Outdoor Stereotypes No. 5

The Gear Guru

 

 His superfine merino base layer, Montane trews and Innov8 shoes give the impression that Gavin is about to throw on a jacket, pick up his sack and head for the hills. Yet although well known in hillwalking circles as an expert on navigation, gear and gadgets, few have ever actually seen him on the hill. In truth Gavin’s only real connection with the outdoors is his broadband connection.

Once a promising Queen’s Scout, technology seduced the teenage Gavin and he slowly mutated into a gadget and gear guru. Now, as an unofficial (and unpaid) reviewer for “Trudge” magazine, he not only owns an example of almost every type of GPS receiver made since 1997, but publishes highly detailed accounts of how to modify their software on his outdoor blog “Wilderbytes”.  Withering about Windows, offhand about Apple and firmly anti-Android, Gavin extols the virtues of the most obscure and specialised navigational software from small “cottage industry” producers, who tend to go bust and disappear within weeks of his review.

As well as being a technology expert, Gavin is highly respected as a pioneer in ultra-lightweight backpacking. In his home made vacuum chamber a chemical balance is currently weighing rival toilet tissues to a tolerance of 0.01 mg. His dedicated readership awaits his recommendation with bated breath and clenched buttocks.

Under piles of Pizza boxes, discarded phones and Coke bottles lie the remnants of Gavin’s previous experiments in ‘lightening up’. A Scarp tent (with the groundsheet cut out and guy lines removed), a tarp (reduced to the size of a large handkerchief by over-zealous remodelling) a Gore-Tex jacket (with the sleeves, hood and torso removed) …  and an unmolested pair of home-made cuben fibre trousers  … but thanks to Domino’s excellent delivery service, Gavin outgrew them long ago. Not that it matters. Gavin doesn’t get out much anymore.

Deep in the gloom of his bedroom lit only by the glow of a screen and flickering LEDs, Gavin Blogs, Twitters and Tweets with the cream of outdoors elite. There is little he doesn’t know about the great outdoors, from extreme mountaineering to gentle country rambles. No outdoors blog or forum can escape Gavin’s well informed advice and comment.

It’s easy to scoff at this indoors outdoorsman, but Gavin deserves the respect of all who aspire to a green lifestyle and care for the delicate ecology of our wild land. Creating zero path erosion, leaving absolutely no trace and with a nil carbon footprint, Gavin is truly an outdoorsman for our time.

A Suffolk murder

I had some dead spooky photos to accompany this post, but since completing this walk (and a couple of others) my camera has disappeared, no doubt lying in some far flung part of the county. Ah well, it was nearly nine years old, so an excuse to buy another. The photos that do appear are therefore culled from the Bury St Edmunds museum website.

Corder's Death Mask. Moyses Hall

When we first moved to Bury St Edmunds back in 1987 we visited Moyses Hall museum, on the market square, to get a bit of a feel for the place. Amongst all the exhibits that one might expect of a pleasant rural market town – references to its abbey, mediaeval heritage, bronze age pots and axe heads and so-on, I was drawn to one particularly macabre exhibit – the death mask of William Corder, his features still distorted and engorged by his death at the hangman’s noose.

And that was not all. Accompanying this disturbing effigy was his preserved scalp (complete with one ear) and an account of his trial, bound with his tanned skin. A criminal of some notoriety you might surmise, and you would be right, for this was the murderer of Maria Marten at the Red Barn.

Corder's scalp and ear Moyses Hall

Needless to say over subsequent years visiting nieces and nephews were treated to a visit to Moyses Hall as the highlight of my greatly embellished and ghoulish account of the crime and punishment. Kids love this sort of thing, and they gleefully related their experiences of a day out with uncle Phil & auntie Tini to appalled parents. As a result we were seldom given charge of our siblings’ children a second time.

And yet we have never, until now, visited the site of this very Suffolk murder, and a bright sunny autumn day seemed ripe for a visit to the pretty village of Polstead. Set in rolling countryside, with half-timbered houses, a huge duck pond and secluded from the hurly burly of the outside world, Polstead today betrays no clue as to its notoriety in 1828.

There is a lay by beside the village pond from where it is just a few short steps to the churchyard where Maria Marten is buried. There is no visible trace of her grave for the casual visitor, as it was plundered by souvenir hunters, but on a wooden out building a simple sign states that her final resting place is nearby.

The rest of the walk is well described by an AA guide – the only additional notes that I would make is that we took in the magnificent church and buildings at Stoke by Nayland, discovered that there is now a new footpath from Stoke by Nayland alongside the B1068 avoiding mingling with the traffic, and on the final leg we wandered a little further to pass the site of the Red barn and eventually emerge opposite the Cock Inn. Well. You can’t have a murder walk without taking in the actual site, can you? And it’s a great story too – inspiring more than one contemporary melodrama, and several since. All the dramatic ingredients are there:

• The wicked squire
• The simple country girl
• The honest father
• The deceiving stepmother
• The elopement
• The false lover
• Murder most foul
• Sensational trial
• Public hanging and dissection
• The gruesome remnants still on display

The sign in the Churchyard

Maria Marten was the daughter of the village molecatcher. An attractive, sociable girl, by the age of 24, she already had two children as a result of her liaisons with the local gentry.The story is full of intrigue. Corder was, by all accounts, a shifty and dishonest character – thief, fraudster and womaniser.

She was due to elope with Corder, and they met at the Red Barn (she dressed as a man) where Corder shot her and hid the body. There it would have remained but for her stepmother (herself a young woman, barely a year older than Maria) having dreams that Maria was buried in the barn. After nagging her husband for some weeks, he went to the barn and probing with his mole spud, discovered the body.

By this time William had left Polstead and married. It has been suggested that the stepmother was having an affair with him and Maria was getting in the way. The wicked stepmother therefore plotted with William to get rid of her. True or not, it does seem odd that the stepmother’s ‘dreams’ only began after she heard of William’s marriage!

The full story is there for you to read and judge for yourself on Wikipedia and the Bury St Edmunds town site. It’s worth the reading if you don’t know the story – and adds colour to the play if you ever get a chance to see it.

And indeed it added to the atmosphere of the walk. The countryside offers a pleasant bucolic ramble on the borders of ‘Constable Country’ but with shady secret ways too through dappled sunlight and dark trees. The way past the site of the old Red Barn leads down to a small valley where scratched on the door to an abandoned enclosure were the words "Maria Marten RIP," the only explicit reference that we saw  in Polstead.

The village now seems to quietly discourage the curious souvenir hunter and ghoulish day tripper, to allow Maria to rest in peace at last. And Polstead has returned to being just another picturesque backwater deep in rural Suffolk. Like many others, it keeps its secrets to itself.

Outdoor Stereotypes No. 4

The Mountain Biker

You find a nice sheltered spot out of the wind and settle down to look back with satisfaction at the country that you have covered. It’s been tough going to get up here – steep, slippery and sometimes pathless, but all that’s forgotten as you relax and admire the view with cloud shadows scudding across the crisply lit landscape far below.

