WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHY SANNY
I still vividly remember my first time. It was the middle of winter and the three of us had just forded a pants-shrinkingly cold River Nevis and as we made our sodden wet way to the less-than-inviting, unlit building that was to be our home for the night, tales of roaring flares and ripping yarns were all that kept me from hightailing it back to civilisation and a warm cup of cocoa beside my own replace. Opening the door, a strong smell of damp mustiness called our nasal passages. No matter, the flare would soon be going… or not. A frustrating search for decayed bog wood in the encroaching gloaming yielded precious little in the way of combustible material and soon had me contemplating which of the contents of my pack I could happily torch in the vain hope of warmth, no matter how temporary. this was briefly followed by thoughts of which of my companions’ kit could be committed to the there in the name of team spirit.
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