Mountain Magic: Diary extracts of a mountain fanatic

By Roger Bunyan

This is a book about the activities carried out by Roger Bunyan, an average ability mountain fanatic. Inside are a variety of stories from over a fifty year period taken from his diary. Included are light-hearted anecdotes, those of a more serious nature and a near 'life-ending' experience. As a complete mountain devotee, Roger shares tales from

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roger Bunyan
• Release date: May 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781915889997

Book preview

1

That Mountain Magic!

My journey through the mountains began in 1968 when I first met the wild landscapes of Yorkshire. I spent my childhood in Norwich, in the flat lands of Norfolk, then moved to Oxford during my early teenage years and started at a new school. One day there was an announcement about a walking and camping trip to the Yorkshire Dales during the coming half term.

Autumn 1968

Until the age of fifteen, I had no concept of the ‘wild outdoors’. Like so many other young people, I suppose, I hadn’t been exposed to mountains, moorland or raw environments.

I was the last of seven children and there were many years between me and my next sibling. My father was from Buckinghamshire and my mother from Kent. Before and during the Second World War they lived in Buckinghamshire, later moving to Norfolk before I was born. In Norwich we lived in a large council house on the outskirts of the city.

Being much older than me, my brothers and one sister gradually found companions, married and left home to begin their own lives. By the mid-sixties, the population in our house had dwindled from eleven to five: Mum and Dad, Auntie Peggy, Grandma and me. Consequently, when an opportunity arose to downsize council homes it was leapt upon, particularly as the new house was in Oxford, close to where my parents and aunt had once lived. It was an opportunity to return to their past.

My new school was Northway Secondary Modern School. I was not only entering an alien environment, but it was within an emerging world of adolescence. Like all who have gone through this stage, it was a time to experiment with different experiences, to stretch one’s wings during this apprenticeship for adulthood.

I soon made friends and gradually familiarised myself with my new surroundings. Over the next months I absorbed everything about my new setting; included in this was my definite Norfolk accent which soon morphed into more Oxford tones. Along with all these adjustments, I decided to sign up for that week-long walking and camping trip to the Yorkshire Dales with some of my classmates.

I had never camped before or been to Yorkshire. So far my life had taken place in either Norfolk or Oxfordshire, neither of which are renowned for their rugged and wild landscapes. I was hungry to travel and see more of our country. As for upland walking – well, I didn’t have any experience at all. I had never been remotely good at physical activities and I loathed PE and games afternoons. I would try to wriggle out of them with a fallacious illness or convenient loss of kit. This ‘small in stature for his age’ young lad had come to hate sport. But, here's a strange thing: for some inexplicable reason, this trip to Yorkshire sounded enticing. A sense of adventure pulled me; an unknown force was afoot. It was a subconscious magnet! I didn’t know what it was but I was unable to resist it.

I convinced myself the trip only involved walking and anybody could do that. It would be okay. I was willing to take this leap into the dark, which was quite strange for a person who lived in a somewhat sheltered world.

The man organising the trip displayed incredulity when I made known my intentions. You can only imagine the look of total disbelief on the face of the PE teacher who was leading the trip when I joined the gathering where the itinerary was being outlined for a week of hiking in those northern hills!

‘You do know you’ll have to carry all your own gear for a week, plus tent and food?’ Mr Rigby pointed out to me at the end of his talk to the group, no doubt reflecting on my uselessness during his lessons. ‘It will be hard work walking up and down hills for many hours. Do you really think you’re up to it?’

He continued, suddenly remembering my past performance in his PE and games periods. ‘And, you don’t even like sports or any kind of physical activity, come to that, Bunyan!’ he concluded in a raised voice, which instantly unleashed laughter from everyone at the meeting.

He attempted to put an end to my obvious madness but, perhaps by being caught off guard, he reluctantly allowed me to sign up. Mr Rigby was obviously giving me the benefit within a vast mass of doubt; he was letting me go and, by doing so, was providing a life-changing experience for which I am forever indebted.