A strange, hunched figure with a peculiar gait staggers into view. As he slowly draws closer it becomes apparent that he is not really dressed for hillwalking. In fact he seems to have got dressed in the dark. The style, lurid colours and most of all the diminutive size and tightness  of his attire all point to an inadvertent  raid on his ten year old daughter’s ballet wardrobe.

His tights reach only to mid-calf. A bright girly pink spandex top strains to contain a resolutely masculine belly. He is wearing a pair of orange shoes secured with Velcro straps instead of laces, which match an elaborately sculpted plastic crown on his head. But most remarkable of all is the reason for his crab like progress.

He is carrying a bicycle.

And he has carried it up the same treacherous heathery hillside that has left you gasping for breath. You gaze at him in wonderment – the chief part of your wonder being, “Why?”

He doesn’t notice you as he trudges past, eyes down and breathing heavily; a nylon bag clatters as it bounces on his back. It seems to be full of Tupperware.  Oh well, you think – takes all sorts I suppose – and you resume your now pleasant ascent to a perfect perch overlooking the lesser hills, and reward yourself with a fine lunch and a celebratory slug of Ardbeg before taking the long rocky path back.

You hear him microseconds before you see him,  his approach heralded by the squeal of disc brakes and a clatter of loose gravel. The tubby middle aged man dressed as a pre-pubescent ballerina has been transformed.

He is now Robocop on wheels as he hurtles straight at you at forty miles per hour. Wearing more armour than a mediaeval knight he has become a crazed carbon fibre clad robot seemingly intent on your destruction. Spittle and sweat stream across his cheeks in the slipstream. The setting sun blazes from wraparound mirrored glasses and glints on gritted teeth.

“Loooookooouttheeeeeremaaate!” cries a panicking voice, forcing you to leap aside and sprawl  into the only truly boggy bit for miles. Clearly a bell is not considered essential equipment by this knight of the hills.

And he is gone. You listen hopefully for a crash of metal and a cry of anguish, but disappointingly you spot him a few minutes later pedalling along the track that leads to the car park. Dark thoughts of walking poles and spokes evaporate as you observe the back of the pretty pink top and purple tights - plastered with mud from top to bum.

His daughter will be very upset when he gets home.

Crash Bang Wallop

Is this in your rucksack?

The importance of carrying a first aid kit was brought home to Miss W with a wallop last week. Ever since Alan Sloman's unfortunate brush with a barbed wire fence, I have made a point of carrying a first aid kit on even the most unchallenging outing. And what could be more unchallenging than a walk along the beach for a picnic on a sunny day?

We never made it to the beach.

Crossing the A149 at Snettisham for a pleasant stroll through the woods to the seaside, Miss W's foot got stuck in a catseye - or rather the deep hole where a catseye had once been - and pivoting on the jammed foot she hurtled face first onto the tarmac without time to put up a shielding arm.

Fortunately the oncoming traffic was far enough away to slow down and enable me to escort the shocked and bleeding patient to the side of the road. We sat down in the woods to assess the damage.

Right knee with two deep gashes. Elbows gashed and grazed. Chin cut and bleeding as was her nose (fortunately not broken) and a piece of gravel had perforated the skin above her top lip, meeting her teeth coming the other way.

Blood pouring everywhere.

Amazingly the little Lifesystems Trek first aid kit had everything that I needed to patch up the patient (I had added some swabs, low contact dressings and plastic tape) and she insisted that we continue on a much curtailed walk to "stop things seizing up". Before long though I guided a very stiff and slightly wobbly Miss W back to the car, where she was horrified to see the full extent of the damage.

So, the first lesson learned - or rather confirmed. Accidents usually happen in the most mundane circumstances, so keep a first aid kit in the pack and in the car. You never know when it will be needed.

 The second lesson is that bruising and swelling gets worse before it gets better, and if you're out with a girl who looks as though she has just had a severe beating, be prepared for some dark looks cast in your direction.

I'm thinking of getting a T shirt printed, "It Wasn't Me!"

Clueless!

Miss W doing a crossword just asked the best question I've heard for ages, 

"How do you spell illiterate?"

First my sides ached ... now my head as I have retreated upstairs, beaten with a rolled up newspaper 

Hedgerow foraging

We went to see how the sloes and blackberries are getting on today. Very well it seems. Our pear trees are laden with fruit, so very soon poached pears and blackberry coulis will be stacked in the freezer. And the sloes? Just waiting for a supermarket bargain on litres of gin.

Blackberries

Suffolk Sloes

Later this week we hope to gather some hazelnuts that I spotted a while ago. They should be ready now and will be added to the Christmas cake ingredients. A walk along an old railway line discovered a superb apple tree growing right alongside the old trackbed. The line has been closed for fifty years, so this is probably the product of a discarded apple core from one of the last passengers. And they are delicious (really delicious, not Golden Delicious!).

Summer is all very well, but autumn is the best time of year for me. Cool, still light enough, and full of treats for the forager. Last year's Sloe gin has matured nicely and awaits the onset of suitably nippy weather for its inclusion in the hip flask - roll on the first frost!

Outdoor Stereotypes No. 3

The Walking Club

There seem to be more cars than usual (usually there are none) in your favourite and secret lay-by. By the time you have put on your boots and hefted your sack onto your back ten more have arrived, disgorging their cargo of middle aged  couples, the odd dog and a multitude of walking poles, maps, compasses, flasks and water bottles. The chatter, the pointing, the donning of gaiters bring home the terrible truth – a walking club has chosen ‘your’ hills as this Sunday's objective.

Some are ready to go and pacing up and down looking pointedly at their watches, others are shouting into mobile phones “well, where exactly are you, then?” as stragglers make their way to the assembly point. With any luck you can get a fifteen minute start and still have a peaceful day out. You set off rather more briskly than you would normally wish. Your “Good Mornings” are ignored by the self-absorbed crowd who have now stopped telephoning and moved on to the “So, it’s just Marjorie then!” stage.

Fifteen minutes later you look back and see that the group has started to move in your direction. After 200 yards or so it stops. A huddle develops. Maps are produced. Fingers are pointed and GPS consulted. There is clearly some dispute. The group divides, amoeba-like, as a smaller huddle breaks off and starts its own discussion with fingers pointing a few degrees off those of the main body. They both start to move on diverging courses, soon losing sight of one another. Despite yourself you begin to observe the progress of the two rival factions.

It soon becomes obvious that the smaller breakaway group have made the error, and they are walking at a cracking pace to rejoin the correct path a face-saving distance ahead of the unseen peleton. The tactic fails. They converge simultaneously and halt in another flurry of maps and recrimination, but this time the fingers are pointing along the correct path, and towards your eyrie – mmm, time to get a move on.

But there’s no need to rush. With stops occasioned by Majorie’s ‘old trouble’ and Eric’s dodgy prostate the group proceeds in fits and starts gradually extending into a long ragged crocodile until it finally stops altogether to regroup for elevenses … at around 9.30.
You wander on up the hill, enjoying the day. The sights and sounds of nature unspoiled lift your spirits. Curlews cry, skylarks sing and all is right with your world. By lunchtime you have found a nice little drystone shelter and are enjoying a post-prandial snooze. Then something wakes you with a start. The birds have fallen silent … a new chorus fills your ears,

“So I said to ‘er, I said, Ooooh, you little …”
“And did you see that Tracey Barlow on Corrie last night.”
“Of course, I always take the A66 to Brough, but then, mind, I turn off via…”

There’s no escape. You are surrounded by the chattering camaraderie of the “Striders Club”. You nod politely to Marjorie as she introduces herself and chatters alongside you.

