Issue #55 The Misc. Adventures Digest
Three meaningful moments from a week of small things
Hello there. It is snowing gently as I write in the darkness of early morning. Soft flakes slowly fall, passing through the white glow of the light on the farm that usually annoys me as it robs the sky of pure blackness, but today I appreciate the way it lights up each passing cluster of crystalline wonder as it tumbles and sparkles on its way down towards the cold, hard earth.
It has been a week of small things, yet each meaningful in its own way. Here are three that felt particularly poignant.
Last Thursday marked two years since we moved north to the Lake District. I remember so vividly the day we voluntarily wrenched ourselves from our woodland home, and the unusually long journey in our two separate vehicles in convoy, fraught with delays, road closures and a late night diversion over a mountain pass in thick fog. I remember the three of us sharing snacks and drinks sat on a mattress on the floor surrounded by boxes at about 11pm, exhausted but determined to celebrate our arrival. I remember sleeping next to each other in sleeping bags and waking up the next morning not entirely sure where we were, what awaited us and wondering whether we had done the right thing. It seems another lifetime ago, yet simultaneously like it was yesterday.
We had wanted to move for years, but were bound by circumstance, entangled by connections we had made to the land and ensnared by the false idea that we would never have things so good as we did then. Even when the opportunity came up to leave, we anguished for weeks over whether to take it or not. But, finally, we had found a way to break the spell and now we were free, cast adrift in a sea of change and possibility. It had been hard to leave, emotionally and logistically, but we had made it.
We celebrated our two year anniversary on Thursday evening with dinner by the roaring fire at a cosy local pub, reminiscing about our favourite moments so far, happy that we chose not the easy path, but the one that led us to a more adventurous life.
Borrowdale and the area around Keswick has many fond memories attached to it for us. Our good friend Jeff lives there and it always seemed a natural place to head to if we were travelling north. This was where we first took Benji into the mountains as a 7 week old baby, and spent our first holiday together as a young family. It is probably where the kernel of idea formed that maybe we could live here one day. It is also where we had to get our car towed all the way home from and where I fell in a river, but those are stories for another time.
We have visited Millican’s caves several times before, but not with Benji and he was curious to see them in real life after we listened to an episode of the brilliant Countrystride podcast all about Millican Dalton, the self-proclaimed “professor of adventure” who made these caves his home in the 1920s. Benji explored nooks and crannies with the light of his head torch and stood joyously underneath a steady flow of drips falling from the cave roof until his hair was soaked through.
We also hiked a little way along the river Derwent and then up to the summit of Castle Crag, which is the smallest of the 214 Wainwrights but one laden with curiosities and small things of interest along the way. It was good to be back in Borrowdale again, creating new memories and weaving new meaning into familiar places.
Sunday dawned freezing cold, clear and crisp. Me and Benji had the afternoon to ourselves so we headed down to the river and made hot drinks by the water’s edge. Kindling a small fire in the base of the storm kettle using birch bark and sticks brought from home, we watched the blue smoke rise and then hang in the still cold air. Benji threw stones into the river as we waited impatiently for the kettle to whistle, announcing its readiness to share its warmth with us. As we sat on the stony beach, Benji warming his cold hands on his enamel mug of hot chocolate with glee, chatting about this and that, a wave of emotion washes over me and I feel a sudden need to soak this experience into every fibre of my being. These moments feel so fleeting and precious and I wonder as he gets older and other influences compete for his time and attention, for how long we will still do things like this together. I am proud of the life we have given him, full of small joys like this and of how happy and at home he is in the outdoors. It is not always easy, despite how it must look from afar, we sometimes have to persuade and cajole him into action, but it is always worth it when we do. We must celebrate the small wins even if the failures are better at making themselves heard. We believe, deep in our hearts that this is the right way for him to grow up, for him to fully connect with the earth and all its beauty and wonder, to not be dulled and numbed by convenience and sheltered from all that is wild and free.
Being a parent is equal parts joy and sadness; for with every joyous moment comes the knowledge that it has passed. I remember keenly a time once when he was three, I was drying him after his bath. He sat on my knees, wrapped in a blue towel and I squeezed him tightly. He said “can we just stay sat here whilst you hold me tightly?” and I cried because I just wanted to hold him there forever.
As I pack away our cups, I feel that familiar feeling - I cannot hold on to this small but perfect moment any longer and it fades like the embers of our tiny fire. I am sad to let it go and choke back a lump in my throat. There is nothing for it but to focus on creating the next moment of joy. Soon we are racing across the field in the fading golden light with cups clinking in my rucksack as I go.
Well, that’s all from us for now. It has been a lovely cold and icy week here with daytime temperatures below freezing, but that looks set to end at the weekend sadly! We hope you have been able to get some time in Nature whatever the weather has been like where you are.
With warmest wishes,
Andrew, Emma and Benji
x
This is such touching writing. Of parenting, of course, but of what it is to be human too. The grandparent in me had moist eyes for the passing of time and the privilege of fleeting moments in our grandkids' helter skelter lives. Holding tight to those moments. Thank you
Such beautiful, atmospheric and heartfelt writing. I’m in tears. Thank you Andrew. Xx