So, on one overcast morning in early November, fourteen young lads assembled by a minibus with rucksacks, camping gear and various bits of food scattered around us. We were full of excitement and bravado as we decided who had the heaviest, lightest and newest rucksacks. What an adventure this was going to be! The hubbub of chatter glossed over any pangs of homesickness and general fear of the unknown. We packed the vehicle, got into our seats and were ready for the trip to the Yorkshire Dales!

Hour upon hour we travelled slowly northwards, stopping occasionally to eat, go to the toilet and stretch our legs. Our PE teacher swapped the driving seat with the new young teacher, Mr Samuel, who was accompanying us.

Having developed an interest in geography, this road trip became a live lesson as I saw signs to places I had only read the names of in an atlas: Coventry, Leicester, Nottingham, Sheffield and Leeds. I had led a simple life in just two parts of our land so this was exciting, particularly for an evolving geographical geek!

As we ventured into Yorkshire, the land became more elevated. Although we were travel weary, we perked up as we crawled along the roads around Ilkley and stared up at the moors. They were higher than anything I had ever seen. I was particularly taken by the quaint toy-like rows of miniature buildings upon them and the neat lines of rocky walls dividing up the landscape. It was like travelling inside an enormous piece of 3D art work.

Like many things in my youthful world at the time, I had little understanding of where we were actually going. I had no idea that this region had been deemed so unique a landscape that fourteen years earlier it had been declared a national park. The government at the time decided that this corner of Yorkshire needed special protection. I didn’t know that there were places of outstanding beauty across the world, which were so treasured that laws had been made to conserve and protect them, all thanks to John Muir, a Scottish-American who was completely enthralled by the beautiful Sierra Nevada Mountains in California during the 1800s. He spent much of his life lobbying the United States government and other powerful bodies to protect regions of outstanding natural beauty. His movement caught hold and led to national parks eventually being created throughout the world.

We were entering the Yorkshire Dales National Park; where better to introduce a person to rugged environments? Our journey ended at the village of Arncliffe. In a hungry, irritable stupor, we chaotically unloaded the minibus in the rain and clumsily – with a little supervision – put up tents. It took a long time.

Food was distributed and we managed to cook something just about edible, all in a haphazard, possibly dangerous and undoubtedly unhealthy manner. Cooking stoves belched and all manner of bacteria must have entered our bodies. It rained. We were getting drenched and, as it was November, we soon began to feel the cold steadily creeping into our bodies. It was getting dark. Wearing all of our damp clothes, we crawled into our moisture-laden tents.

Well, we had arrived in this far-flung place. To be honest, the excitement of the adventure could have rapidly faded and ended there. As the dark crept around the tents and exhaustion flooded in, it continued to rain but, despite the discomfort, there was something incredible about this unfamiliar scene. I didn’t know why but it felt comfortable in this flimsy shelter in this rough world beside a wild stream. Yes, that was it: the sound of the flowing river running fast and full over rocks! I had never heard anything quite like it before and I was enthralled. This northern beck mesmerised me; a kind of mountain magic appeared to be getting hold of me.

The long night eventually ended. We put together some food, took down tents and packed rucksacks ready for the day’s walk. As I remember it, this process was very disorganised. It was a new experience for nearly all of us; we didn’t know how to pack a sack or about the importance of putting heavier things closest to your back. We didn’t know about the value of keeping sleeping bags and clothes dry inside triangular-shaped canvas bags. It was all an unfathomable mystery! And it continued raining.

We assembled – but where was the new teacher? Mr Rigby explained that Mr Samuel had developed flu overnight and decided to stay at the pub across the road; if he felt better, he would join us in a few days.

We picked up our belongings and we walked. Striding together, we left the neat stone houses and went into open country. We travelled along a narrow road that was quite steep in places. Stone walls hugged the roadside and formed the boundaries to the sheep-filled fields on either side. Water lay on the pitted road, on which there were many deep puddles. Cloud and moisture filled the air. The bargain boots that had been bought for me let in water and my legs were wet, too.