“Hello, I’m the club secretary. We could do with some new blood – you should join us, fit young man like you. We’re out every weekend – always somewhere different.”

You ask Marjorie for the season’s itinerary, telling her that it will be invaluable in planning your future walks. She hands you a list of dates and venues. “We’ll see you soon, then?”

You smile your most benevolent smile.

Outdoor Stereotypes No. 2

The Traditionalist

Eric Trucklethwaite is a believer in tradition. Unmoved by modern affectations, he holds true to the principles of hillwalking instilled by his scoutmaster in 1953. Eric’s two concessions to modernity are the adoption of a fleece to replace his old sweater and a bulletproof three layer Gortex coat bought as present by his daughter in 1995. His knee breeches are relics from the sixties, as is his Tattersall check shirt and his solid, much re-soled tricouni nailed boots. Seated on ‘his’ stool in the Yorkshire village inn, he imparts his knowledge of the hills to anyone who cares to listen … and indeed some that don’t.

The tweed hat on his head is studded with badges attesting to his conquest of, or at least visit to, all the high points of the world. A tireless fund raiser for the local MRT and founder of “The Striders” walking club, Eric believes passionately in helping folk enjoy the local countryside, and for years his advice has been keenly sought and freely given.

But lately a shadow has been cast over Eric’s world. More and more the public bar is filled with young men and women whose talk is of tarps instead of tents, running shoes in place of boots, “going fast and light” as they put it. Eric is dismayed by their casual casting aside of traditional wisdom. The current fad for lightweight gear is anathema to all that he regards as sacrosanct. He knows, and advises them over every drink that he is bought, that there is only grief to be had from such folly.

Much vexed by youths bounding past him clad only in shorts and vest as he toils slowly up the hill, Eric derives grim satisfaction from reports in the Daily Mail of younger walkers coming to grief or suffering from exposure. “And all he had were a nylon cagoule and a pair of trainers - these people shouldn’t be allowed out!” exclaims Eric, before cataloguing the solid armoury of his own outdoor wardrobe.

As for electronic aids, Eric scoffs at them all, and recounts more anecdotes to illustrate the idiocy of those that use them. “Lost - because they hadn’t got a map and the phone battery had run out,” he barks, stabbing a finger at the newspaper. “The idiots were probably relying on Google Maps - or their satnav – what complete rubbish!” Such stories, true or not, reinforce his belief that the GPS receiver is the work of Beelzebub, and all those that carry them are witless nincompoops. “Solid map and compass work, that’s all you need.”

But sadly Eric’s skills are not what they once were. He is blissfully unaware that his wife, Eunice, has secretly purchased a GPS receiver.  Fed up with Eric’s ten mile rambles degenerating into twenty mile slogs over tussock and bog (entirely the fault of those twelve year old cartographers at the OS decimalising everything) Eunice gently and discreetly corrects Eric’s more catastrophic errors with gentle observations such as, “Oh, look Eric – isn’t that Schiehallion over there” and “Could that possibly be Loch Lyon?”

As Eric is fond of telling the youngsters in the pub, the traditional skills of his youth still stand him in good stead. “We’ve been out all day in mist and fog and the navigation was spot on, absolutely spot on, eh Eunice?  You lads wouldn’t know where to turn if your gadgets went on the blink, would you eh? And what if the Yanks turned off the signal, where would you be then?”

Eunice nods assent, smiles and quietly sips her half of Snecklifter.

Outdoor Stereotypes

This little series owes much to the Telegraph Magazine's "Social Stereotypes". During the summer months I don't do a lot of walking, at least not a lot of hillwalking, on account of various nuisances such as excessive heat, midges, midgets (schoolchildren) and ice cream vans and burger stalls in all my favourite parking spots ... along with their bloated clientele who clutter the countryside oh, for at least 200 yards from the car park. At least that seems to be the perimeter of dropped crisp packets, cans and sweet wrappers.

But enough of my misanthropic rant, and back to the series. For those unfamiliar with the Daily Telegraph, Victoria Mather has written a series of sketches, spendidly illustrated by the drawings of Sue Macartney-snape, which accurately lampoon middle class "types".

I thought it would be fun to cast a similar, but less coruscating eye over the "types" that we regularly encounter. Here is the first of a series of (currently) ten ... but there may well be more.

The Octogenarian

You first see Fred tottering along the narrow path ahead. A thin figure with a fringe of wispy white hair around the rim of his knitted hat. His improbably small rucksack is faded canvas with leather straps. The only concession to the biting wind seems to be a thick woollen sweater with holes in the elbows. The only recognisable pieces of modern kit are his Rohan trousers  (tucked neatly into socks) and a cheap pair of Regatta boots. No poles, no apparent waterproofs, although the rucksack might just conceal a light jacket. He looks for all the world as though he has absent mindedly strayed from an old peoples’ home and somehow become  lost in the wilderness.

You catch up and pass a few words. He apparently knows where he’s going and seems perfectly relaxed. “Oh just a little stroll – not up to the walks I used to do when I was a lad. “

An hour later, after a tricky heart stopping scramble you reach the summit cairn. Lungs heaving, you stop for a rest to ‘admire the view’ – or more truthfully, wait for vision to be restored and the hammering in your chest to subside. Ten minutes later he ambles into view. Not out of breath nor seemingly interested in stopping.

“Having a rest?” he enquires. “Well, it is a bit of a haul up that last bit. Here, have a barley sugar – that’ll get you up and going again”.

From deep within his trouser pocket he produces a sticky sweet covered in grey fluff. You mumble thanks, but he’s already gone to “Bag that wee Corbett before teatime”. You stagger to your feet to see that a small figure, moving improbably slowly, has already crossed the boggy bealach and is halfway up the next hill.

Dispirited, unable to face the swamp below and the near vertical heather beyond, you take the short route back to the car. The only other vehicle is an elderly Rover 400. Through its open window you see its elderly occupant pouring tea from a flask and contentedly eating a sandwich.

Yes, it’s him.

“It’s been a grand day,” he says. “Nothing like a day in the hills to put a spring in your step.” He observes your weary stiff legged gait. The thump of your sack hitting the ground. As you heave your gear into the boot you become aware of someone standing next to you. A kindly voice says, "Here – have another barley sugar. And don’t worry lad. You’ll get used to it in time."

Adrift in Suffolk

Sometimes we get lost – go on, admit it, you have too. However on this particular foray I succeeded in getting misplaced:

a)    On my own doorstep, on a walk that I have done before, and
b)    The consequent extra two miles came right at the end of the walk, and
c)    I was in the company of Miss W, who had pointed out the correct route and been totally ignored.

