solo explorer

A SOLO STAY IN THE WOODS

| sophiekemsley

“You’re never really alone in the woods…”

These words were said during a recent talk I attended by a wonderful local author, Simon Pollard. The sentence does sound a bit like the premise to a low budget slash-horror movie. Blair Witch springs to mind.

“…how can you be, when you’re surrounded by so many different living species, including the trees.”

I went on to learn from him that trees have heartbeats, albeit very slow ones. I was amazed by that (though probably wouldn’t want to admit to my tree surgeon brother that I hadn’t been aware of it before).

I’ve always adored and appreciated nature, even though I often feel that I know so little about it. Sometimes I feel that that makes me a bit of a fraudulent fan, but you don’t need to be able to identify every tree or be literate in compostable irrigation to truly enjoy it.

All you really need to do, is observe it, in every sense. To look at it. Hear it. Feel it. Inhale it. And yeah, you can taste it too… but you kinda need to know what you’re doing if you want to go down that route. I certainly don’t, but a foraging course with somebody who does is definitely on the bucket list.

You also need to treat it with the same respect you’d give any other living being. Don’t do any harm to it, and let it simply be itself.

I had a week off work and knew I needed a change of scene rather than be in the same flat I work from every day, but I didn’t really fancy going too far away. I found a gorgeous bell tent on Air BnB in a village 20 minutes from home and decided to head there for a few days to focus on my writing and do some new blog posts, like this one.

The description of the site included a lot of words like “remote” and “secluded”. To some people these are scary words, and in normal life, they are to me as well, but for this purpose, they were perfect.

To get there I needed to drive along a number of tiny country lanes that I’d never been down before despite having lived so close to them for years. It was late afternoon on the hottest day in June, and the sun was beating down a golden glow over the Syndale Valley. I could only catch quick glimpses as I was too paranoid about having a head-on collision with a tractor, but whenever I did, I felt a similar glow within.

I was greeted by a very sunny, cheerful lady – the BnB owner – and was then left to my own devices in what was definitely a remote, secluded location in the woods. But it didn’t feel like it. Anything but, actually.

There were birds. Lots and lots of them. I can’t tell you what they were because I’m no ornithologist, but maybe somebody who is can identify them for me from the below phonetics:

“Twiddlywoowootwit” (or maybe they were just insulting me, I guess I am a bit of a twit at times).

“Twt. Twt. Twt. Twt. Twt” (okay. There’s no need to labour the point!)

“mmmHMMHMM,hmmhmm” (fairly sure that one’s a wood pigeon. Think I know that one. Either that or it’s just a bird agreeing with all the other ones that spoke before it. B***h).

Having been sufficiently besmirched by my bird friends I wandered down to the meadow like the cheerful lady had recommended, and came across a gate which opens up to a beautiful looking valley. I wasn’t driving and there were no tractors to worry about at this point, so I could really afford to take it all in.

What a peaceful, glorious, hidden gem in the heart of Kent. A giant golden ingot in the middle of nowhere.

A few miles away from here, people are currently jammed on the ring road in Maidstone. A few miles in the other direction, they’re at the Costa drive-through in Sittingbourne, taking in breathtaking views of the Eurolink industrial estate . In Ashford, they’re steadfastly opening the windows on the High Speed trains in desperation for air.

And I guess I can’t leave out my hometown, Faversham, as the fourth corner in the urban rectangle that surrounds this field. In Faversham, they’re shoo’ing off the seagulls from swooping down to steal rashers of bacon off any more plates (as I’d witnessed earlier that day. And yes I laughed, because it didn’t happen to me, and I’m mean).

Back to the valley, and I just can’t fathom how a patch of land as magical as this exists and can feel so far away from the above, despite being so close.

I think about my love for Kent, and how it grows every day… or at least when I’m out discovering new parts of it. Watford was a great place to grow up, but its presence on my birth certificate is a bit like a dodgy tattoo that you try and cover with your fingers when anyone asks to see it. Kent feels more like home to me.

I walk into some dense woodland where I see a group of silhouettes in the distance. Sheep and goats, all gathered underneath the trees to escape the heat. They look at me suspiciously as I approach, and then start noisily BAA-ing to one another.

They’re probably insulting me too.

I walk in the other direction and see one standing completely alone.

“Were they rude to you, as well?” I’m tempted to ask, until he starts baa-ing at me too. I point in the direction of his friends in case he’s a bit lost but he’s reluctant to move.

Probably wants some space from them all.