The group began to string out. The fitter members were out in front, keeping up with our leader's brisk stride. The minions tapered in a thinning line behind. I was last.

After re-grouping and having something to eat and drink, we left the road for a path over the hillside. It was muddier than the road, with even bigger puddles, but it was easy enough to follow. Again, the leaders raced on with Mr Rigby in front; once more I found myself at the back, struggling to keep up. My rucksack was heavy and uncomfortable, and water was running down my back. However, what stopped me thinking of my increasing discomfort was the appearance of rocks as I staggered along. They came out of the ground and had interesting grey shapes; they dominated the landscape.

I was being side-tracked as I inspected these geological features and didn’t realise, I had fallen further behind the two boys I was following. I tried to speed up but that load upon my back was just too much. The rain fell.

I knew we were going to stop at a village called Stainforth, but I wasn’t sure how much further we were going to plod. As we reached a wider track, a van came trundling along attempting to avoid the numerous potholes. Impulsively, I did something I had never attempted before: I stuck my thumb out for a lift!

To my complete astonishment, the driver stopped and said he would take me to the centre of the village. As we bumped along, we passed a few of my fellow walkers. In Stainforth, I got out amid much comment and put downs from my peers and disapproving glares from our leader.

We were supposed to camp in the village but, as the non-stop rain had made us and our belongings so wet, Mr Rigby decided we would stay at the village youth hostel. It would be an opportunity to dry out and have a better rest than if we camped. Stainforth was another Dales village of stone houses, drystone-walled gardens – and another very active river.

The following day, the rain wasn’t quite so heavy. We pulled on our sacks and took a path northward towards Horton-in-Ribblesdale. The first part of our route was on a track through similar drystone-wall scenery with wet fields of many, many sheep. At times the clouds lifted to reveal high, rugged hills and a criss-cross of walls with intermittent single trees or stone buildings. We were inside that sculpture again.

It was a relief not to have such penetrating rain; however – and I don’t know how it happened – by the afternoon most of the group had disappeared in front again. This time I was accompanied by Toby, who also frequented the tail end of the expedition. We continued walking towards Horton and again the weight of the burden on my back slowed me down. Luckily another vehicle was going our way! Toby and I sat and grinned as we passed some of our group; at least any derision would be shared this time.

We camped overnight in the village and managed to feed ourselves without getting too wet. It had stopped raining. To keep out of the wind, we sat inside our tents, ate and chatted, then slept the sleep of those who have been in the great outdoors. As I dozed, I could hear the soothing upland tune of a river as it flowed along, knocking over smooth tumbling boulders in its continuous journey down the valley.

The following day we saw more limestone outcrops to our left. Grey clouds filled the sky and by the afternoon it was drizzling as we headed towards Ribblehead. My feet were permanently wet because the boots leaked; the shopkeeper who had sold them to my mum must never have experienced northern hill conditions.

The tracks were often flooded, and the rain persisted; it was impossible to keep my bottom half dry – and now my jacket was letting in water, too! But the landscape was unlike any I had ever seen, so the experience was a strange mixture of pleasure and discomfort.

Nearly there and, as before, I was lagging behind. A tractor came along and yes, he offered to take me to Ribblehead.

Predictably, hitch-hike number three wasn’t appreciated by my mates and particularly by Mr Rigby. I had pushed it too far and this misdemeanour needed to be punished! It was unanimously decided that my penance would be to collect milk from a farm over a mile away. Hitching a ride had been a welcome relief towards the end of each day but now I was paying the price for my cheek.

‘I’m being punished for resourcefulness,’ I muttered indignantly during my errand, but as all the others had managed to walk I could see their point. It was quite a pleasant evening’s walk, especially without having to carry that sack.

Our overnight camp was on the open fell. Ribblehead consisted of a row of houses surrounded by fellside, rocks, rough grass, streams and sheep. We seemed to be much higher than at our last stop and it felt very remote.

