Around us, there were patches of fresh green grass for Wildfire to graze upon and I fed her a few horse nuts as a treat for responding so well to the trip. I was aware that some horses would not be happy alone on a ride because the horse is basically a herd animal by nature. She seemed in good fettle and I was happy to fulfil my fantasy of being the lone cowboy travelling alone with his horse through the wilderness. I was in my element. As an orange sunset turned to cloudy gloom I hobbled Wildfire as Anthony had taught me and left her to graze at will. Then I lit the fire and after a brief struggle I soon had a glowing blaze. The salt in the driftwood that I had gathered caused the fire to spit and crackle as if fiery demons were about.
Soon, the lonesome cowboy had less imaginary demons to deal with as a war party of Comanche approached the camp, whooping and yelling. It was five of my friends, fulfilling their promise to join me. Carrying their bikes as they waded across the shallow riverbed, they had arrived in force but turned out to be very friendly Indian warriors, sharing their rations of fish and chips, paid for by indulgent parents, and several bottles of mineral water. No guests could be received with greater joy than these.
Feeding the fire to even greater heights we sat on the ground around it and consumed the welcome suppers. We talked the night away, swapping exaggerated stories. There was a wonderful spirit to our little party by the wild river, and the woods rang out with laughter as mirthful stories were repeated again and again. At last heads began to droop with tiredness and it was time to call it a day. Wading ashore with their bicycles held high, the group of five departed with much merriment and noise.
After they left I was too tired to do anything except stroke Wildfire and bid her goodnight. I crawled into the tent and lost myself instantly in a deep sleep, lulled by the soft murmur of the river. Tomorrow I would be riding out in to the woods again, knowing that whatever happened at home, I would always have the wonder of animals, nature and friendship to help me on my journey.
The night passed without incident to give way to a sweet reveille of birdsong as the first streaks of a yellow dawn penetrated the thin fabric walls of my tent. As the day took hold, the volume of the dawn chorus increased until the wall of sound outside my tent sounded like the bird population’s symphony to the rising of the sun. Wearily I responded to nature’s morning call to find Wildfire drinking at the river’s edge. She raised her head and whinnied hello. I went to her and stroked her magnificent head. Burying my face in her silky mane, with my arms around her neck I told her how wonderful she was and what a great ride we were going to have that day.
Feeding Wildfire a few carrots I’d brought along for her and making do with a simple breakfast of bottled water and some dry biscuits for myself, I broke camp and we were soon ready to move on. The weather was sunny and warm with only a slight breeze as we commenced riding, heading south between riverbanks heavy with foliage. I intended to travel at least five miles upriver before looking for a suitable site on which to make a new camp. I could feel the powerful muscles of my horse’s flanks effortlessly thrusting us forwards as we moved deeper into the Derwent Valley. As we wound our way up stream sunlight danced on the river shallows and tall trees creaked as their tops caught the full force of the breeze. The wind made slim branches heavy with late summer foliage fan the air, while butterflies and thousands of tiny insects took to flight. Soon we had to leave the river and follow game trails that wound through the forest. Now and again I would glimpse herds of roe deer browsing amongst the bushes and trees. Startled by our intrusion, they were sent leaping and bounding away in a symphonic dance to escape us.
An eruption of splashing was causing commotion away to our left on the bankside. Reigning Wildfire to a halt I watched through the branches of a tree an otter family – a female with two pups – at play. Shining wet, smoothly contoured bodies were grappling with a trout, no doubt the mother’s catch of the morning. The pups shrieked and whistled with sheer excitement to have the big fish in their paws as they played an otter’s rendition of pass the parcel. While watching them frolicking and splashing about in the spray that rose up from the whipping of their rudder tails against the river surface, I was reminded yet again that animals also play for fun. Enchanted by their antics and appreciating the independence of their untethered play, I felt a pang of fury against the river authorities who still permitted otter hunts to take place.