I enjoy my explore, even if I have now been insulted by two different species and shredded my legs on a number of stinging nettles. It’s peaceful, and the surroundings are authentic. Authenticity is one of my favourite qualities, in anything – people, music, food – and it’s especially present in nature.

Magic happens when you just let something be its true self. To grow in the way it’s meant to. Stifle that for any reason, and you’re just left with something very underwhelming.

These trees have grown in the way they’re meant to, knobbly trunks and all. Those thistles didn’t grow with the help of a watering can, but with rain and sunlight. They haven’t been trimmed back. In nature, everything is as it intended to be.

I spend the rest of the evening writing away apart from having a small break to take an outdoor bath, an experience I recommend everyone do. I see a few planes overhead. One of them is flying from London to Tokyo, and I imagine all the passengers up there, 300 snippets of chitter chatter, and all the cutlery clitter-clatter.

But it doesn’t drown out the volume of the birds, as they flap against the bell tent and continue to insult me, a temporary guest in their home. I see a mouse run out from underneath the washroom, take one look at me, and scuttle away. Bit like some of those Tinder dates.

My heart smiles.

No, you’re never really alone in the woods. Try it.

WANDERING. WONDERING. WHEREVER.

| sophiekemsley

I could try, but I’m not sure I’d ever be able to put it more clearly and succinctly than Jessica Vincent in the opener to ‘The Best British Travel Writing of the 21st Century’:

“The essence of travel isn’t to move, it‘s to feel”

In my younger years, I had a very – in hindsight – generic and somewhat quite privileged view of travel. Get away from Watford! Go as far as you can go! See as much as you can see! Base the bucket list on a collection of landmarks so often read about – Niagara Falls, Angkor Wat et al – all out there to tick off like some kind of checklist from the Dorling Kindersley atlas that had fascinated me as a young child.

Yet, looking back, it was never the famous landmarks or the ‘ticking things off’ that made the biggest impressions during the more intrepid trips of my younger years. More often than not, they were impersonal experiences featuring crowds, tacky souvenirs, and overpriced ice-creams. It took me a long time to understand why these outings – though lovely and memorable in their own way – had seemed a bit underwhelming. I realised that the curated nature of these experiences – all designed to draw in and satisfy baying tourists – had led to an absence of feeling. I saw, but I didn’t really feel, to be honest, as it seemed like all the true facets of the culture I was visiting had been cloaked by consumerism. And for something to make a lasting impression, whatever it is, you need it to be authentic. That’s why nature never fails:

Over time, I’ve realised that distance – and even place – won’t necessarily determine how much of an impact a trip will have.  The only reason we think they do is because invariably when we head further away than what we’re used to, we are more likely to see many landscapes and cultures for the first time, and this evokes the same level of intrigue as when we ever experienced anything else for the first time, home or away. Consider how excitable infants get over the smallest and most mundane things when they first see them – a curtain to hide behind, the way toilet paper unwinds if you roll it along a floor, a lifelike image moving on a flat screen. We get older and these things become less exciting, and it becomes harder to find anything new in the day to day, so instead we might turn to maps and identify all the places we haven’t seen yet.

And to some degree that works, but when it comes to it, it’s never really the places that matter but the special moments they’ve conjured, as those are when you really feel things. Away from home, these moments may look like inspiring conversations with people you’ll probably never see again, the scents of local spices, getting lost at night and managing to navigate your way back to an air bnb with an awkward lock, or the heartbreaking sight of a young mother placing her wailing toddler into the doorway of a bus that sits stationery in the traffic which chokes an Asian capital. She rhythmically shakes a plastic bottle filled with uncooked rice to make her little girl ‘dance’ – although it’s really a tearful stomp – in exchange for cash from commuters who pretend not to notice that either of them are crying.

These moments affect us because they stretch our senses to places they’ve never been, and see things in a way we’ve never seen. These moments are – as Vincent describes – ‘the essence of travel’, when it’s not just our feet that our moving but most crucially our minds, too.

And when you put it this way, it’s not wrong to think that ‘traveling’ should be about going somewhere far away, but it’s also not wrong to think that you can experience it much closer to home, too. Even from your lounge. An open mind and a few dashes of curiosity is all it takes. A willingness to let those same senses be stretched, even if it’s uncomfortable at times.

To open the eyes to their fullest. To welcome in sights and sounds that may forever change the way you think. To never say never, and to keep wanting to see more in order to open up these opportunities.

Because, like Vincent says, if travel isn’t about movement but about feeling, then let’s go and feel it all, now, wherever we are.

