#CYW #Brown #Wet #Mud #Footprints #Camping
Camping out in the wilds, has its disadvantages
As the weather can be particularly nasty
Making your way across the field to the washroom as
Persistant little raindrops land on your head
If you gave it some thought – you would have moved the tent
Now everyone will know who disturbed their sleep – as you’re
Going to leave a trail – right up to your tent!
the triangle a simple one
heat air and fuel
started by a little spark
amongst the smallest of shavings
Little flame eating
everything around it
kept at bay
by logs and bricks
Starting off slowly
the flames begin to grow
dining on everything near it
apart from the Billy can above
bread on a green stick
changes with the dancing flames
from dough to delight in seconds
with help from the makeshift grill
smells of the barbecue
rise in the air
as backwoods sausages
add fuel to the flames
light and warmth
dancing slowly in the moonlight
till all that are left
are the glowing impish coals
staff of life
the end of life
for the fire that maintained life
Round the campfire circle
A summer morning, Worsley woods, west of Manchester
the sun just peaking through the nest of trees
circle of tents in various spots
and a scout leader starting the beginnings of an altar fire
little faces pop out of the niger tents to grab a view
breakfast served at 8 am sharp
but first, a mug of tea
some make a break for the toilet block
as sausage and eggy bread sizzle in a pan
orders given to the sous chef … he keeps his eye on the food
and slowly the camp leader makes his way to the pole
and all stand still in observance
the flag is released from its bonds
and flies high in the gentle breeze , proudly to attention
and all present give a salute
before breakfast is served
This ain’t no restaurant “French toast”
it’s made over burning logs
in the country air
Foundation for the morning
Set against a glorious sunrise
and cups of camp tea
Thick crusty bread
absorbed in a lake of
golden runniness
Bacon awaits its partner
as it cooks away
in its fat
Poor Man’s omelette ?
after a night on the hills
it’s the food of kings.
Knives and forks ?
or eaten as a sandwich
only quandry – sauce Red or Brown ?
Salford 16th May 2017
Back in Nineteen eighty two – i started taking this long woolly blanket to camp
Like many other scouts i stuck it at the end of my tents sleeping bag, and
As it got cold, i wrapped it round me to keep warm
Now, each camp i went to – i picked up a patch from the campsite – and these were
Kept on the woolly blanket…covering areas from Cumbria to Derbyshire – I
Even had a whole heap of locations such as
Torquay , paignton and brixham and these found a spare spot on my sleeping spot
You can pack an awful lot into forty or so years.
That Kodak Extra-chrome box camera captured an awful lot of them as I grew up in my home town.
I have the briefest of recollections of my Great Aunt, Nellie. She was a great woman, and we visited her regularly by the park in the flats by the great tower block called Nine-acre.
During the Queen’s Jubilee in 1977 – a number of Street parties were held and she and her husband Bob, joined us in the celebration where two lines of tables went up and down the street. Union Jacks sprayed up and down every available wall
Little blister coming onto view in 1979 – and in the early 80s eating every Daffodil in sight.
Trips out with the neighbours featured prominently when I was younger – when we all clubbed together for the coach trip to either Blackpool or Prestatyn Zoo…Walks on the beach in bare feet, sometimes it was lovely – sometimes ice cold!
(Funny how penguins are one of my favourite birds!)
Camping out with the local scout troop to places i’d thought were an eternity away – sleeping in Nissen huts at Middlewood (just down the road in Worsley) or more further afield at Bispham Hall (to the in-initiated , Not that far away, in Wigan) or Dunham Massey (Almost in another county! Altrincham, just down the A56)
Every camp – you would see me growing up
First communion pics – only not mine this time – My little sisters
First foreign holidays with another Great Aunts – Millie – another wonderful relation of mine. I’d also capture pics of Dad, Mum and my Uncles during this time. Fun and games at seaside resorts and my bucket and spade.
Then there was my great achievement – graduating university – me outside the steps of the Free Trade Hall in Manchester – where I picked up my HND
Then came the volunteering exploits at Manchester’s commonwealth games…and I’ve got plenty of ‘behind the scenes’ shots of that time…together with other pics from events I volunteered at since.
#Napowrimo #Day17 #Knots
#Blogging101
A Dictionary poem for #Day17 of the Napowrimo challenge. Based on my old scouting days! enjoy.
Don’t get stressed,
in time – you’ll master it
creating an artform from two ends of rope
bridges don’t need wood or metal but a few simple knots
Reef Knot, Clove and Timber Hitch are handy for a pioneer
and some west country whipping will soon get those old ropes into shape
Loop your ropes tight around the tree to maintain tension
Sheet bend and bowline and the old Round Turn comes in here
The half hitch keeps these in tight.
Be careful with your left and your right though
as one wrong move with your rope work could spell disaster
Can’t have a Granny Knot where a Reef Knot is Needed.
In a part of the corridor, just by the stairs by the front door, lies a pair of Old Black Boots. It’s been quite a while since they have been walking. Their leather is worn from the passing of time…
Source: A Tale of Old Boots
Been looking through my old notebooks again, and found a scribble in relation to the Orange One-Man Tent I was assigned during my time as a scouter with the 90th Salford. The title of the poem relates to the name of the tent – which I slept in on campsites in Greater Manchester, Cheshire , Derbyshire and Cumbria.
Oh little resting place of mine
set among forest of green
lashed down on the grassland
in space of trees between.
Your A-Frame and Flysheet,
are a real treat,
against the clouds
you cannot be beat.
And under your flysheet is perfect,
for drying boots after ‘ hike
as raindrops drain down, into gully of brown
and one or two of your spikes
When midges arrive, you’re a cover –
whilst getting prepared for parade
and when sunshine is fierce and fiery
you provide the perfect shade.
Plenty of space for my camp kit
at head of my bag I will rest
and as I work and play, they’ll be safe all day
under the best cover in camp in the west
And when I seek you , out at night
your reflecting orange shines in torchlight
and as I rest my happy head
your canvas cover overlooks my bed.
They call you the “Good Companion”
The orange tent on forest ground
A place that is home for a scouter –
the best little tent all around.
These Boots Were Made for Walking
March 2011
In a part of the corridor, just by the stairs by the front door, lies a pair of Old Black Boots. It’s been quite a while since they have been walking. And if their owner were truthful – they could do with a bit of a clean. The hooks holding the laces crusted with dirt, their leather is worn from the passing of time having seen many a moorland excursion. Lakeland water now pools at the toes.
But they still feel right. As if once put on, they could take their owner from their Salford home out to the hills of Perpignan and back again, covering miles along the way and without a mutter or moan.
Rugby Boots and Training shoes might be fine for a sportsman at Old Trafford but they don’t cut it on the fields of the West Yorkshire Moors. If these boots could talk, the tales they would tell – of covering rocky paths once stepped by Roman Legionaries, of campfire ditties sung round old ancient stones, and of moonlight illuminating mugs of steaming hot Beef Tea.
They’d sit outside tents so the groundsheet stayed clean, and leave their owner a morning surprise if they hadn’t been left under the flysheet. They would walk for miles as their owner crossed field and moor, praying that they would avoid the hidden cowpats. Of course they’d get cleaned on one day, just before parade, as the group amassed around a solitary flagpole.
Where they’ll go next, is anyone’s guess. But for now they just sit on the varnished wooden shelf, looking quite a sight with dark brown Yorkshire mud entrapped in the soles. They look at themselves in the tall hallway mirror and think of the streams they’ve crossed and the moors they’ve run, the bracken broken for kindling and stiles climbed in fun.