Glancing ahead I spotted a belt of green land bordering the river and swiftly heeled Wildfire into the delightful sway of a cantor. At the end of our run I could see that the Forestry Commission had levelled the land and made a picnic area with wooden seats for the general public to enjoy. A group of women and young children were already making good use of the facilities and obviously appreciating the relaxing charm of the riverside bordered by a line of willows. It was time to stop and have a break. I led Wildfire to the river to slake her thirst and then tied her by a short line to a stout fencing post. I loosened her girth so she could also relax. I drank from my bottle of water and ate some of the small pork pies and a couple of cupcakes the girls back at the stables had made for me, and then lay down on the ground to rest. The children playing near their mothers were fascinated by the sight of Wildfire up close and there was much discussion going on about why she was there and what she was doing.
Not far upriver, there loomed the awesome site of the cokeworks where a good number of my father’s family, including my paternal grandfather, had found work on their arrival from Ireland. Despite his proximity, I had met my paternal grandfather only once. When I was ten, my father took me to see him because he was very ill and expected to die. I remember an austere-looking man sitting up in bed. The room had a bare appearance as if nobody cared about it. Above the bed there was a large crucifix hanging from a nail in the wall. The only other furnishing was a chair with a torn wicker seat at the bedside, against which rested a walking stick. He wheezed when he spoke, a grim memento of his time working at the coke ovens, and just before we left he placed a bony hand on my head and said, ‘Remember to keep the faith.’
I never saw him again. I never met my father’s mother, which was a legacy of her refusal to accept my mother into the family even after she had converted to Roman Catholicism. I also fell within the ambit of her rejection, especially as she may have heard the rumour of my true parentage.
Here on this summer’s afternoon, such prejudices seemed totally out of place. I wondered if my father’s family were ever able to feel the simple joy of looking at a flower or listening to a songbird without feeling guilty or reducing the sensation to a sinful pleasure, which was the impression some of them always gave me. When I reached thirteen years of age, my Aunt Kathleen felt impelled to warn my mother not to feed me too many eggs in case I got some girl into trouble. She once took me aside and advised me in all earnestness that I should go to Dublin to visit the site at the Post Office there where one of my relatives, Rory O’Connor, had been killed by the Black and Tans because he fought for a free and independent Ireland. She seemed weighed down by the bitterness and acrimony of the past as well as her joyless version of religious conviction. And she was determined to make sure that her own heavy impediments were foisted on the new generation.
Pushing such thoughts aside, I stood and stretched my limbs after lying on the hard ground. The clean freshness of the air made me reflect on the beauty of this area. Nature keeps her most precious gifts for those of us who take time out to pause and think how fortunate we are to live amongst it. England is such a wonderfully endowed heartland of nature. Long may we preserve it. I looked across at Wildfire who epitomized for me the earthy quality of this land and marvelled at the life-force within her. I whistled and she turned her head towards me. I could tell by the look she gave me that she was ready to return to our adventure.
We stepped up the pace as we passed the cokeworks, which were belching flames and foul-smelling smoke. There were rocks now sticking up from the river bed and the water flowed fast over them causing spray to p
lume into little clouds of vapour hanging over the stream. Riding up the valley became more difficult as the sides became progressively steeper and the tree-growth thicker. As Wildfire was having difficulty negotiating the slippery, uneven terrain, I dismounted and together we scrambled our way up to the top of the hill.
Halting to regain our breath I was able to look over the far side of the hill towards the village of Rowlands Gill in the near distance. Mounted up once more I rode along the ridge until I saw the railway track as it ran along the valley bottom next to the river below us. Soon the hill gave way to an undulating landscape which enabled Wildfire to descend with ease to the valley floor.