The next day we went over Cam Fell towards the village of Langstrothdale. We started on the road past my ‘milk farm’ then spent the rest of the day on open moor. Once again, I enjoyed the remarkable Dales scenery and, although I sometimes had to run, I kept up – at least with my two mates at the end of the line. No lifts that day and no having to collect milk.

Our final day was also completed in the rain. It was on path, track and road and was very wet and sometimes chilly, but we arrived back at Arncliffe with me not falling behind so much. Tents were pitched, food sorted out and we relaxed at the end of our long journey. The rain stopped and we were reunited with Mr Samuel, who had evidently recovered from his flu.

We sat with mugs of warm tea and shared tales of the previous days with him. A degree of camaraderie had evolved within our group and there was plenty of good-humoured banter, especially when my hitch-hiking exploits were greatly exaggerated.

Despite having struggled physically, the trip had been amazing! Isn’t there a paradox here about the hardships of being in challenging environments? Joe Brown, the legendary Salford climber, once said, ‘discomfort of this kind both contradicted and complimented the lure of the open-air’.

After the Second World War, Brown and his companions spent their formative years having adventures entirely without adult supervision. From the age of twelve, they spent their weekends camping in the Peak District, far away from their families and the terraced streets of the city. With rudimentary gear, they walked the hills, climbed crags and descended mines and caves. The main safety kit was nothing more than discarded pieces of lorry-rope, occasionally tied together when longer climbs were involved.

From such raw beginnings, Joe went on to become one of the most successful and influential climbers of the 1950s and 1960s. He made hundreds of first ascents on British crags as well as completing numerous Alpine and Himalayan climbs, including the first ascent of the third-highest mountain in the world, Kanchenjunga! Many argue that without having had those early daredevil escapades, Joe would not have become such a legend. His adventurous apprenticeship and hard, upland living honed his climbing and survival skills.

Numerous enlightened educational thinkers have suggested that exposure to the great outdoors is important in the development of young people. Over the years, adventure education in its many forms has found its way onto the school curriculum to develop physical, mental and emotional skills. Which brings me back to my own northern walking trip; that week was nowhere near as daring, prolonged and pioneering as Joe Brown’s weekend trips, but there were some modest comparisons. It presented me with an entirely different facet to life and, if nothing else, it showed me that there was at least one form of exercise, other than conventional school sports, that I might want to take further.

One week of mountain magic set me on a course of total fascination with uplands, mountains and the wild. After a mere seven days of fell walking, I embarked upon a life-long addiction. My eyes had been opened into another world!

Pen-y-Ghent, Yorkshire Dales

(Courtesy: Joe Haythornthwaite)

Ribblehead Viaduct, Yorkshire Dales

(Courtesy:RuthAS)

2

On Your Bike

The walking trip to the Yorkshire Dales created a tremendous thirst for similar experiences. After being exposed to such magic, I was keen to see other wild places. However, being stranded back in the south of England meant that wasn't going to be easy!

1969

Bike bits and field trips

Adolescent life continued with school, friends and learning necessary life skills; it was all about the sounds, sights and liberation of the 1960s. However, there was one aspect of our youth that provided a great deal of interest: the simple pleasure of ‘bikes’. Forget the usual sixties’ teenage decadence of ‘sex, drugs and rock and roll’ – my mates and I were into bicycles!

Don’t get me wrong, we were obviously still very much interested in the first and third items on that list; it was the sixties after all, and we were young! The closest we came to the second item was enjoying the occasional sip of beer – very naughty!

At the age of fifteen we all had cycles and regularly exchanged bike parts, which enabled us to build more machines. It was a curious currency. Different bike bits had different values. We were forever swopping parts, fiddling with them and improving them; consequently, we each had several customised bicycles.