Bumble bee tucks in

Other than that, this was a very fine walk indeed, taking in a part of Suffolk that we visit rarely although it’s quite close at hand. I won’t include a map, otherwise people will say “how the #*!^ did he get lost there”, but suffice to say that we took in Bradfield Woods nature reserve near Gedding, the lovely Six Bells in Felsham (where as well as the Greene King ales they offer home pickled whelks, cockles etc as a change from the usual bar nibbles). Then through delightful farmland to another large wood, Thorpe Wood, and via various paths back to the start. I say various, as I’m not entirely sure of the latter part of the route.

It was a perfect English summer afternoon in Bradfield Woods, which is possibly why the place was populated with university researchers counting insects. Miss W had to stifle her laughter as a portly gent with an outsized butterfly net in one hand and a notebook in the other flitted from glade to glade with a cloud of errant fritillaries just out of sight behind him. Others were earnestly examining rotting pieces of wood for … well some insect or other. The birds seemed pleased with their efforts anyway and followed them closely, busily consuming the just-counted invertebrates.

Cob nuts near Thorpe Wood

On to Thorpe Wood, where the summer is well advanced, and already the sloes and cob nuts are reaching full size. And thinking of full size, here we saw some of the tallest thistles that I have ever seen – a good 7’ high. The air was alive with bumble bees and butterflies. There’s little evidence that the paths are walked very often at all, so it really is a delightful, almost secret place.

Little walked path

Yes, it was a great day – until I disputed Miss W’s assertion that we should take a left turn and marched firmly straight ahead.  Later there was an internal moment of panic as I realised that the sun had unaccountably moved to the wrong part of the sky. I slyly dropped back and pulled out the map. This manoeuvre failed as I heard a crisp voice say, “Admit it, you haven’t got a clue where we are.” Careful reference to the map showed that she was perfectly correct in this assertion.

Fortunately a couple of landmarks pinpointed our position and I was able to guide us back without too much loss of face, other than being forced to admit that “Yes, we would be home by now if I’d listened to you” from time to time.

I fear that this incident, although forgiven, will not be forgotten.

Food, Drink and Good Grooming

Food and drink. If it wasn't for food and drink my TGOC pack would be truly lightweight. But it isn't.

You see, I thought a four day trek before hitting civilisation would be a great way to get into the walk - a wilderness experience and all that. Trouble is, I have to eat, and the food bag has come in at a staggering 5¹/₂lbs! That and the fact that I ve added a few luxuries (proper shaving soap instead of that ghastly oil stuff, a little shower gel, some deodorant, full sized toothbrush etc.).

Why all the grooming products? Well, a gentleman should always loook his best for the ladies. I well remember Miss W meeting me at the staion after one trip. As I approached the car, she promptly drove off and parked around the corner a few hundred yards away. As I puffed up to the car I asked,

"What did you do that for?"

"Because you look like a vagrant, and someone I know might have seen you getting into my car".

So, you see, no matter how handsome, urbane, charming or witty you may be, a few days stubble, dirty hair and an indefinable pong undoubtedly present a considerable drawback in social situations. For the same reason a change of clothes is included.

So, my target weight of 26¹/₂lbs has ballooned to 33lbs. Oh well, determined eating will put that right. What possessed me to buy a huge bag of peanuts and raisins I don't know - I hate the bloody things!

But at least I am ready now to trundle down to Londinium this evening to catch the sleeper to Inverness. I will be accompanied by Andrew Walker and Alan Sloman who will be taking a coffin with him, ostensibly for his Wake for the Wild.

That's all from Doodlecat for now - I'll tell you how it all went on my return. To any Challenger reading this, have a great trip and I'll see you in the bar at the Park. I'll be the well fed, well groomed fragrant chap in clean trews ;-)

TGO - final shakedown.

There’s nothing like a plan – and this was nothing like a plan ... as it had been roughly nailed together by me.

The aged P being in relatively good health at the mo’ and other calls on the estate being relatively minor, it was possible for a swift rally of the troops for a pre Challenge backpack in the Lakes to shake down the kit and ensure that the limbs were up to the task ahead.


Thursday evening saw us in the Old Dungeon Ghyll for supper and a few beers. The 'us' being me, Alan Sloman, Andrew Walker, David Wilkinson, Shirley Worral and Piglet the Border Terrier.

After packing up the tents, Friday morning saw us stagger back from the camp site to the Old Dungeon Ghyll for coffee and a strengthening of resolve. By 11.00 our resolve was sufficiently strengthened to actually set off. Up Mickleden and Stakes Pass, swinging round Langdale Combe and on to Angle Tarn. There we bumped into another couple of challengers honing their skills and fitness, the ‘legendary’ Terry Leyland and first timer, Jane Hilder.

Onward and upward through mist, drizzle and increasingly poor visibility, we skirted Allen Crags to arrive at High House Tarn – a wonderful wild camp site that we have used a couple of times before (see here and here). A tip about water – being quite high (about 2200ft) there are no streams, but short exploration NE will usually find a little clear spring if rain has fallen recently. If in doubt, fill up beforehand.

A word here about dawgs. Even little dawgs like Piglet are natural thieves, and exploring my open tent the wee porky terrier found and scoffed the entire packet of pancakes that I had brought for my breakfasts. Caveat ambulor.

The visibility was very poor that night, so rather than stargazing most of the crew spent the evening being fleeced at Al’s Casino where arcane rules of Rummy were being devised and enforced on the hapless (and soon to be penniless) players. Drink was taken, and so to bed.

Saturday saw an improvement in the weather, and as we struck out over Allen Crags superb views of Scafell, Bowfell and Derwent Water came and went through boiling shreds of cloud and sunshine. A truly wonderful sight. Off we went down past Sprinkling Tarn and inevitably down the horrible path to Wasdale and the Inn, where a restorative lunch and a couple of pints fortified us for the ascent of Black Sail Pass. At the summit we swung east along the little path that sort of comes and goes below Kirkfell Crags and the up to camp just beyond Beckhead Tarn, on the col between Kirk Fell and Great Gable. What a spot! The views are just stunning and the full moon and stars made for a memorable night, if a cold one. Fortunately the whisky supplies had held out and we slept like babes as the temperature dropped to zero.

The view of Wastwater from our camp site

Sunday. Homeward bound today (sob). But not before a stiff climb up and over Windy Gap and down to Styhead Tarn from where we watched a helicopter rescue over the Scafell “Corridor Route”, Whether real or an exercise I’m not sure, but a very impressive exhibition of flying skills by the pilot.

After that the remaining clouds disappeared for a really sunlit blue sky day, with the Lakeland scenery at its best as we trudged over Esk Hause and down the old coffin path by Rosset Gill to Mickleden and back for a well earned bear at the ODG before setting off for home.

The stats?

Ascent:     2105m  - 6900ft
Distance:  33.2km – 20.6miles

All thoroughly enjoyable and, remarkably, no significant aches and pains either. I might just be ready for the TGO Challenge after all.

p.s For some proper pictures, taken by a proper photographer, pop over to Alan's Blog

Cranes

Sunday saw us revisit the Great Eastern Pingo Trail where we last went for a walk back in May 2009. Nothing much had changed, the walk along the old railway (closed in 1965) remains as pleasant a railway walk as any. and the wetlands of Thompson Carr were alive with life - insects, birds, grass snakes and deer all taking advantage of the warm April sunshine.

