The Scourge Part IV

Previously on The Scourge... Link to Part 1

Part IV: Pepys Road, London.

Alfred Wainright, spiritual father of the Coast to Coast walk, wrote “I want to encourage in others the ambition to devise with the aid of maps their own cross-country marathons and not be merely followers of other people's routes: there is no end to the possibilities for originality and initiative.” With this in mind, we decided to merely follow Wainright’s route.

I had suggested walking east to west, following the sun, but Dave rightly pointed out that I was being an idiot. Going east, he said, laying out his case, means that you walk towards the sun in the morning, and have it on your back as the afternoon draws on. It also means that we can follow the book, Henry Steadman’s map-cum-guidebook Coast to Coast Path, to the letter. I realised I had developed a rather naïve sense of what trekking was to be like – just go forward in the direction you want. It hadn’t really occurred to me that trees, rivers, fences or cows might get in the way.

At Dave’s house, on the eve of the Big Walk, we took inventory and spread out our things. Dave’s backpack was roughly twice the size of mine, as was his tent. I had bought a one-man tent which was little bigger than a Smarties tube; Dave had a mansion.

“That’s heavy,” I said. “You’re going to regret it, mark my words.”

“When I’m stretched out diagonally in my tent – my Taj Mahal – enjoying a spacious and peaceful night’s rest, you’ll be the one who’s regretting it. I might put a small bar in the corner with a selection of scotches, so I can read my books with a pleasant tipple.”

The bar idea may have been a slight exaggeration, but Dave hadn’t scrimped. He really hadn’t. I examined his procurements which were now spread over the floor (a result of not being able to get them all in the bag): apart from the massive tent, a chunky sleeping bag and a yoga mat to sleep on, he had three books, a variety of wardrobe changes, two gas canisters, plenty of plates and cutlery, a flask, two mugs, a torch that one could use to beat an intruder of the night, an axe, an penknife, and four flat halogen lights.

“We’re not helping planes land,” I said, looking at the lights.

He paused. “I’ll leave one of the lights.”

The evening passed in this fashion – me telling Dave he had too much stuff and was going to regret it, and him finally accepting this argument and leaving something. I managed to convince him to leave the Tibetan Book of the Dead, but he wouldn’t budge on Rashomon by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, nor the Saga of Gunnlaugr Serpent-Tongue, a 13^th century Icelandic epic. These were, Dave insisted, vital for taking our minds, as well as our bodies, truly into the wilderness.

Each item was a battle, and we would never have gotten through it if we hadn’t had the aid of some decent single malt scotch. After this evening, I had told Dave, I wouldn’t drink for the entire journey. He eyed me with suspicion when I said this.

With our packs loaded, we went to bed. Dave, to the last night with his partner Cinthya; me, to the first night in a superlite sleeping bag, on a sofa. Superlite, I quickly realised, also meant superthin and supercold. If I am cold in this sleeping bag in a flat in London, then what about when... I pushed out the doubts. Tents are, like... insulated with body warmth, or something... I was sure it would be fine.

Take me to part 5.