The natural Navigation: The Right Course, Naturally

The third Condry Festival, ‘Nature and Outdoor Writing at its Finest’, took place on Saturday at the Tabernacl in Machynlleth, Wales. I was honoured to be invited to speak and it was a wonderful opportunity to spend some time in the company of those whose passion and dedication to understanding the natural world have set them apart. I listened to talks by Jack Grasse, Ian Wright, Jim Perrin, John Fanshawe and Andrew McNeillie. I learned a very great deal and enjoyed the process hugely.

Machynlleth is the right size for a small town and it holds some peculiar charms. There was an alternative taste evident in some of the shops and a vibrant liberal feel to the air. A source, who shall remain nameless, informed me that Machynlleth is the ‘lesbian capital of Wales’. I was in no position to argue with such an assertion, ill-equipped as I am with…

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Over the weekend I was camping in the Cotswolds with a couple of old friends. Those who follow the blog closely may have spotted that makes three back-to-back camping trips over half-term. Nine nights under canvas in the British countryside and already being indoors has started to feel quite strange.

We walked fifteen miles on the Saturday and it was a joy to let the others take control of the navigation. I couldn’t resist the odd peek at the OS map out of curiosity, but generally tried to just go where I was told.

We nearly stepped on a grass snake at one point, but we persevered and the day finished in the extremely attractive and gloriously Cotswoldian village of Combe, where they were holding a fundraising cream tea for their village hall. The sound of the cricket match wafted over from the green as we did our bit for…

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Back from a short family camping trip to the Isle of Wight, where I stumbled across this wonderful sign on the side of an old lifeboat station house.

In case it is not legible in the picture, the words read as follows:

When full or new

You see the Moon,

The tides far out in the afternoon.

But when the Moon’s

At either quarter,

At tea the beach

Is underwater.

Six hours the water

ebbs away,

An hour later

Every day.

Get down to the beach

As soon as you can

Time and Tide

Wait for no man.

——

How divine is that?

Last night we got back from a family camping trip to a site near the Hay Festival in Herefordshire. It was my first visit to the Festival and it was a really great family trip.

The campsite was the best I have ever been to: small, sheltered, great facilities, lovely owners, amazing views… Not even a day of heavy rain could wash away the fun we had chez tent.

We had too much fun at the best circus in the world, Giffords, which, following a health and safety warning, totally shuns modernity.

Hay-on-Wye was everything a writer and rampant bibliophile could hope for: characterful bookshops – run by fellow sufferers, bohemian street entertainment, the best people in the world… You can measure a Festival by what happens in the jostling. Everyone in Hay-on-Wye was friendly, someone saw that I had dropped one of my kid’s wellies whilst carrying…

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There is a ‘Camping Special’ in today’s Guardian and in it I get to lay an old ghost to rest. The first question I was asked was, ‘What is your favourite camping song?’

I can still remember being at prep school and finding the surname, ‘Gooley’, was proving an unwelcome additional burden to the trials of growing up. Chants of Ging Gang Goolie echoed for what seemed like about two years.

At the time I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to laugh, cry or sing along. If I remember correctly I tackled it with a mix of nonchalance, introspective sulks and racing around trying to punch people on the nose. None of these were very effective and so it is all the more extraordinary that I do have a fondness for this song. However testing those early years were, in a school that made Lord of the Flies…

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