Song of the Day: Hey Marseilles – Rio

I think this is a really beautiful song and probably one of my all time favourites. I first came across it many years ago and loved what I interpreted it to mean. Older now, I interpret the meaning in a different way – which closely aligns with the content of this month’s post – and love it even more.

S-PEAKING WITH A MOUNTAIN

| sophiekemsley

There is a particularly famous Chinese proverb which we are probably all familiar with:

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

We can probably all see it right now, written in a swooshy font, pasted over a picture of a mountain range or the sole of a battered old hiking boot stepping off into a sunset, and posted somewhere within our social media newsfeeds. It’s arguably so over saturated a quote, that the impact has probably been diluted over the years. Yet, as I stood at the foot of Moel Siabod – the tenth highest mountain in Snowdonia – looking up in slight dismay at the height of the summit I was aiming for, that very same proverb was one of the first things to spring to mind, and it set me on my way. Albeit quite gingerly at first.

I was walking the mountain alone, a context which I knew wasn’t ideal but which was also a driver behind the determination to do it. I had been debating with myself for a while and the internal dialogue had gone something like this:

“Could I do it?”
“…Maybe it’s safer not to. Go for a coffee and do some writing, instead!”
“Okay then, I’ll do the mountain.”

(Writing and coffee almost always win, usually)

I wasn’t completely naive to the challenge and risk of doing a mountain hike alone, and carried out a fair amount of research beforehand, equipping myself with all the right safety gear for if I were to get stuck: first aid kit, plenty of extra food, an emergency whistle, bright attire to be visible to rescue services, a power pack to charge my phone, and a headtorch for if I were to get stranded into nightfall. All the gear, and definitely some idea, although it’s also fair to admit that despite this I’d still underestimated quite how challenging the walk would be. Having done Snowdon several times I thought I’d have no trouble with a smaller mountain, and that was rookie mistake number one. The height is one thing, the accessibility is something completely different. In selecting to ascend Moel Siabod via the eastern Daear Du ridge I’d chosen a route which would involve a lot more physical challenge than I was expecting. This walk required hands as well as feet, but I wouldn’t realise that until way too late. Nor did I realise that I would be the only person climbing this particular mountain that morning. The security of there being other people around had been something I’d naively banked upon, but it was an off-season weekday and I may as well have had the whole thing to myself.

I left my car in Pont Cyfyng and crossed the river, past Rhos Farm, to begin my ascent to a peak I’d been told gave way to some of the finest views of Snowdonia. I’d naturally gravitated towards choosing Moel Siabod for my solo hike. It was close to where I’d been staying in Betws-y-Coed and the route back afterwards would take me past Ty Hyll – the famous ‘Ugly House’ – which a friend had told me was great for cake. Not only that, but it was also close to Dyffryn Farm, the subject of ‘I Bought a Mountain’ and home of the incredibly inspiring Esme Kirby who I had been writing about only a couple of months earlier. Moel Siabod. Alone. It just had to be.

The first couple of hours went by without too much drama, following a steep, boggy and almost waterfall-like in parts path that ran along the left hand side of the mountain. It was strenuous at times and incredibly wet, but I could see where I needed to go at least and that was half the battle won. I kept thinking about the peanut butter and marmite bagel I had in my bag and how despite my lingering hunger I’d save it for the summit, when it would taste even better than it would on terra firma. Food – fuel in more ways than one – the prospect of it keeping me going.


I reached the Daear Du ridge in tired but high spirits. Between lashings of heavy rain and snow there had been gorgeous outbreaks of sunshine that had illuminated the landscape and were able to transform the neighbouring Llyn y Foel lake from a pit of ominous bubbling treacle to a shimmering cobalt masterpiece. Now that I was at the ridge the summit was surely within sight, and that bagel would shortly be out of its foil and exposing itself to the elements… and my mouth.

Except it wasn’t that straightforward, as I had absolutely no idea how to progress along the ridge. A clear pathway was no longer visible; replaced instead with a bunch of rocks and boulders of numerous different shapes of sizes that made it harder to see the way beyond. All I could do to navigate my way was to try and move myself ever-further in the direction of the summit, and hopefully that would work. I pulled myself up the first boulder and just knew it was going to be a long couple of hours to the summit. I knew I was in roughly the right place, but had no idea if the particular boulders I chose to climb were right. It’s fair to say I went down a few proverbial rabbit holes: routes that turned out not to be routes, dead ends, insurmountable rocks, and numerous U-turns. And these seemed to go on for ages. In blizzards of snow which only obscured my vision and froze my fingers further. I was getting tired, frustrated and hungrier.

