We sat on the wooden bench in the morning freshness putting on our hiking boots. They were made of leather; our rucksacks of canvas with leather straps, and our anoraks of faded cotton. The smell of leather and dubbin and rain-washed cotton and I’m there again, sixteen, maybe seventeen, with my friend Mac again on the bench outside Dunsford Youth Hostel. We had hitch-hiked down the A38 and spent the night in the hostel, with high hopes of Dartmoor adventure. We had not been there before except in our imaginations, fuelled with images of the bottomless Grimsmire and the Hound of the Baskervilles yowling in the fog. Now we were ramming our packed lunches in the side pockets of our rucksacks and heading off to the valley of the River Teign, never questioning our right to walk and camp in this National Park.
Like your dad, my dad used his days off to escape to the countryside. He was a frequent hiker on Kinder Scout and exploring the Roman copper mines on Alderley Edge. When I was a Boy Scout we often went camping but we didn't call it "wild camping" but that's what they call it these days 🤔
Another fine piece, Richard.
Like your dad, my dad used his days off to escape to the countryside. He was a frequent hiker on Kinder Scout and exploring the Roman copper mines on Alderley Edge. When I was a Boy Scout we often went camping but we didn't call it "wild camping" but that's what they call it these days 🤔