Of Wind and Waves

                             I had a cunning plan.  It was the tail end of the year, 1989. I was attending a three month Outdoor Education Course at Plas y Brenin in North Wales. All six of us students were to be sent on our Solo Experience. We were to find an isolated place and spend 24 hours on our own. It was a time for us to reflect on things. We were to take a journal and write about our thoughts; spontaneity and eclecticism were to be encouraged. We were to step away from the maelstrom of society and experience aloneness. When I had looked at the schedule for the course; the calendar which included such things as rock climbing, kayaking, map reading, sailing and other varieties of hard skills, this had seemed an incongruous part of the course. It was even less evident of worth when we had it explained to us. But then, Dear Friends, I was more of a concrete thinking Neanderthal in those days.

When the time came to pick our places of isolation, I chose to make the ascent of Pen-yr-oleu-wenn, move across the ridge and down a gulley where I would camp for the night. There would be little chance of running into anybody else there. The ascent of this 3,000 foot peak is quite steep but it does come straight up from the convenient road at Lynn Ogwen. It was not that I would have to trek over miles of boggy moor before starting the climb. I was looking forward to it. I had a full pack, tent, sleeping bag, plenty food and water and, most importantly, a good book which I had just begun to read. It was slow going up, the pack was heavy, my legs felt it, my lungs were tested and I sweated. All eased when I found the ridge and took a downward trek to the left into a heather clad gulley. As I remember, the weather was November because, well, it was November. There was wind, there was always wind. There was mist and there were waves of rainy squalls which were sweeping in from the coast some 20 miles away. I did not have to travel too far before I found a spot by a stream and set up camp. A cup of tea soon brewed and, despite the day still being relatively early, I was stretched out in my sleeping bag and luxuriating in my book. I supposed that the other 5 students were doing exciting things wherever they were; whittling on sticks; exploring rock pools on the seashore; just generally familiarising themselves with their environment. Not for me. I was warm, I was cozy. The wind gently rustled the tent. Occasionally there was a squall and the wind flapped and billowed the canvas. But I was snug and dry. It was with some difficulty that I dragged myself away from my read and cooked myself some supper.

I slept well that night but I was reluctant to decamp and leave the following morning. I had to climb back up to the ridge and was resolved not to take the same route down the mountain but to go down the north side of the saddle until I hit the road and walked the few miles back to Capel Curig and back to the outdoor centre at Plas y Brenin.

But the wind got stronger, the squalls seemed to get longer and the rain moved from the vertical to the horizontal. I could find no path so I was soon slurping my way through boggy peat with all the demands that that put on my legs and shoulders. What I had anticipated as being a rhythmical march back to the road had become a mud clogged, flopping stagger from which there was no staying dry and no escape from the cloying clumps. The only warmth seemed to emanate from my sweat. I made it to the road, a narrow B road along which there were few cars. So it was several hours later that I found myself back at the centre, dumping my stuff on the bedroom floor and taking a luxurious hot shower. I was dry and dressed in jeans and trainers and ready to join my peers for dinner. I was sure they would all be back. Sure enough I was in the dining room and there they all were chatting about their experiences and cock a hoop to be back in the warmth and luxury of the centre.

      After dinner we were due to meet with our instructor. So we found ourselves in a warm room sat around a table listening to Derek. I remember very little about that meeting except that I did learn about where my mates had been. Four of them had VW camper vans and they had driven them to a variety of places which were isolated. They spent their solo night alone in their vans. The fifth was an Aussie guy and I can’t remember what he had done. But I do remember the energy in the room and was confused why it wasn’t coming from me. In fact I found myself battling to keep awake, head frequently falling forwards, a nodding dog on a car’s dashboard. I began to note the smirks and eventually Derek asked me to share my experience. It seems that I was the only one who had put himself through an arduous yomp. In fairness nobody had ever suggested that we were supposed to sweat our way into our solo. We just had to be on our own for 24 hours. Indeed by the way they were all talking we could have rented an hotel room for the night and as long we did not have contact with anybody else it would still have counted as a solo. I would like to claim that my destination of choice was youthful folly but, Dear Friends, I was 37 years old. Spring chickenhood was some years in the past. But now in hindsight I believe that I had the best solo experience even though I failed to find myself! Indeed at 70 years of age I am still failing to find myself!

After three months the course was at an end but, as with all such things, we were asked to review our times at Plas y Brenin and Plas Menai. One of the questions was what had been the hardest of all the things we had done. I did not hesitate. I remembered my shaking legs, my racing heart, my fear as I stretched for a foot hold on a rock climb high on Idwal Slabs. I was roped and safe but somehow the logic of this did not transfer to helping me to overcome my fear of the drop below me. Rock climbing was far and away the most difficult and most stressful section of the course for me. I was very surprised, therefore, when 4 out of the 6 of us described their solo experience as being the most difficult part.

I suppose that that moment of revelation, after having spent three months with these guys in wet, cold, stressful situations, remains the biggest eye opener. We all learn something new every day about human nature. We should always expect to be surprised but that much of a surprise was totally unexpected. I have heard stories of the impact of solitary confinement on the mental well- being of people, indeed I have heard of an happily married man who when everybody else had left the house he had to go to. He could not stand being in the family home alone. I do. I feel, know the difference between loneliness and aloneness. I did not, however, understand human nature that well back then and I doubt to this day that I will ever fully understand what makes people tick. If the majority is right it would seem that 4 out of the 6 ticked while I tocked! I was the outsider, the eccentric, when I thought I was behaving perfectly normally.

In the end, the camper vanites would have heard the sound of the waves on the coast, felt the wind rocking their sleeping place just as I felt it as the rain beat its message on my canvas. I suppose all of us would have realised that, yet again, we were hearing the sounds, seeing the sights, feeling the weather as our ancestors would have done thousands of years ago. To me to this day, there is an atavistic reassurance in winds and waves. I will always seek them out when thoughts trouble and the world seems too much with me late and soon.

Thanks for reading.

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