We proceeded along a rough track parallel to the river, with the railway on the far side, when without warning we encountered a roughly formed camp of tree branches covered in a ceiling of foliage, in front of which there was a ring of stones bordering a camp fire. The makeshift campsite had been crudely camouflaged by fir-tree branches to shield it from casual view. Squatting by the fire were two unkempt-looking men dressed in shabby clothing. Before I could react one of the men, sporting a ragged beard and wearing long, shaggy hair, jumped up and, spreading out his arms, forced us to halt. Then he began to speak in a dialect that I found difficult to understand. It sounded like normal Yorkshire but was full of old-fashioned words like ‘thee’, ‘thou’ and ‘wherefore’, which gave it a distinctly biblical connotation.
As far as I could gather the gist of what he said was, ‘Now, boy, what do you think you are doing riding a horse into private property like that? Get down because there’ll be money to pay before we let you go, if we let you go. Maybe we’ll have ourselves a bit of fun first.’
This last sentence was said with a toothy grin and a sideways glance at his companion who looked equally disreputable and sniggered at the other’s words. I felt for Anthony’s whip from where I had looped it around the saddlebag. Meanwhile, I felt Wildfire’s body go rigid so, as the tramp approached, I pressed my feet firmly down in the stirrups so that I would be ready for anything. The stench from the man was sickening as he came closer and it well may have contributed to what happened next.
Suddenly, with her ears laid flat back against her head, Wildfire bared her teeth and screamed a sound that made the hair rise on the back of my neck and sent me cold all over my body. Then she raised a front leg and smashed a hoof down on the ground with such force that I felt it shudder. The man shrieked and stumbled backwards, tripping over piles of empty bottles and tin cans. Wildfire lunged forward, almost unseating me, and broke through the weak barrier of evergreen fir branches surrounding the site. As we charged past I stared into the eyes of our assailant and brandished my whip as a threat so that he would know what to expect if we ever met up again.
As we galloped through the overgrown bush and tall grasses I slowly reined Wildfire down to a manageable trot and spoke calm words to her while I stroked her neck, easing her back to normal. I rode on a fair distance although I doubted whether there would be any pursuit. Eventually I called a halt as we approached a stream pouring down from the hillside above us. I dismounted and allowed Wildfire time to slake her thirst after all the trauma of the engagement with the tramps. She was lathered in sweat and still trembling a little so I walked her round a small glade to cool her off. I gave Wildfire one of Anthony’s salt tablets because she had sweated so much.
Quite suddenly we were confronted by a tall, burly man dressed in green denims and wearing a bush hat. He had a German shepherd dog accompanying him. He introduced himself as the official ranger for the Derwentside Park. When I explained that I was on a camping trip with my horse he asked for my camping licence and I had to tell him that I had no idea that I needed one. He said that the local environmental agency was anxious to preserve the park and its wildlife, and had implemented a policy controlling camping access. He said that a great deal of damage had been caused by campers in the past and told me that a fine of £50 was payable for camping without a licence.
I assured him that it was not my intention to cause damage and there was no way I could pay £50. He scrutinized Wildfire, me and my equipment, and questioned me at length. Finally, he said that he would forget about the licence this time. Then he brought out a map and, handing it to me, pointed out where we were, indicating that about two miles upriver there was an official campsite with shelters, washrooms and showers, and places to light fires and cook food. Since I was just a kid he would forego any fees as long as I camped there, and nowhere else, until the trip was over.
Thanking him for his kindness and advice I informed him about the two tramps further back on our trail and told him how one of them had tried to attack us. Stepping to one side, he unhitched a walkie-talkie device from his belt and began speaking to his headquarters.
He then turned to me, saying, ‘Keep to the regular trails and I’ll look for you tonight at the camp. We’ve already had reports about those two and now my colleagues will move in and arrest them.’ With a casual wave goodbye he disappeared into the trees and was gone.