We cycled everywhere: to and from school to each other’s houses; to meet on street corners, and to hang around in parks. We also used our bikes to travel around Oxford using its network of cycle tracks. In addition, they were essential for our paper rounds, since many of us made some cash by delivering newspapers. At one stage I had three paper rounds at three different shops: a morning one, an evening one, and a Sunday morning round delivering the Sunday papers to colleges.

The construction of, exploration on and general messing about with bikes occupied many productive hours of our youthful lives, enabling us to stretch our wings and taste a little independence.

To my delight, there was an opportunity to visit the hills again! It came by way of a geography field-trip. I signed up and in the summer term of 1969 went off to a study centre in Glasbury-on-Wye in Wales. Part of the geographical studies required camping in Pembrokeshire part way through the week.

The visit to south-west Wales involved studying coastland features; at one point, we had to take part in some cliff scrambling to escape from an advancing tide! This was all successfully staged and calculated by staff, but we felt a sense of urgency as we scrambled up the cliff aided by a thick rope (conveniently left in position) to escape the rising water. It was all great fun and far better than being in school. In fact, all learning was so much easier when we were out in the field.

Another mini-adventure took place during the next summer holiday. Three of us decided to do some exploring on our own without any adult input and organised a week travelling along the south coast of Devon. We stayed in youth hostels and fended for ourselves. Such freedom: this was a real adventure!

Each day we decided on our method of travel from one coastal location to the next. Invariably my two mates preferred to catch buses but I wanted to hike. I had certainly caught that walking bug!

It was the opposite of the Yorkshire Dales and I relished the chance to have a long walk; it was perfect striding out above the cliffs, looking down upon beaches and along country lanes. I was completely in charge of my day as I followed my route on the map, while my mates were happy with their bus excursions and eating ice-creams whenever they wanted. We were all feeding our individual hunger.

The following year, I started some extra courses at a sixth form in another school. One of my subjects was geology, studying those rocks I was so fascinated by. Again we were expected to go on a field trip in South Wales. One particular day, our group went for a walk in the mountains to look at a whole host of geological features. We were impressed by the visible horizontal stratification of the upland rocks, including a layer of old red sandstone; the rock was a strikingly red colour. Certain glacial features were pointed out to us that had formed during the last Ice Age.

To top it all, among all the geological chatter, we found ourselves standing on Pen-y-Fan, the highest point in the Brecon Beacons and in the whole of South Wales at 886 metres (2,907 feet). As we stood on the near-flat summit plateau, it dawned on me that this was my very first ascent of a mountain peak! Ta-dah!

****

1971

The Republic of Ireland

Little by little, these small adventures created a huge impact and I dreamt continually of more outings and travels. What next? Using our bikes, we had started to cycle further afield, out of the city and into the immediate countryside. By the summer of 1971, it was time to go on a more serious trip.

It was impossible to travel any real distances on our bikes in just one day because at some point we would have to turn around and return home. That wasn’t going to enable us to investigate faraway places, was it?

I needed to go further. With this in mind, a couple of us made plans. With a friend called Nige, a decision was made to cycle from Oxford to the Republic of Ireland and back. This was definitely a serious plan!

I had left my new school after one year and started work. I fancied a job involving geography and had put in a few applications. My interest in cartography took an unusual turn; only days before we were due to leave on the great Irish cycle ride, I was invited for a job interview with the Ordnance Survey in Southampton.

For a geography freak, working for the purveyors of the nation's maps since the 1700s had to be the ultimate job. To spend time making maps in whatever capacity would be incredible fun, especially as I also enjoyed technical drawing. If there was ever an opportunity to go into the field to help survey new maps, with the added perk of travelling to all corners of the country, that would be equally satisfying.

Unfortunately, the interview was right in the middle of our planned trip! Even though it had the potential to be a great employment move, I decided not to attend the interview. The youthful draw of the short-term won against what might have been a lifelong career in mapmaking.

‘So, let me get this straight. You can’t attend the interview because...’ the woman from the OS on the other end of the telephone asked, sounding a tad