But it was as we sat having our lunch beside a largish pingo at Stowbedon Covert (TL936966) that we noticed two large birds circling overhead. Too big for geese, similar to giant herons with outstretched necks - these were seriously large birds. Then Miss W mentioned that she had heard on the local news a while ago that Cranes were extending their range in Norfolk beyond the small colony on the Norfolk Broads.

That's what we were seeing - a pair of cranes scouting out a new nesting site. We watched them for about ten minutes or so before they drifted away. A superb sight. Brilliant!

A pair of Common Cranes in flight - the wingspan is between 6 and 8 feet (240cm) - pic by Gt Yarmouth Bird Club.

Good Home Cooking?

As we lurch into the Spring sunshine, an evil fug will be spreading throughout hundreds of households as backpackers across the land finely shred perfectly good food and spread it over the trays of a ‘dehydrator’ in order to reduce it to unidentifiable granules. After sweating away in a plastic bag for a week or maybe a couple of months, these will be reconstituted to a malodorous mass by the addition of a pint of boiled water, and consumed as a slurry seasoned with occasional dry woody bits.

This will be proclaimed to anyone nearby who might be eating something palatable as “just like it tasted at home” (which is a warning to avoid any future dinner invitations) along with more incredible observations such as “mmmm, the Yorkshires came out particularly well”.

A keen dehydrator devotee once offered me a flexible brown substance, accurately described as a “fruit leather”. Why anyone would want to turn perfectly good fruit into leather is beyond me, but I have to admit that in terms of appearance and consistency he had done a spectacularly good job.

So, no, I am not a great fan of home dehydrated grub. I love home cooking, but trying to convert it into trail food is the point where lightweight philosophy becomes hair shirt philosophy. Where food becomes mere fuel, a sort of biomass in this case. Home made dehydrated food may be very light - at least in theory. But is it really tasty? Does it really rehydrate in minutes? Having seen people forlornly poking and prodding at their home made sludge for up to an hour or more, I have doubts.

We've all got to eat, so why not simply carry an extra pound or two and make it enjoyable? A glass of wine of an evening is very nice too, and those good people at Platypus were quick to recognise that not all of us drink water, with the Platypus wine preserver.

So this year I have planned to take as much real food as possible on my Challenge crossing (bread, cheese, a bit of pickle, fruit etc) but there will be long interludes where weight will be a major consideration, and a bit of instant hot food will be required of an evening. Reliably quick and reliably tasty food too.

Yes, yes, you’re right, it’s got to be dehydrated meals – but edible ones please!

So, with chewing on old leather and reconstituted ferret droppings out of the question, and a diet of Smash and HP Sauce sachets equally appalling, I called Outdoors Grub* to stock up on my favourites from Mountain House and Adventure Foods, plus four Real Turmat meals for ‘to hell with the expense’ gourmet treats.

It took just five minutes – and the house doesn’t smell as if something’s died ;-)

* TGO Challengers – check your February Newsletter for Outdoor Grub's discount deal.

Llangollen and Llantysilio Mountain

Friday night (18th) saw me and bro in law, David Hobbs back in Llangollen for another weekend’s walking. Having sussed that the best real ale pub in town as the Bridge Hotel (a very nice pint of Robinsons) this time we saved ourselves the effort of wandering the streets by booking a room there. The deal was very good indeed – a twin en suite room for two night’s B&B for just £90. That’s £22.50 per person per night. The money saved was invested in severalteen pints of Unicorn and Hannibal’s Nectar to fortify us for Saturday’s assault on the hills.

Saturday

We arose not too early. Not because of the night before, or indeed the sights before (Llangollen is still blessed with plenty of large young ladies in very small dresses of an evening). No, breakfast was not served until a tardy 9.00 am at weekends, which allowed plenty of time to stroll to the local shops to buy provisions before sitting down to a full English Welsh breakfast.

To my alarm I had noticed that the TGO Challenge date was just six weeks hence, so I determined to test out my fitness level with a walk that would more or less equate to my first Challenge day, which is around 16k with 770m of ascent. I carried full kit, right down to tent and sleeping bag. To attain the required ascent we chose to bounce along the tops of Llantysilio Mountain, starting at the little car park at SJ 198433.

Our Route over Llantysilio Mountain

From there we dropped down to the river and ambled to the ‘Horseshoe Falls’. In reality the falls are a weir which raises the water level to divert some of the flow into a channel which is the beginning of the Llangollen Canal. The canal is a real feat of engineering, hewn through solid rock in places, with Telford’s aqueduct across the Dee east of Llangollen an astonishing tribute to the imagination and daring of those 19th century engineers.

A very strange thing around Llangollen is the number of abandoned caravans. Some small ones, others that were once very classy indeed, but wherever you walk, you’re never far from a slowly decaying caravan.

It’s an easy enough haul up to Moel y Faen, although the first pinewood is a tad inconvenient to one with a full backpack, the trees plucking at the pack as I plodded through in the wake of the lightly burdened ‘Obbsy. As it was a fine day we stopped on Moel y Fan to enjoy the views which stretch as far as Liverpool, and I ate the heaviest part of my food. I’m sure that pack didn’t feel as heavy last May.

Now, Llantysilio Mountain does not provide an easy ridge walk once you’re up there. It does go up and down (and down and up) quite a bit. Nevertheless the route is popular enough to have a very clear path to follow, with spiffing views. We the went south west and up to Moel y Gamelin before plunging into a very steep descent to cross the Clwydian Way before staggering up to the old hill fort of Moel y Caer. Nothing remains here except the much eroded ditch and rampart, although some enthusiastic archaeologists had been having fun with their trowels on a minor excavation. On the way here we observed several bales of cut heather by the track – a lot of it strewn over the path. Whether this was by accident or intent I don’t know. It seems an odd choice of material for footpath conservation, and equally unsuitable for animal bedding. Any answers?

 L-R Pleasant countryside near Llantysilio Farm,  Trig point on Moel Morfydd,  View east from Moel Morfydd

Another down and up brought us to Moel Morfydd (and a trig point) with the delicious prospect of most of the route now being downhill. The route back was very pleasant easy walking, and finding the Sun Inn at Rhewl open was a real bonus – except for the fact that the beginning of England’s humiliation and loss of the grand slam was on the telly. Rather than suffer expert and critical commentary from our welsh co-drinkers, we made back to the car (as it happened, later in the day Wales got a drubbing too, so we didn’t feel too bad).

I felt pretty good at the end of the day. 17k and around 700m of uphillness had been accomplished without too much trouble, and after the first shock of going uphill with a full pack, it wasn’t too bad at all.

Maybe the Challenge will be OK after all :-)

But we were pretty tired, and after a really good Indian meal and a couple of beers, we retired earlyish for a decent kip.

Sunday

Map of Sunday's walk

Sunday saw us up early and out immediately after breakfast for a scamper up to the Offa’s Dyke Path and the ‘Panorama Walk’, which indeed offers a fine panorama of the Dee  valley. Another abandoned caravan or two en route, plus, at Llandyn Hall Farm, what I think might be an easily restorable Jowett sitting in a barn.

We followed the trail towards Trevor before dropping down to the canal for a leisurely stroll back to Llangollen along the newly restored towpath. 10.5k and 300m ascent to loosen the legs before our drive home, which thanks to David’s turbo charged Swedish steed, was achieved in less than three hours.

