I look at “Rick” - my orange Ford Transit Custom converted into a home on wheels - and I see safety. I see a heater, a mattress, and the guarantee of a good night’s sleep without the hassle of planning, whenever and wherever I want. It is a luxury and it is easy to love that comfort.
It is also easy to get soft…
Sometimes, the comfort is the problem. It makes the noise in your head echo and grow. To truly hear yourself, you must leave the keys behind and go back to the canvas.
I am today reminded of my 40th birthday, 10 years ago. It wasn’t a celebration of time gained, but a reckoning with time lost. I had buried my Mum that year and the world felt thinner, colder and as I neared the first ever birthday without her in the world I needed to walk it off.
The Heavy Pack
My birthday plans were to do just that. I rallied my closest friends and we headed for the Peak District. Just four of us, aiming for the Skyline route starting at Mam Tor. If you know the "Shivering Mountain," you know this long horseshoe ridge. It exposes you! The wind whips across the Edale valley, stripping away pretence, howling at you to descend and leave it be.
We were smart enough to pack small tents, but human enough to be stupid by weighing ourselves down with two four-packs of beer, a bottle of rum and scotch amongst us.
We paid for that weight on every incline. It’s a strange thing, what we choose to carry. We think we need the anaesthetic of the drink, when all we really need is the ache of the miles.
By the time we descended toward the Ladybower Reservoir, the fatigue had set in. We moved into the pine forest high above the dark water with its iconic eye of a drainage hole. The forest was cloaked in October mist, silent and watchful. The scent of pine and loam better than any candle or spray you could buy. Sound suddenly dulled and the world was left behind.
We pitched deep in the timber, off the trail. We knew the rules: stay hidden or get moved on.
The Fire and the Silence
We worked with the precision of men who didn’t want to be found. We cut a square of turf and set it aside, preserving the ground to be healed in the morning. On the bare earth, we built a small fire. Just enough for warmth. Just enough to push back the total blackness, but not enough to signal our presence.
That was the moment.
The mist broke. The sky opened above the pines, revealing the stars. With the clarity came the cold and with the cold, the memory of her.
I sat there, four beers in and heavy of heart. The hike had been a distraction, a physical punishment to numb the emotional bruise, but as the fire crackled, the small flames flickered and the shadows danced around me. The distraction faded. I looked around the circle. Three tired men wore light smiles, wrapped in sensible clothes, watching the fire and sipping beer. They were in this dark forest because I had asked them to come.
They didn’t offer empty platitudes, nor try to fix the unfixable. They simply sat in the dirt with me. We had shared the hardship of the hike, the weight of the packs and now, without speaking a word, they were helping me carry the weight of the grief.
The Clarity of Obstructions
The saying "can't see the wood for the trees" is used to mean you’re missing the big picture, because you're obsessed with the details.
On some occasions, like this one beside Ladybower, the phrase is wrong.
Sometimes, we need to get lost in the woods. We need to be surrounded by the bark and the pine needles to understand the scale of what is in our way. That night, the forest didn't hide my pain; it framed it. It showed me the expanse of the obstructions in my path with a beautiful, honest and painful clarity.
Nature is restorative not because it is gentle, but because it is indifferent.
It strips you back to a place without noise. It forces you to look at the fire, look at your brothers and acknowledge that the hole in your life is real.
The only thing to do is get up, put the turf back over the scar on the ground, pack your bag and keep going.
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