29 Over the hills and far away

One of the skills most valued by girl guides and brownies seems to be the ability to survive for an unlimited period of time on three matches, a pound of sausages and a bag of liquorice cartwheels.

Though I have given up the brownies as a bad job, I am nevertheless fascinated by the tales of adventure Hilary regales me with when we are cycling along to and from places.

Hilary is a model brownie. All the things I really don’t like doing, such as washing in a bucket, hiking miles, or sleeping in tents, are music to Hilary’s ears. If ever there was a person greedy for the discomforts of life, it is Hilary.

One day she announces that she is going on an adventure to gain her sleeping-overnight-in-the-open badge and she invites me to go with her.

It’s now the summer holidays, and there isn’t much to do, unless you go to stay with relatives. And my turn for going to the farm hasn’t come yet. My brother is there and we never go anywhere together because the two of us at once is too much of an imposition on anyone.

So I say yes, and immediately regret it, but Hilary has already jumped on her bike and is whizzing back down the hill to tell her mum.

The preparations take at least a week. First there is the route to be decided. We can’t go that far on our bikes if they are loaded down with sleeping bags, a tent, night things, cooking implements, food, and anything else we are likely to need.

You are supposed to get permission to camp out in any field that isn’t an official camping site, but Hilary doesn’t think that will be necessary. She has chosen a sheltered corner of a huge field, right at the bottom of a hill, where there is a brook for water and tree trunks to sit on. I know approximately where that is because our American type bungalow was not far away, but I had never dreamt of actually spending the night there.

Hilary always thinks of everything. I’m just thinking that it’s going to be horrible. But I can’t think of an excuse for not going.

On the day of our outing we clean and polish our bicycles. After piling all our stuff onto them we finally set off, Hilary is jubilant. I am in moderately good spirits. Actually, Hilary being as happy as Larry does not impress me that much because my ability to act jovial has its limits. We set off later than we meant to because the packing and checking and double checking have all taken ages. It’s a bit windy, too. I am filled with foreboding and wondering if I should fake an accident by falling deliberately off my bike. Then we would have to turn back. But I don’t. I suppose I want to avoid Hilary’s wrath, which can be quite vitriolic at times.

The ride takes two hours. It includes the hilly I used to free-wheel in the car with Dada, so it’s really hard work and it seems to be mostly uphill against the wind. By the time we reach the big field the sun has been smothered by heavy rain-clouds that are unfortunately poised directly overhead.

Hilary has borrowed a little tent from her big sister, who is an experienced and enthusiastic girl guide. I am not very helpful. I do not have a putting-up-a-tent badge. The rain drops are coming down thick and fast. You could say it was pouring and I am miserable. We can’t light a fire, because it’s too wet, and we can’t go to bed because it is too early.

I wonder what my parents are doing at home. Are they sitting in front of a fire eating beans on toast and drinking hot tea? Or are they standing in the rain waiting for it to go dark so that they can crawl into a kennel and go to sleep on wet grass?

It’s surprisingly noisy in the open air. The babbling brook is gushing with the extra water and though the birds aren’t singing, because they don’t like the rain either, there are a lot of noisy insects about, some of which are attacking my legs.

"Let’s do some fishing,” Hilary suggests. "I did the fishing badge last year. You just take some string, like this," she demonstrates, producing a ball of string out of her satchel. "Then you find a worm," she continues, scraping at the surface of the ground with her fork until she locates one, "then you tie it on the string and Bob’s your uncle."

I am desperately anxious not to make a fool of myself in Hilary’s eyes. So, revolted as I am by what she is doing, I say nothing. I just follow her down to the brook and watch her drag the poor worm-on-a-string along the surface until it is drawn down out of sight.

"What do we need fish for?" I venture. "We’ve got the sausages if the rain stops."

"Well, trout tastes ever so good," explains Hilary, "and if I take the bones back I’ll get an extra badge for not littering up the countryside."

I remember the swindle with the phone badge and am tempted to suggest that she goes to the fish shop instead.

"Are you sure there are trout in that brook?" I ask.

I’ve never seen a trout. In fact, I’m not at all familiar with fish in its natural state. At our house it’s either tinned sardines, smoked haddock or filleted something or other bought at the Chinese fish shop from Sung Tong Wang (I think that’s his name) who can’t speak Chinese and has never been to China in his life, but is an expert on filleting and gives good measure.

I needn’t have worried. Hilary can’t catch anything. The brook is too stony and shallow and the tiddlers in it are not partial to worms. After half an hour or so even she has to admit defeat and so instead she tries to start a fire with a few dry twigs and some newspaper produced, much to my astonishment, out of her satchel. The rain has stopped so there is every chance that we’ll manage on the three matches - or alternatively on the full box of matches Dada has surreptitiously provided me with in case of emergency. We might even get some supper.

"My father gave me all this fire-lighting stuff just in case," she explains with conviction in her voice. "It’s not strictly allowed, but we’ve got to survive, haven’t we?"

So she’s no better than Dada with his emergency box of matches, is she?

Soon Hilary has persuaded our tiny bonfire to singe the edges of our sausages in their little tin frying pan and I am even starting to enjoy myself toasting a slice of bread on my fork. Everything seems different now the rain has stopped.

A sullen red sunset is spreading across the horizon. The birds have chirped a few tentative good night phrases before settling down for the night, and Hilary and I are relishing our partially cooked sausages and some indescribable tea made with half-boiled water from the brook. I try not to think about the worm while I am drinking it.

By the time our repast is finished, night has fallen. Hilary doesn’t seem to mind the dark. She has practised all this camping ritual on her many outings with her sister. But I am not of such sterling stuff. I ask myself what would happen if an intruder were to trip over our little camping site.

Did I say intruder? While Hilary is squatting behind a tree before getting into her sleeping bag, I suddenly hear rustling. I am petrified. Somebody is creeping up on me from behind.

What shall I do?

If I scream to Hilary, it’ll give the game away that there are two of us. If I don’t scream, it’s only a matter of seconds before I meet my maker.

Then Hilary takes the decision off my hands.

"Don’t move," she hisses. "There’s a cow behind you."

"A cow? Don’t cows moo?"

"Not when they’re grazing they don’t."

"But it’s dark. Cows don’t graze in the dark."

"Yes they do. They have to get the morning milk digested, silly."

It’s all very well for her to say ‘silly’. The cow is not behind her. Hilary is reassuring. "Just stay still and it will probably go away."

Probably! No guarantee, mind you.

Cows have a herding instinct. They usually roam around with all their sisters in tow. And tonight is no exception. Before you can say ‘Moo!’ I am surrounded by cows and feel penned in and challenged.

"Just get up slowly and walk in my direction," instructs capable Hilary. "But don’t make any fast movements. One of those cows could be a bullock."

One of the cows is a bullock. Taking my movement as a signal for attack, it starts to charge me. I scream. Even Hilary screams. The cows look irritated. We make for the safety of the brook and watch the scenario with the water lapping around our ankles. I’m glad that the bullock seems water shy. I don’t even care that I’m in that brook with my shoes and socks on.

After what seems like an eternity, our bovine visitors decide visiting time is over and wander off up the hill without so much as glancing over their horns.

Then Hilary starts to pack everything up in rather an unseemly hurry.

"What are you doing," I ask. "They’ve gone now."

Now everything is calm again, I’m suffering from mental and physical exhaustion and even looking forward to my first night in the sleeping bag bought especially for the occasion.

"But they could come back and trample over us in our sleep. I’m going home!"