The two tramps had blown my confidence about riding and camping alone in the woods, so I was reassured about our safety following our encounter with the park ranger. I stripped Wildfire of her saddle and started to give her a rubdown when she suddenly moved away from me and lay down in the shallow stream bed. She rolled back and forwards in the cool waters whinnying with pleasure and, when she felt contented, she stood up and shook herself, working up a spray that caught the sunlight. I tied her to a tree, giving the rope a good length so she could graze. Then I held her head close to mine and told her how proud I was that she had lived up to her name and protected us both. Back at the stables I would recount the tale of her courage so that everyone there would appreciate that she was a splendid horse. Then I stripped off my shirt and gave myself a quick wash in the stream. After a brief rest it was time to move on and find the ranger’s campsite.
All saddled up and refreshed, but eager to stop for the night, we skipped along at a good pace. It wasn’t hard to follow the sketch map the ranger had given me and we headed towards the camp, situated in an expanse of valley sheltered between two small hills. Sure enough, just as the sun was sinking towards what promised to be a glorious sunset, I spotted a scattering of huts and an orderly row of tents about half a mile away on the other side of the river to our approach. The river was deep and, being tidal, the currents looked strong enough to sweep a horse off its feet, so I was glad to spot a ford.
We caused something of a stir as we rode up to the gated entrance to the site. A young woman in ranger uniform came out of the main hut and greeted us with a smile. The ranger we had met earlier had passed on the information about us and it seemed that I was something of a celebrity. I was given an official badge to wear and then she opened the gate for us to enter. I dismounted and led Wildfire forward as the ranger directed us to a site well away from the other campers. There was a rustic stone hearth and a flat finely mown surface on which to pitch a tent. Nearby, there were several large heavy stones which could serve as seats. She pointed over to an enclosure where she said kindling and logs for the fire were available and, if we ran out of matches, we could get some from her. There were also washroom facilities behind the line of rental huts. Finally, she mentioned that it would be advisable to keep Wildfire tethered as not everyone among the campers was familiar with horses. Then she wished us goodnight and walked back towards the main area by the gate.
Since we were surrounded by swathes of fresh meadow grass I immediately unsaddled Wildfire, hobbled her and tied the rope firmly around the base of one of the large stones. I fed her some grain nuts and set her to graze while I went to fetch her a bucket of water from a standpipe about fifty feet away. Satisfied that I had done my duty to my mount as any good cowboy should, I then turned attention to my own needs.
With kindling and chunks of ash wood I soon had a fire going. I permitted myself a muted hurray, which Wildfire noted, raising her head and hoarsely whickering with h
er mouth full of sweet grass. I quickly set out my tent and opened a can of beans, placing it to heat on one of the flat stones of the hearth. I then gathered more wood for the fire and positioned Wildfire’s saddle so I could lie down and rest my head by the fire. As I watched the soft evening wind blowing sparks from the fire, I thought my camp was akin to the cowboy style of outdoor living that so thrilled me when I read or watched Westerns. I gingerly wrapped a cloth around the hot tin of beans, which had just begun to sizzle. Setting it aside to cool a little, I lay back on the saddle and allowed my eyes to stray skywards.
The promise of a special sunset had been more than fulfilled. The vista above me was ablaze with light and colour. Streaks of green, indigo and blue opalescence washed over an awesome orange and crimson light. No gods of Ancient Greek lore or even the great artist Turner could have conjured a more magnificent display. Then everything seemed to stop and the sky surprised the onlooker with a final theatrical act in its performance – an explosion of tints and electric shades that made my heart leap with delight. As the sunset colours faded into duskiness I relished my beans and sticks of cornbread, washed down by a bottle of Tizer soft drink that I had brought along as a luxury despite its weight.
I was where I wanted to be and I could not have been happier. I was glad that I had met up with the park ranger who had been both bemused and amused by this a kid of fourteen who had embarked on a solitary camping trip on horseback without precise planning. I think my ‘Just mount up and ride out’ attitude had struck a chord of empathy in this nature-loving man, and he had discreetly made sure that I was given the protection that such a venture demanded.
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