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."