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."