the end, I decided that getting under the shelter of the trees was more pressing than working out which trees I needed to be under. I took a deep breath, straightened my rucksack and gritted my teeth. So things hadn’t all been sunshine and a smooth road. What kind of a challenge would that be? There was no way I was quitting now. Or crying. Or finding a bush to crawl under.
We were marching on to the end.
I might eat my emergency chocolate flapjack while I marched, though.
17
A cold, wet, limping hour later, I reached the treeline, beyond thankful that no farmer had accosted me with his gun when I’d been forced to abandon the footpath yet again and trudge guiltily along what I feared must be private land.
The rain had stopped after only twenty minutes or so, although my shivering bones couldn’t tell. I realised now why all the kit lists said to bring a woolly hat, even if it was twenty-one degrees when we’d set off. I was also bursting for a wee, thanks to the idiotic second bottle of cider. That proved to be a whole different side of adventuring – squatting behind a dripping wet tree, non-twisted ankle sinking into the mud as I tried to avoid bearing weight on the other one, gripping a slippery dog lead as the last thing I needed was for Nesbit to make a break for freedom while my knickers hung around my knees.
I had a glimmer of phone signal now the storm had cleared, so was able to locate my position. Forgetting the path now that we were in the park boundary, I simply headed in the direction of the place I’d chosen for my idyllic overnight camp, and hobbled on.
After another thirty minutes, I remembered that the whole point of passing the park visitor centre on my final stretch was to use the bathroom, fill up my water bottles and grab a drink if the café was still open (it wouldn’t be; it was nearly six). Cursing, close to tears again, I readjusted course and soon hit one of the main paths that would take me to the visitor centre.
Another hour of what can only be described as sheer torture later (interrupted by a short stop in the visitor centre toilets, and a longing gaze through the café window) I reached the designated clearing.
As soon as the tent was up on a reasonably flat spot, I dumped my pack on the grass and stripped off my coat, leggings, shoes and socks to reveal thighs chafed red from walking miles in damp trousers and blisters so huge it looked as though I had six toes. My ankle was slightly swollen, and still tender to the touch, but I hoped that a decent night’s sleep would be enough to remedy it.
My T-shirt had dried due to my body heat, but it stank of sweaty panic, so after tugging my hair out of its ponytail I also ditched that, enjoying the soft breeze against my skin, sucking in a deep breath of the zingy air that always follows a summer storm as I held out my arms, closed my eyes and embraced the overwhelming relief that I had made it.
I couldn’t wait to light a campfire, brew some tea, open up my tub of cheese and crackers, sit back and bask in my success, along with the lingering evening warmth.
The original plan had been to try to start a fire the wild way, with tinder and friction. That was now clearly not going to happen – especially as I had to wade deep into the undergrowth to find wood that had escaped the rain. I cleared an area of bare earth to ensure no risk of vegetation catching alight and made a pile of sticks, as seen on the survival videos. I then added some cotton balls rolled in Vaseline, struck a couple of matches and hey presto, only a few more tries and I had a roaring fire.