There were several points at which I sat down and sighed, and deliberated eating my bagel early. It was during these moments that I started to think that maybe I had made a massive mistake in trying to do this alone. At times I felt completely stuck and was convinced that this wasn’t going to end well; either a sheepish (no pun intended) call to Mountain Rescue or worse, my carrion-pecked corpse being discovered weeks or months later, a half eaten bagel disintegrated into the dirt beside me. I considered recording a note on my phone for my family, to explain what had happened and how I was sorry for being so stupid to have come on this walk alone. It sounds far-fetched now; yet at the time it felt so very real. My story had a (spoiler alert) happy ending but a lot of others don’t, and for all the wonders of climbing mountains, it’s important to consider at all times just how dangerous they can be too. Rescues are carried out across Snowdonia virtually every day, and tragically, not all of them are successful.

I had three options. Either I try and go back on myself and head home, call Mountain Rescue for assistance off the ridge, or I just carry on. I knew what I wanted to do, but had to consider whether it was the safest or most responsible thing. Almost immediately, I judged that it was the best option. To go back on myself would involve a risky and steep descent back to the main path and at least two hours walking back, not to mention a feeling of disappointment and failure. To call Mountain Rescue felt a bit unnecessary just yet, and could divert them from greater emergencies elsewhere. I had to just do this. I just had to do this.

At the same time I heard the voice of society within:
“You shouldn’t have done this on your own” it said, “especially not as a woman. What were you thinking?!”
It was hard not to see the point of the imaginary voice in my head. What had I been thinking? If I’d had somebody with me, we would have been able to problem-solve together. Maybe they’d have been able to see the path I’d clearly failed to see. Maybe a big, strong man would have been able to plough on ahead to work out the route and come back to give me a lift-up and encouragement when I needed it.

Or maybe those internal voices are just a manifestation of messages that have been pushed upon soloists – especially female ones – by society for decades. And maybe I needed to shove a dummy in its mouth. In my own head, at least.

I promptly sought out the biggest rock around me and dragged myself up onto it. Then the next one. And the next. I was tired, a bit delirious, and still not sure I was going the right way, but knew that to keep on going was my only choice. Bagel or no bagel, I had to keep moving. The summit may have felt like a thousand miles away, but with every single step west, I was getting closer to it. There would – nor could – be any turning back.

Heavy winds and further snow blizzards set in. They weren’t ideal but the feet and hands I’d previously doubted weren’t failing me, mainly thanks to decent boots and gloves. I was finally progressing along the ridge that I’d thought was going to be my nemesis. Step by step. Rock by rock. One step at a time – that’s all it needed to be. In weather I couldn’t control but just needed to endure.

And then there it was. The trig point marking the summit of Moel Siabod. The finest trig point I’ve ever seen, even if I was too frozen to appreciate it fully. I had made it – I think. My head was completely spun and didn’t feel too sure of anything anymore. Until I turned round and saw the most beautiful rainbow above a snow-capped mountain range:

This may sound a self-congratulatory post, it’s not meant to be. Thousands of people climb mountains every day. Instead, it’s about some of the concepts that arose from the trek and how they can apply to many things in life, something a friend recently described beautifully as ‘symmetries of nature’.

A mountain can seem huge and daunting but when broken down into single steps, not so much.
Equally, we can’t control the weather; but we can control whether we choose to carry on throughout. A glove here; a waterproof jacket there – there are things we can do to adapt – and the heaviest of rain and greyest of skies will often lead only to the most beautiful rainbows. One of the most aesthetically pleasing presentations of the weather is only able to occur because of another that is so often maligned – how wonderful is that? A tough climb makes for an even sweeter summit.

To descend from the mountain I followed a much simpler path on the western side that led down to the village of Capel Curig, affording wonderful views of Llynau Mymbyr and Dyffryn Farm looking down on it. By this point, the cake was almost in sight, and I was feeling that I had really earned it. I was proud to have reached the summit and arguably even more so for having done it alone. Had it really been unwise to do so? I’m not so sure it was. They say there’s safety in numbers but sometimes I think that’s a bit of an illusion; maybe company would have been a distraction, maybe we’d have been so ensconced in gossip that we misplaced a foot and took a nasty tumble, maybe we would have relied on each other too much and underestimated the scale of the challenge, leaving behind the safety gear. Maybe one of us would have slipped whilst trying to give the other a leg-up. Maybe that’s a lot of maybes.

Maybe it’s not always black and white.

I’ll think about Moel Siabod forever.