Hiking in Dorset, Adventures from Wool

If I'm going to get anywhere near hiking the South West Coast Path I'm going to have to get prepared for it. So I planned, on a rare day off at home, to walk the coast of Portland. I'm going to have to work on my will power a little though as I woke to see torrential rain and abandoned the plan in favour of 'getting things done' at home. By two in the afternoon I was bored of that and the sun was out. The OS Map lying on top of my day pack caught my attention, and I decided a shorter walk was better than no walk at all. I would walk to Moreton and catch the train back to Wool. It was only about five miles.

It felt good to be out of the house, pack on my back, going on a little adventure. I was so wrapped up in feeling smug that initially I didn't notice the flapping noise as I walked. It sounded like I had an enthusiastic sealion accompanying me, and no amount of pulling at straps made it go away. Strangely, it slowed down when I slowed down, and sped up when I sped up. With a sense of foreboding I looked down at my feet and simultaneously tripped over them. The sole was coming off of my boot. These boots have seen me through a year in the jungle, Silver and Gold Duke of Edinburgh expeditions and countless day trips and afternoon wanderings, so it was sad to see them beaten on East Burton Road, one of the least taxing places I've ever taken them. I flopped home in a grump and put on my spares.

Even more determined to finish (or even start) my walk, I now sped off on a mission. The first few footpaths can't see much use, as the wet vegetation soaked me almost to my waist as I made my way accross the water meadows in search of Bovington. Although it had been raining it was a beautiful afternoon to be walking, and until I reached Bovington I didn't see a soul, just a pair of coots splashing around in a stream.

Moreton Forest was also quiet, and I couldn't understand why nobody else was out enjoying the woods, until the path turned into a series of lakes and I figured the locals had more sense than I'd given them credit for. I was absolutely not turning back again, so I took on the gorse-ridden banks and made stepping stones out of logs. By the time the path returned to a usable route I thought I'd mastered the situation reasonably well. I had, after all, only fallen in twice.

"I wouldn't have gone that way. Got wet feet?" asked a bearded man who obviously didn't appreciate a good adventure. But yes, I did now have wet feet, but it wasn't far to Moreton now, and there was a pub by the station. By my calculations I should be there with plenty of time to get a drink before heading home.

It's a shame that people don't seem to use pubs anymore. I can only assume that's why they have reduced opening hours in this part of the world. My little oasis was definitely closed on arrival, and there was no way I wanted to hang around for an hour at Moreton Station. the only thing at Moreton Station is a railway line and an abandoned digger. So I walked back using a different route. It was five miles and I hadn't had the privilege of a good, cold drink to spur me on. I'd already finished the emergency Dolly Mixtures (about half an hour into my journey). Things didn't look great.

The Jubilee Trail took me most of the way home, but wasn't the most welcoming route. Some charming neighbour has stuck up KEEP OUT signs which are written in a way that suggests impending doom will occur if you stray from the trail. The woods themselves were totally deserted apart from two 4x4 drivers trying to justify owning a vehicle built for off-roading that seemed as shocked as I was to meet on the trail.

I arrived home soggy and exhausted, went straight for the kettle and realised with dismay that I had exactly 34 minutes before I had to be at Air Cadets. But I had managed to fit in a ten mile walk on my day off, so there was no way they were going to be moaning to me about the prospect of an expedition this evening.

Hiking in Dorset: Preparing for an Adventure

Hiking in Dorset: Preparing for an Adventure

I've been planning for an adventure. In my head it works out perfectly. It's been simmering away at the back of my mind for nearly seven years now and it keeps creeping forward in my thoughts. It started with little wanders in the English countryside, more specifically along the coast paths. I've decided I want to be one of those crazy people who attempt the entire coast line of South West England in one go. I want to walk the South West Coast Path.

I have an idyllic picture in my mind of what my adventure will be like. Exploring tiny Cornish fishing villages, camping up on clifftops overlooking the ocean, having deep and meaningful conversations with the locals. In reality I have enough hiking experience to know that it will definitely rain for most of the trip, I will get blisters half a mile from the start point and I'll be fed up of carrying my makeshift home like an exhausted tortoise by lunchtime. On finishing my final Gold Duke of Edinburgh Expedition several years ago, I distinctly remember trudging down a sodden hillside towards Brecon. My knees had aged by 60 years, I couldn't stand the whinging of my team mates any longer and would happily have murdered any of them if someone had offered me cider and a dry jumper in return. That was after four days of hiking. If I do the South West Coast Path, I think I could do it in 45 days, if luck is on my side along the whole route.