I rather like Llangollen. I may go back there again quite soon and introduce Miss W to its charms. There's plenty to see, both in scenery and smaller details that are equally delightful. To round off, here are a few more pics from the weekend.

L-R David at the trig point,  The Llangollen Canal,  Could this be the fabled Green Man? (seen near Cymmo on Saturday).

A weekend in the North

Thursday saw us motoring to the Yorkshire Dales for a couple of days R&R courtesy of the excellent Rick & Lindsey. And boy did we need a bit of relaxation once we finally arrived, having spent a not very happy hour or two on and escaping from a blocked A1 - it was a windy day and lorries seemed to be toppling all over the place. We heard on the radio that one poor soul had been killed by a capsized truck in Leeds town centre, which certainly put our moans and groans into perspective.

But we were delighted to arrive in good time to share an evening and splendid dinner in the good company of  Peter and Avril Goddard (aka Mr & Mrs Grumpy). Peter is a veteran of the TGO Challenge, and you can read about some of his early crossings in the TGO section. Avril will be manning Challenge control for the first week of this year's event, giving advice and encouragement as well as helping to ensure that 300 plus individualists are where they should be ... er, more or less.

Wine was taken - stories swapped. Bed and oblivion followed.

What better way to kick off the new day than a brisk walk before the inevitable Yorkshire rain drifted in? Fortunately no imagination was required on my part as our neighbour, an expatriate Yorkshire lass, had given us the latest copy of the Dalesman magazine, which happened to have a walk of just the right length starting a short distance away at Chapel le Dale - so off we went accompanied by Lindsey and Rick whose duties as a Park Ranger had him assiduously picking up any litter encountered en route (not too much I'm pleased to say).

Map of walk from Chapel le Dale over Twistleton

It's an ideal excursion for a morning or afternoon, shown on the map by the yellow highlight. We followed it in an anti clockwise direction. Navigation presents no problems, except maybe in mist or darkness on the higher part (although why you would want to do it in the mist or in the dark beats me). Although undemanding, it is quite interesting, and I do like a bit of interest in a walk. The walk proper starts by turning right just after the church. For those interested in things subterranean, Hurtle Pot can be peered into with a short diversion from the track, but as this involves hanging on to a rope on a steep muddy and slippery slope above a seemingly bottomless pit ... I decided to give it a miss and failed to mention its attractions to my companions. Plus of course, Hurtle Pot is the lair of the Boggart, who can sometimes be heard roaring and crashing far below.

The Archer

A little higher up the lane is a sculpture called "The Archer" by a chap described as the "well known scuptor, Charles l'Anson". Not so well known that his name had reached my ears, but an interesting piece of modernism, made more interesting by its recent history. As I had a bit of camera shake when  took the picture, here is what is inscribed on the plaque below it:

For years a statue stood on this spot until it was vandalised on Saturday August 27th 1983 and subsequently found in thirty foot of water at the bottom of Hurtle Pot. A team of divers made the recovery and it has been erected again as found. It was originally the creation of the late Charles l’Anson the well known sculptor and artist. Only time will tell if the spirit of the BOGGARD of HURTLE POT is enshrined in the statue.

Whernside lit by a shaft of sunlight

Passing the statue, past Gill Head farm we emerged from the woodland for a fine view of Whernside lit up by a shaft of sunlight as we headed up to Ellerbeck Gill. Away to the right we had an uncluttered view of the Ribblehead viaduct, many of whose builders lie buried in the small graveyard that we saw as we made our way past the church.

Railway relics by Ellerbeck Gill

At Ellerbeck Gill our route reached the line of  an old packhorse route to Ingleton, and we turned left to follow it gently uphill to the limestone pavements that lie above Twisleton Scars.  These are quite extensive and scattered with large erratics - boulders left by the retreating ice sheet at the close of the last Ice Age. All around are 'shake holes', holes in the ground where the rock has fallen through into underground chambers and tunnels carved through the limestone by thousands of years of rainfall. Some are filled in with debris and mere depressions in the ground - others look as though a false step could have you plummeting into the bowels of the earth. I view these with suspicion; MissW was happy to poke and prod at them whilst standing inside, risking life, limb and abduction by boggards (note to self - must increase her life insurance).

From L to R: A spectacular shake hole - Miss W emerges from another shake hole - the pony path descends to Scar End

As the path enters the exposed limestone, so it becomes a defined stony track. On the descent we took care to follow the path the "wrong way" towards Kingsdale, knowing that this was the 'zig' before the 'zag' that dropped us onto the green lane, from where we headed on to Oddies Lane, an old roman road. The walk back along the old roman road to the start point is quite scenic and pleasant. A road walk, but hardly tarmac bashing in this rural backwater. I love abandoned machinery and ramshackle buildings, and Twisleton Dale House provided both. A gloriously asymmetrical edifice, slowly crumbling along with its associated bits of farmyard machinery and weathered misspelt signs displaying highly optimistic parking fees.

Little grey Fergie ends its days at Twistleton Dale House

Back at the car we took a little time to explore the tiny church. Although so many of the workers and their families from the shanty towns that grew up around the great viaduct are buried here, there are no marked graves. In the church is a tablet to their memory, and there is a small, quite recent memorial near the large sunken area where their remains lie.

Then, after a good dinner with Paul and Sue, with whom we shared our holiday on Harris last year we had one more nights rest before setting off to the TGO reunion dinner at the Snake Pass Inn on Saturday. I was delighted to find that the beer prices there still compare favourably with prices in the south (£2.50 for a pint as opposed to £2.90 here) so I set about saving as much money as I could ;-)

I would say that it was a splendid weekend, but on our return on Sunday we had some sad news. We walk a couple of dogs for the Cinnamon Trust, and one of our charges, a delightful black Labrador Retriever called Barney had died whilst we were away. We had been out with Barney the very morning that we set off and he had really enjoyed his last walk. Barney had been ill with cancer for some time, and it was a real shame that we weren't around to say goodbye. He was a cheerful chap who enjoyed life and got a lot out of his walks in the local forests - right up to the end. A lovely companion, we know his mistress will miss him.

Here he is, looking cheerful, wearing my TGO cap.

Barney - died 11th March 2011

Tilting at Windmills

Recently there has been a minor furore about the despoiling of the Monadhliath mountains by yet another clutch of turbines, this time on the Dunmaglass Estate. My old mate, Alan Sloman spoke on a local radio station earlier today about it.

By comparison with previous industrial excursions into our countryside some will no doubt argue that wind farms are relatively benign.This may be so when we consider previous industries that have flourished and died in the upland areas of the UK. Lead mining, copper mining, graphite, coal, iron ore, hydro power, aluminium smelting. And as for tall structures, consider Monsal Dale and the viaduct there – we think it a thing of beauty (as some romanticise wind turbines). Ruskin lamented the despoilation of a once pristine landscape. He wrote:

'There was a rocky valley between Buxton and Bakewell, once upon a time, divine as the Vale of Tempe... You Enterprised a Railroad through the valley - you blasted its rocks away, heaped thousands of tons of shale into its lovely stream. The valley is gone, and the Gods with it; and now, every fool in Buxton can be in Bakewell in half an hour, and every fool in Bakewell at Buxton; which you think a lucrative process of exchange – you Fools everywhere'.

