A Winter Walk

It was a very cold January morning in 2001. I stood at the end of the cult-de-sac of Bowood Crescent, arm in arm of my ex-girlfriend, Julie, and standing next to us was my best friend, Alan. Moments later, a hearse carrying the body of my fourteen-year old son, Geoffrey Junior, made its way towards us. A sensational shiver went through my body, a feeling that I had never felt before, and one that almost sent me to my knees. My twelve-year old daughter, Kerry, came to investigate, and as I looked into her eyes I could see the image of the child that had just lost something very dear indeed. Within two hours the body of my son was laid to rest in the grounds of ‘St Laurence’s Church, Northfield.

During the following days I was completely lost for comfort. All I wanted was to be rid of sympathetic friends and family interfering with my life. Whilst sitting in my living room of the 9th floor of ‘Browning Tower, I counted the money that I had on me and what was due from recent work done. A total of £350 was sufficient enough to take a week long hike somewhere away from interfering nuisances. The only downfall was that it was in the middle of a bitingly cold winter. Although I had not gone on a real hike for almost a decade I still often camped out at the ‘Lickey Hills near to where I live. I still had a small tent and a mini calor stove, the very two items that served me so well during my summer hikes of 1990 and 1991. Searching through my cubby-hole for camping gear I selected the utmost requirements that would see me through the cold, dark nights in the wilds of wherever I intended to go. After getting tipsy again on strong beer I reached for my phone and called Jane, a friend from Ayr who regularly called me up for a chat. She was already aware of the death of my son and had told me to visit her in Scotland when I am in the area. I informed her of my plan for the next week or so, and like the rest of my friends she was against the idea of me sleeping in the cold, especially in the West of Scotland where the snow was falling at regular intervals. She offered me a room for a few nights if I was to visit her and her family, and I duly agreed that I would board a train to Ayr on the Friday morning of January 19th 2001.

Without leaving so much as a note to any of my friends I locked the door of my flat and took the lift to the ground floor. With my red backpack once again strapped securely to my anatomy it was time to visit the fields of Britain’s gracious lands. Paul, the concierge guard at the flat, noticed the backpack and asked if I was camping.

“Yes, I’m fucking off for a few days to Scotland.”

“Surely you’re not camping out in this? It’s pissing snow up there.”

“I know Paul, but I can handle it.”

Paul, as were a lot of my friends, was well aware of my weekend tours of the local forests where I often camped on my own, even in the winter. The truth is, is that I prefer to camp out in the snow more than any other elements of the weather. But living in the middle of England, snow is as rare as the English soccer team making it past the first week of a major football tournament. And with Scotland covered in the stuff, it made sense to hike the foothills of the Highlands, or so I thought.

I gave Paul instructions to inform anyone who came to visit me that I wouldn’t be back for at least a week. I didn’t want people to think that I had done something stupid, due to the fact that I wouldn’t be out and about in the area. Not telling them that I was going away was because I didn’t want to hear the advice from anyone who claimed to know better than me, regarding sleeping out in the cold. This way I would be free of people telling me what to do and where to go. I am going away to forget the hellhole of this shithole of Birmingham.

At least the sun was shining on the Friday morning when I arrived at New Street Station for my trip to Ayrshire. The open return fare of £90 almost sent me to my knees, but I had made up my mind by now and there was no turning back. I sat on Platform 6 and waited for twenty minutes until the 10.35am train rolled slowly towards me. A few faces stared in my direction; perhaps fascinated by the backpack and sleeping bag that was attached to my body. Eventually, an elderly chap who was wearing an old tartan flat cap came and sat by me whilst our carriage emptied itself of alighting commuters.

“Yer noo camping out in this arr Yee fella?” he said, in a deep Glasgow accent.

“Yes I am.”

“And where arr Yee goin?”

“To Ayr.”

“Bloody hell pal. It’s six feet under with snow.”

I smiled at him as if I was some sort of expert in Artic survival.

“I’ve camped out in very deep snow before, and I am well aware of the apparent danger.”

The truth is, I actually am a bit of a dab hand when it comes to roughing it in poorer weather. I have stayed out in the countryside during the winter on many occasions during the past few years, although it has been local to where I live. I have also taken either one of my brothers or a friend who also liked the outdoors. But here in Scotland, I was attempting something a little more extreme. My plan was to stay at Jane’s home for only one night, and from there I would make my way to Dumfries, or wherever I decide would have the most snow. I am rigged out pretty well for the cold nights, but I certainly am not a Ray Mears or a Bear Grylls. As long as I don’t go hiking up any mountain range in the Highlands, then I should be fine. Besides, I am dossing in woodland areas, and that means a lot of wood to burn.

“Om goin tee Glasgow too,” said my new found friend, Tommy. “Dee yer mind if arr sit with ya?”

“No,” I said, politely. “I’d be glad of the company.”

The truth is, I would have preferred to be alone for the five-hour trip but Tommy was easily in his late seventies and he may well have been a war veteran, and I love war veterans. Also, the ticket that I had on me was for the cheaper route, and that meant that I would have to change at Preston for the Kilmarnock bound train. I informed Tommy of my route, and thanks to the heavens, he would be staying on the Inverness bound train that we were just about to board.

“Grab a seat pal, will ya?” said Tommy. “I need ta teek a pee.”

While Tommy went to the toilet I found suitable seats at the front of our second class carriage, which also had a large area for resting my backpack where I could also keep an eye on it. I then stripped down to my t-shirt and made myself comfortable. Although the temperature outside was no more than two degrees Celsius, it was closer to that of the planet Mercury inside the train. I was also sitting in a carriage where smoking was allowed, as it wouldn’t be another four years before a complete smoking ban on public transport came into law. Unfortunately, because of the death of my son, I went back on the cigarettes after many years of being smoke free,

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 01.06.2016
ISBN: 978-3-7396-6087-5

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Widmung:
Thanks to Silvia, Jane, and all the other people who cared for me on my journey. And to 'Shields - RIP.