Camping Solo, Day One.

For the first time since my late teens I've been camping on my own. It wasn't through choice; no-one would come with me!

It's very different travelling alone. People talk to you for a start.  If you are in a couple they find this more difficult as you don't appear as open to an approach, and it's twice as risky engaging with two people who you might have to keep encountering.

I arrived at dusk at Usha Gap in Swaledale, which is an annual pilgrimage that I usually make with my brother. There was an old VW camper in my usual spot next to Muker Beck, and for a moment I thought my brother had changed his mind and come anyway, but, if it was him, he'd got a new girlfriend and German licence plates! They were a retired couple. The lady looked Swedish in an Abba sort of way and we exchanged news. Her husband (stocky and bearded) was more reticent, possibly because his English wasn't so good.

The only other tent was occupied by a young couple who appeared to be on their honeymoon. I only ever saw them in their pyjamas and the young lass never stopped giggling (and I mean never!) I'm sure they thought I was a strange fish; possibly a pervert, so I put my car between my tent and theirs and set off for supper at the Farmers' Arms, which turned out to be shut, it being nine thirty on a Sunday night. Luckily I had food with me and it was still light; much lighter than at home; 200 miles makes a lot of difference to daylight length.

The evening was completely calm and still and, even after ten pm I could see all around. The beck-side was lined with the shining white stars of wild garlic (called "ramps" in these parts, probably short for rampions.) Meanwhile Jupiter appeared in a moonless sky as the stars emerged one by one. Dozens of bats patrolled the narrow woodland that borders the beck and a woodcock circled low, like a big black moth making wide figures of eight in slow motion. Curlews and oystercatchers called from the hills and an owl hooted from the campsite. I sat on a wall and watched and listened for an hour before turning in. Everything was familiar and I was a part of it, more so because I was alone.

Wild trout

Monday morning dawned bright and clear and still there was no wind. Siskins fed in the alders and bird cherries while swallows zoomed about to pick up flies to take back to their young in the cow byre. Spotted flycatchers flitted out from the trees and danced among the midges while a common sandpiper bobbed among the beck-stones looking for bigger flies. This is why I love camping, when you wake up and you are already at your destination; the place you want to be. I could have stayed right there all day, but I was on a mission.

Muker

The first thing I needed to achieve was to catch a trout, then I could get on with birdwatching and botanising. Having got up so early, I realised that I had time to dawdle so I drove slowly down-dale to the post office in Reeth to get a fishing permit and a sandwich. Then I dawdled on the way back, making a detour up Arkengarthdale and then over the grouse moors to Low Row and Gunnerside. This route always produces great scenery and a few birds. This time was no exception and, using the car as a hide, I was able to take photographs of lapwings, grouse and oystercatchers that did not need to be cropped afterwards. I failed to see a wheatear or a ring-ouzel but I was not too worried as I had already photographed them as they migrated through Cambridgeshire in May. Unexpectedly, a golden plover rose from the rut at the side of the little moorland road, very near to the famous water-splash that was used in the opening titles of the TV series of "All Creatures Great and Small". The bird sped off, twisting left and right, just inches above the heather.

I won't bore you with a long account of my morning's attempt to catch a trout, except to explain, by way of an excuse, that the river was really low following a dry season. Fortunately two things made up for this: the angling club had stocked the river with fresh trout and a recent shower had put enough peat into the water to colour it up and make it just about fishable.

Approaching Muker

I caught my first trout on a tiny floating fly made from grey duck feathers that are so greasy they won't sink.  It was a proper wild trout, maybe eight or nine inches long. I spent ages trying to get another one to take and eventually swapped my floating fly for a sinking nymph. That worked too, but only once. This trout was much bigger. In fact it was the biggest one I have ever caught in the river there, and that's because it was from a trout farm.

It seems a bit ungrateful of me, but I'd rather they didnt put fish like this in the river. In fact, it would be much better not to stock it at all and then manage the river and its tributaries for the benefit of wild trout. At least this was a British brown trout. I was told that the club had also put in some tiger trout to see how they would get on. This is really not the right way to go. Tiger trout are farm-bred hybrids between brown trout and American brook trout, which belong to the char family. The offspring are supposed to be sterile, which I really hope is true as these fish can grow to be very predatory and will take out native small fish, including the fry of wild trout.


I wore myself out thrashing the water and walking the banks while wearing waders, so I made my way back to the campsite for a brew-up. I really wanted a nap, but had set my heart on some birdwatching before trying the pub at dusk. I walked the footpath to the village and then on to Ramps Holme Bridge and diagonally up the steep slope of Ivelet Side through dense woods of hazel, birch and alder. In my mind I was suddenly back in the dwarf forest of Arctic Norway where I saw bluethroats, redwings, fieldfares, redpolls, wheaters, ring ouzels and reindeer. They would all do well here, but what I was hoping for was a red squirrel. As far as I know there are no grey squirrels this far up the dale, yet I found masses of hazel nuts that had been neatly split in half.



The pub turned out to be very busy and no table was available, but I was given a number and a pint of Black Sheep that I took outside hoping to see my woodcocks flying about again. I was distracted by the swallows swifts and martins that were gathered above the pub. Some of them were collecting mud from the road while others swooped upwind to catch flies, right over my head. I managed to photograph a few of them before the light went, then, when I had a table indoors, I looked through them. Blow me down! One of the swallows was carrying a stick! Apparently they use sticks, plants and feathers to reinforce their nests which are mostly made of mud.

Being alone and engrossed in my camera, I soon attracted a bit of attention from a couple nearby, and that's how the evening went on. I was passed from one couple to another to chat about local wildlife. Everyone I spoke to just loved the place.

There is a bit of a secret (apart from the beer) as to why people get so talkative at the Farmers' Arms: Firstly they don't have any mobile phone reception and secondly, if you search for a Wi-Fi point on your device you find the message "No wi-fi here. You will just have to talk to each other".