How he hated that towering man made structure, the camps of the workers, the new tracks and roads to haul in the materials. Sound familiar? From Cornwall to the Severn, the Peak District to the Yorkshire coal fields and on through the Lake District and into Scotland, the story of the hills has as many chapters about industry as rural idyll. Just think about the old fences whose iron bones still march across the wildest of landscapes and we realise that most of our 'wild land' is more 'abandoned' land or 'currently unexploited'. Not really wild, and it hasn't been for hundreds, perhaps thousands of  years.

Industries rise and fall according to economics and the needs of the times. And when they fall, what remains? Except for opencast mining and quarrying, not very much usually. A few holes in the ground, lakes, mounds and hummocks, traces of disused railways, tracks and tramways, the odd structure for industrial archaeologists to get excited about. Indeed old slate mines, copper and lead mines, settlement pools and polluted spoil heaps and so on add greatly to the interest of many popular walks now – although at their height these areas were probably pretty unpleasant places to be if you were just after a quiet country stroll.

But I disagree with that view - at least as regards using it as an excuse for government sponsored industrialisation of the countryside.

Those old industries produced a real product, benefits and profits in an open market, whereas the benefits of wind power are largely an illusion born of wishful thinking. Its profits are created by manipulation of the energy market in pursuit of lessening  “anthropomorphic global warming”. Currently a warming trend exists for sure, but no-one really knows how much of it is man made, and what marginal effect a few windmills will have on it is somewhat debatable. Preparation for the increasing scarcity of fossil fuels is, in my view, the more important factor, and should be the real driving force in the search for new forms of energy. Indeed the current turmoil in the middle east underlines the importance of energy security. Unfortunately the entirely logical desire for energy security for the nation has been subverted by the green movement into some sort of quasi-religious quest for purity as well as power.

Back in 2007 Tony Blair, amongst sundry other misjudgements, commited the UK to generating 15% of our energy from renewable sources by 2020. That meant wind. What else was there that could be put in place in time? Was he condemned as a fool? Of course not. Rather he was cheered to the rafters by the green lobbyists to whom he was sucking up. And to my old green friends who now gaze with dismay at the ranks of turbines that bristle across our hills, I say that it only goes to prove the old adage: “Be careful what you wish for”.

Does anyone still display those “Nuclear Power, No Thanks” stickers? Maybe not, as to many people they look a little foolish as the great white pylons of the windfarms march across land and sea, but there are plenty of  activists around who are against, well, any attempt to produce power really. Look around and you will find activists preparing to battle against coal, nuclear, biomass, tidal. You name it and there's someone against it.

We all need electricity, but as every attempt to provide it is “environmentally destructive” in one way or another, there will always be someone, somewhere protesting. We all want the product, but no-one wants the factory.

Then we have the Kyoto Protocol which produced the bizarre idea of “carbon trading” and “carbon credits”. This is akin to the purchasing of pardons which once provided the mediaeval church with a rich source of income. Now, in the secular religion of Global Warming, carbon credits fulfil the same purpose and provide the priesthood of  “renewable energy producers” with the same riches.

In the case of Scotland this is especially lucrative as the executive there has ruled out any nuclear station on Scottish soil. Currently 20% of our electricity is produced by nuclear power stations - with zero emissions. My local nuclear station (Sizewell) alone can provide 3% of the entire power needed for the whole UK. This exceeds the real output of the entire wind industry from just one nuclear site.

Unfortunately this happy state of affairs will not last long. Thanks to the dash for green energy the greater proportion of our nuclear power stations are due for decommissioning, and conventional power stations too are being closed. This has left a seemingly unbridgeable gap between demand and supply. Suddenly nuclear is in vogue again, but it takes a long time to design and build a plant, although every nuclear site has both the land and the transmission cables right there on site. Worrying about losing the perceived green vote has led to over a decade of dithering and the potential loss of almost a fifth of our generating capacity.

Thus with gas and solid fuel power being CO2 unfriendly (and a dimishing resource anyway), nuclear output diminishing and solar and wave power negligible – what is left? Other than the pedalling the dynamo on my old Raleigh it seems that the only way to meet our obligations in a manner acceptable to the majority of urban greens is with wind (more sprouts anyone?).

You will note that I used the phrase “manipulation of the energy market” as opposed to “subsidy”. Wind power and renewables are not subsidised in the conventional sense. All electricity generation companies are required to generate a certain proportion of their power from sources designated as renewable, such as windpower, biomass, wave power etc. If a company falls short of this Renewables Obligation (RO) they have to pay a “buy-out” fine, which for 2010/2011 was set by Ofgem at £37 per MWh.

However, the Renewables Obligation that currently supports the wind industry need not, and will not be a permanent fixture. Here’s why.

The Price of Renewable Obligation Certificates

ROC prices are difficult to determine with certainty, because both electricity and the certificates are sold on an open market and the price fluctuates according to demand. Furthermore, electricity and ROCs are not always sold together. Representative prices can, however, be gauged from the figures published by the Non-Fossil Purchasing Authority Ltd and I give an example of how the system works below.

The prices achieved at auction for ROCs may seem to be very high, but recall that the fine for not having ROCs is itself high, plus, and this is a real hoot, anyone possessing ROCs at the end of the year is entitled to a share of the fines paid by other companies. You can see why the value goes up disproportionately. In fact, because electricity and ROCs can, legally, be sold separately, ROCs are freely traded and there is a lively speculative market. For example, a speculator might buy ROCs and electricity early in the year, selling the electricity on separately, but keeping the ROCs in the hope that the overall supply of renewable electricity would be low in that year, and that there would be suppliers desperate to meet their RO and willing to pay high prices for ROCs.

Can this be right?. Surely, you might think, a supplier has to actually sell renewably generated electricity to meet its RO. The answer, oddly, is that this isn’t necessary. All the power a supplier sells can come from a CO2 belching coal fired station, but provided that the supplier can buy sufficient ROCs on the open market the Renewables Obligation will have been met. This is perfectly legal, and exactly as the system is designed to work.

A Renewable Energy Station’s Income

So how much might a renewable electricity generator earn in a normal year? In the following calculations we will use £40 per MWh as an approximate wholesale electricity price, and the latest ROC price of £48.34*.

Let us imagine a 32 turbine wind farm somewhere in the UK. Assuming each turbine is of 2 MW, with a load factor of 0.241 (the "load factor" is the proportion of the time that a turbine actually turns, producing power) we can calculate the total likely output:

64 MW (total capacity) x 8760 (hours in a year) x 0.241 (Load factor) = 135,114 MWh.

Thus we can calculate the likely income from the RO system:

Electricity income: 135,114 MWh x £40 per MWh = £5,404,560
Renewable Obligation Income: 135,114 MWh x £48.34* per ROC = £6,531,410
Total Income: £11,935,970

* ROC auction price achieved Dec 2010 – source eROC.

