Muddy Footprints

Acrostic, Colours, Poetry

#CYW #Brown #Wet #Mud #Footprints #Camping

Footprints on wet mud

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!

Burn

Camping, Fire, Outdoor Pursuits, Outdoors, Poetry

Burn

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

 

 

Flagbreak

Camping, Cooking, Memories, Outdoor Pursuits, Outdoors, Poetry

Unfurl

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

Eggy Bread

Eating, Food, Growing up, Pleasures, Poetry

Egg

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 ?

Well worn Blanket

Acrostic, Memories, Outdoor Pursuits, Outdoors, Poetry

Salford 16th May 2017

Blanket

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

Looking through the photo album

Memories, Memory, Photography

Moments to Remember

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.

Knots

Outdoor Pursuits, Outdoors, Poetry, Schooldays, Scouting, Scouts

#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.

Good Companion

Camping, Memories, Outdoor Pursuits, Outdoors, Poetry, Scouting

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.

image4023.jpg

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.

Mountain Meadow

A Tale of Old Boots

A Tale of Old Boots

Camping, Character, Memories, Outdoor Pursuits, Outdoors, Scouting

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.