I've mentioned this wanderlust to my boyfriend at every opportunity. To start with he was up for coming along, but that was when it wasn't likely. Over the years, my yearning to complete the task has increased, as has his concern that I might actually be mad enough to try it.
"Do you remember when you wanted to climb that mountain in Scotland?"
Yes, I remembered it well. It is worth mentioning that he is totally at home in the mountains. He actually enjoys the 'going up' bit, whereas I'm all for looking up at the pointy stuff, and down at the views, but can happily leave out the strenuous slog in the middle. I had been very excited about walking up a mountain with him.
"You hated it."
That's a bit strong. It wasn't my most enjoyable experience but it had its merits as everything does.
"After ten minutes you were too hot and grumpy and wanted to go back to the car." I had to interject here. The only reason I was so hot was because I couldn't take my waterproofs off. The midges were trying to kill me. I challenge anyone not to get grumpy when a tiny bunch of assassins are out to suck the very life from you as you earnestly attempt to walk up a hill.

I could see his point though, sometimes I do bite off more than I can chew.

Fun in the Field

It's 9.30pm. We picked up our route two hours ago, drove to the Cull Zone and started our evening perambulations. We've done this before. It's less nerve racking now but just as exciting. Until now we've seen nothing. Are we actually achieving anything? I don't know. I hope so.

It's a beautiful clear night. Chilly but not Arctic style. The moon is orange and keeping watch from above. We take a moment to appreciate the stars, torches off. And breathe. We have work to do. Whilst we walk these footpaths, so do contractors with weapons. They're allowed to be here. So are we. Time to be visible. Torches on.

We find a Badger sett. No traps, but then we're still not experienced patrollers, maybe we miss them. We know it's an active sett. We know they're not safe, but keep our fingers crossed and move on. We walk the trails, keeping a close eye on the map, making sure we don't get lost in the dark. Regardless of where you stand in the Badger debate, no one wants to upset landowners by traipsing into the wrong field, or at least we don't. It's a navigational challenge. Your range of sight is reduced to distances that aren't helpful in finding your way. We manage.

We hit a road and take a break, it's a nice evening for a walk. It was pouring the other week. That was character building. As biscuits disappear we hear shots from behind us. Damn. Frustration. We just came from there, they waited for us to pass. Quiet for a moment whilst we hope to Whatever We Believe In that they missed. It was probably back near that sett.

Carry on, there's more ground to cover. A pickup truck passes us, it slows down then tears off into the night. We wander on, chatting, being visible. The pickup passes again in the other direction, slowing again when level with these midnight wanderers. Wish they'd stop discussing horror movies. I tell them that. The conversation moves to Christmas. I tell them to go back to horror movies.

We get a tip off that someone's hoping to shoot roundabouts where we are. They can't do it whilst we're here. Satisfaction in small amounts until we hear another shot somewhere over yonder. We've split slightly, migrated into pairs for conversation and safer walking at the side of the road. Our pickup truck pulls up to the girls in front, slows, window down. A man with all the allure of a cowpat is talking angrily at my friends. They don't bite the bait, they absorb the colourful language admirably, but then they're colourful people anyway. I can't help but feel a little nervous though. He crawls past us, but brings his goading with him. His vocabulary is limited but it's clear he has very strong opinions about our adventure in Britain's beautiful countryside. He enters a property and leaves us behind.

A realisation is starting to set in, but it doesn't have time to settle because a policeman steps out of the car behind. I hadn't even noticed there was one. Are we alright? Yes, actually we are. Because although that man was inflicting Threatening Behaviour (the police man's terminology, not mine), there's probably a fairly understandable reason for his rage tonight:

He didn't get his Badger.

We made a difference tonight. You can too.

Dear Badgers

If you're a badger living in Dorset, Somerset or Gloucestershire at the moment, you're in trouble. I'm writing to inform you that you're being subject to a cull. You may have noticed some traps near your setts, or perhaps members of your family have gone missing. Well they're probably gone for good.

The British Human Government have decided to remove up to 2,000 of you within the cull zones during a six week period. We are currently in the middle of that period, and I promise you that there are people out there at night trying to help you guys. People are giving up their sleeping time to trudge the soggy footpaths in the countryside, looking for traps, hoping to prevent you from getting caught. Please don't blame us all.