Thus, we can see that electricity sales constitute only 45% of a renewable station’s income. The remaining 55%% comes from indirect subsidy. And if you think that is a large distortion, seven years ago, when electricity was cheaper, the figures were 30% from sales and 70% RO income.

Clearly, somebody has to pay for the RO system, and the answer is that it is you & me, the electricity consumers. The electricity suppliers are businesses trying to stay in the black, and since they have had to pay more for their electricity from the generators, because of the ROC premium, or have had to pay fines to Ofgem, they charge the customer more for their electricity.

The Climate Change Levy

The Climate Change Levy (CCL) is an additional tax on energy used by businesses (I know – it hardly makes our manufacturing base more competitive, but logic does not have much of a role in this Alice in Wonderland world). It was announced in the March 1999 budget, and implemented on the 1st of April 2001. In relation to electricity the CLL requires suppliers charge commercial customers (i.e. business not domestic - we plebs are charged indirectly) an extra 0.47p per kWh (i.e £4.70 per MWh), which monies are then remitted to the government – supposedly to be used to promote energy saving schemes.

Electricity produced from designated renewable sources is exempt from CCL, and is issued with exemption certificates which can be bundled with the power when sold to a supplier. Thus, the presence of a certificate allows the renewable generator to charge a premium price for renewable power. The reason for this is straightforward. If the electricity is exempt from CCL the supplier can either reduce the price of its power, thus passing the saving on to the customer and increasing its own competitiveness in the electricity market. Or, it can charge the customer full CCL and add the difference to its own operational margin. In either case, the presence of a CCL Exemption Certificate is worth something to the supplier, and the generator can therefore charge more for a MWh from a renewable source

The levy exemption certificate (LEC) is the climate change levy imposed on commercial sales of electricity. Renewable energy is exempt from this charge and the renewable generators can negotiate a proportion of this value for each unit produced, at approximately £2.30 per megawatt hour.

Clearly, however, it could go up to a much larger proportion of the £4.70 per MWh. A renewable generator might manage to achieve somewhere around 67% of the value of the certificate, or £3.15. Thus, we can add this to our calculation for the 135 MW wind power station above, assuming that the premium would be achievable on rougly 66% of the power sold (domestic electricity is roughly 33% of total electricity):

Climate Change Levy: 135,114 MWh x 0.66 (proportion of electricity assumed to be commercial) x £3.15 per MWh (CCL premium) = £280,902.

 A nice little bonus.


Are the Subsidies Worth It?

The market for renewable energy is an artificial one created and maintained by government legislation. When the wind-power industry claims that onshore wind generation is not subsidized, and that it is self-supporting, it is indulging in sophistry. It is true that, owing to the higher capital cost of Offshore Wind Turbine Power Stations, an additional direct subsidy is offered to promote their construction, and that this capital grant is not available to onshore wind. However, the fact that the ROC subsidy is indirect and does not pass through government hands (it’s Ofgem) does not make it any less of a subsidy. Without government legislation creating the Renewables Obligation and Climate Change Levy system this source of income would be unavailable to the wind-power industry.

1. Onshore wind is very significantly over subsidised.

2. The Renewables Obligation is a very expensive way to save CO2, and it doesn't save very much anyway.

3. The RO entirely fails to distinguish between technologies of varying merits.

4. Wind is of the least use at periods of  highest demand - only 0.2pc of a the "theoretical" 5pc of the UK's energy was generated by wind turbines during January's cold snap, when high pressure meant an overall lack of wind.

The great lie that "renewable energy" is somehow "free"  has been swallowed hook line and sinker, wheras in fact 30% of our electricity costs are squandered paying for and propping up these woefully inefficient generators. I think the best laugh I had whilst researching subsidies was the spanish solar generator, which achieved spectacular output figures (and millions in green subsidy as a result). Until some beancounter noticed that much of the output was generated at night - in total darkness. Of course, the scam was that they were buying conventionally generated electricity, and selling it on as highly subsidised and profitable solar. How reprehensible. How very like our domestic wind industry selling ROCs!

Now, if you’re still here and haven’t dozed off yet, you might be wondering where this leaves my pet nuclear power (zero emissions etc etc). If you read the Grauniad you might have been persuaded by their somewhat partisan contributors that nuclear energy is too expensive and has no part to play. The wholesale price of electricity would have to be at least £70 per Mwh for it to be viable they assert.

Just revisit the figures given above for wind power and factor in the fact that the nuclear industry has no RO certification. That's right  - none. It may be CO2 free, just like all its other zero carbon competitors, but receives absolutely no "green" subsidy whatsoever. Now move the wind subsidy over to the nuclear chaps, now add in the directly paid subsidy for the construction costs of offshore wind. Suddenly it makes sense now, eh? CO2 free electricity whether the wind blows or not, and no more windmills required.

There is a balance to be struck between all the sources of energy, for sure, and I am not suggesting that we should go completely nuclear (as some readers are probably going right now!) but the energy field is far from level. It has been deliberately skewed because a bunch of gullible politicos signed us up to Kyoto – which I suspect many of those now weeping over the consequences supported wholeheartedly. The imbalances must be redressed, and until this happens halting the odd development here and there is as futile as bailing out the Titanic with an egg cup.

The representations need to be to parliament to revise the ludicrous system of reward to favoured low carbon generators, irrespective of their real effectiveness in satisfying the nation’s energy needs.

Frankly, and I say this with regret, the amusing idea of carting a coffin past a deserted Dunmaglass Lodge for the entertainment of a couple of bemused gardeners and the caretaker, is unlikely to change anything. A revision of government policy – for good solid economic and strategic reasons – will make a difference. It takes longer to achieve, and isn’t nearly as much fun as a bonfire, however, it is ultimately effective and the effect is permanent. This is politics, and it will take time, but, as I remarked earlier, industries come and go. As more renewable energy becomes available the RO certificates will diminish in value. So why not make nuclear equivalent with wind etc?

Our politicians finally woke up in 2008 (better late than never, eh?) to the stark fact that the dash for wind and wave power was just that - puff and wind - and nuclear energy is, belatedly, back on the agenda. Not that anyone dared admit it. But at least in my neck of the woods there is a proposal for the long delayed Sizewell C, which would, together with the planned units at Hinkley Point, contribute 13% of UK electricity in the early 2020s. Ten years hence. Yes, it will take over a decade to make up the lost ground, longer if our politicians wobble when the inevitable protests start.

So what of the current commitment to wind?

I would like nuclear energy to get similar benefits from the subsidy system that wind does now. That would transform the industry (mind you, the envirozealots at the Grauniad fulminate at the very idea - better industrialise the whole countryside than peel that sticker off their 2CV or GWhiz). Refurbishing and re-equipping the less viable windfarms, will be then be found to be uneconomical - they just couldn't achieve the output required to justify the capital outlay.

And so maybe, in time, many will be dismantled, leaving a few concrete piers sinking slowly into the peat, and the contours of the old haul roads too, slowly disappearing. Just another chapter in the long and rich industrial life of upland Britain. It may not happen in our lifetime, but it surely will. And the windfarmers will follow the quarrymen, the miners, the foresters, the blast furnace men, the drovers …

… and nostalgic old men will sadly say “I can remember when all this was windmills, and look at it now – just wilderness … wilderness …”