I appreciate that you are a Protected Species in the UK, and that if I were to do you harm I could be prosecuted. But there are people out to get you, bearing special licences to shoot you in the night, or more conveniently, trap you in a metal box and leave you there to be shot at dawn. These people probably drive BMWs to feel better about themselves, but that's by the by really.

I know it's not your fault, and that you've become embroiled in a political war against Bovine Tuberculosis. I know that culling you won't solve the problem and that the government have ignored advice from their scientific advisors in favour of placating the NFU. I know that they've gone so far down this ridiculous road that they can't find space to turn around, despite the fact that they are lost. But there's nothing I can do about it. That's what's so frustrating, that you are being slaughtered out there tonight, for no real reason.

Culling badgers has not reduced Bovine Tb in the last pilot cull areas.

Scientists appointed by the government have assessed the cull as ineffective, and inhumane, and have called for an end to it.

It's costing us humans with jobs £6,000 to kill each one of you.

There are animals being shot in the night, and it's not achieving a thing.

I'm sorry for the state of our country Badgers, and for the way we're treating one of our most iconic mammal species. I'll be out on the footpaths tomorrow night. We'll do what we can Badgers. The best thing you can do right now is stay at home and avoid metal boxes and people with guns.

Good luck...

Remembrance

The old man waited for the crowds to disperse. His face was lined and serious, but he didn't look unhappy. His eyes bore both pride and sadness, but something about his delicate movements displayed contentment, or at least acceptance. He wore his smartest black jacket, with medals attached. His trousers were ironed perfectly with seams running down each leg. His white hair was neatly combed back, and his shoes were lovingly polished. He walked slowly and deliberately, unconcerned that he was travelling against the flow of traffic. They may have done their bit, but there was still something he must do.

As the parade prepared to leave, the marching band attempted to start up. The troops came to attention, the Brownies and Boy Scouts fidgeted, but few seemed to notice him. Glancing between his goal and the uneven ground beneath, he approached the war memorial. It was already surrounded by impressive wreaths, but was yet missing one thing which he carried, a simple wooden cross with one Poppy attached. Quietly he paid his respects. He stood before the stone memorial and knelt unsteadily to place his tribute. He remained there for a moment, one arm bracing himself against the stone, one hand lightly upon his cross. He was only six years old in 1945, but the war had affected him deeply. He pictured hazy memories, people he had loved dearly and some he had never had the chance to grow up with. Slowly he rose again, stood to attention and saluted.

"At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them."
We Will Remember Them.

Finding the time

Trying to get back into the blog again has been fun, if not as productive as I'd hoped. But the combination of finding the time to write, balancing hobbies with work and embarking on a course outside of both areas has made me think a little about where I work best. I have come up with the following poles: The ideal place to work, and the totally hopeless place.

Good space: The room isn't exactly tidy, but there is enough space to breathe and think. There's space on the desk for the laptop, but ultimately she ends up using pen and paper, sitting on her bed. The pillow is propped up against the headboard as a back suport. Snuggly socks and a cooler-than-boiling cup of tea get her in a good mindset for creating. Everybody is out of the house. It's raining outside and she's confident that the only place to be is inside, writing.

Bad space: She sits at the lunch table, notebook visible to all. It lies between an unidentified sticky patch and a coffee stain. She can feel the eyes of her colleagues intruding on her work. "What are you doing?" It's crowded and people are coming and going, chatting and speculating. Nothing gets done.

Writers out there...where do you work best? How do you fit everything in?

Enrichment Boxes for Orangutans

The Sumatran Orangutan Conservation Project work tirelessly to rescue and rehabilitate wild orangutans that have become tangled up in the human world. Many of them have been pets, and all of them have been separated from their forest homes. The process of getting these animals back to the wild is a difficult one, and equipping them with the skills needed to survive in the forest is vital to give them a good chance of survival.

The SOCP temporarily house the orangutans in a specialist centre prior to release. Whilst here they spend important time with other orangutans, learning important social skills with other youngsters of a similar age. The centre is currently raising funds for some new enrichment boxes. These provide the orangutans with fun ways to learn new skills and encourage problem solving to access their food, something which will be vital back on the forest.

If you would like to find out more about this project, or donate towards the orangutan enrichment, click here. To specifically sponsor a feeding box, you can donate through the Confiscation & Quarantine PayPal link.