Let's Go Sleep On A Mountain!
One Welsh Mountain. Two tired Mums. Prosecco-a-plenty.
It was official; I was the most un-fun person on the planet.
It was the start of the summer and instead of going to friend’s barbecues, running trails and generally having a merry old time, I had spent the afternoon managing a toddler meltdown and trying to soothe our unwell baby twins who had just turned six months old.
I was feeling exhausted, battered, tired, downtrodden and not like myself at all. I didn’t even have the usual energy to attempt to pull myself out of the funk. The bright n’ bouncy version of me was lying in face down — somewhere beneath a sea of Calpol and dirty nappies — waving the white flag of surrender.
When all the kids were in bed, I sat on the sofa, staring into space. I was trying to work out how in the world I was going to (after a night of very little sleep) get up and do it all over again the next day when Jamie walked in the room.
‘J’
‘Yes, my dear?’
‘I need to sleep on a mountain.’ I said.
‘What?’
‘A mountain. Or a hill. Or by a river. Just for the night. I’ve got this urge. This feeling, it’s bursting out of me…’ I pushed my hands outwards from my body in agitated frustration. ‘I feel like I need to get off this sofa, out of this house. Out of this living room. Or I’m going to lose my shit.’
‘That makes sense,’ he nodded.
‘It does?’
‘Of course.’
‘I mean, even if I get a few hours of sleep, that’d be on a par with the sleep I get on a night at home. But I’d be outside at least. I’d have done… something, you know?’ I continued.
‘I get it. You don’t need to explain it. I know what you mean. Go for it.’
My whole body heaved a sigh of relief. Jamie — having run across countries broken world records and travelled far, far beyond our living room many times — was, as always, the most understanding boyo on the planet.
I flopped back onto the sofa and pulled my phone out of my pocket. Now that I had the green light for adventure, I needed to take action.
Should I just go and sleep wild on my own? I thought. I quickly decided against that. Going it alone would have been OK, but on this occasion it seemed sad, somehow.
Ordinarily, I crave alone time. But parenthood is a lonely enough journey as it is and I was feeling so disconnected from the outside world at that what I really needed was connection.
I scrolled through my phone, looking for an adventure buddy, and stopped on the name of a friend and fellow mum who lived in Cardiff. That wasn’t too far from us in Gloucester. An adventuresome escape without either of us taking too much time away from the kids was entirely possible.
“Hello marvellous Tori, what’s happening’ there in the Diff? The twins have just reached 6 months - wahoo! And my head is just about poking above the parapet.
It could be a logistical mind boggle, but… do you fancy making a great mum escape one night? I was thinking of an evening meet (it could even be after the kids are in bed). A little hike. A bivvy out.
Then both of us home before 9am, or earlier if we need. Even 4 or 5 hours of sleep would do me for a shot of nature!
Jamie says that he could handle the twins for a night and I can ship Storm off to Nannas so…
What do you think?”
Tori replied later that evening with a big ‘HELL YES!’ We set a date for the night away — August 15th — and then collectively launched into action, formulating a detailed and concrete plan for our adventure.
I’m kidding.
We did nothing of the sort.
The great wilderness escape languished at the bottom of our respective to do lists. I should have known that finding the time to plan a meetup was going to be just as monumental a task as the night away itself.
Tori and I did exchange messages, all of which were busting with hope and enthusiasm, but most of them were along the lines of:
‘So. I was going to do some planning tonight. I got a map out and everything. And then the nursery rang/I had to make the kids tea/the dog peed on the carpet (delete as appropriate) and I got sidetracked. Promise to find time tomorrow..!’
The night before we were due to sleep out together, messages were still flying back and forth on where exactly we should head. We were being tempted by a secluded spot by the river in the Wye Valley, but Tori then put forward the option of heading up the top of a tall peak, slightly further afield in Wales.
I thought for a moment. Going to Wales would mean more time away from the kids, but being up high for a camp out was always a real draw. I replied in capital letters: “LET’S GO SLEEP ON A BLAAADDDYYY MOUNTAIN!” And (at last) we had a plan…
We were to head to Sugar Loaf in the Brecon Beacons, a place Tori had been before (although not for a while) and somewhere new for me. I wasn’t sure what to expect but a) Twas a mountain, which meant it would be magical and b) It had the word loaf in it. I have never had a bad loaf in my life. Least of all, one with sugar on it.
Location set, I moved on to thinking about the kit I’d need. A quick sniff of my down sleeping bag told me it needed a wash. I’d used it on a six-month journey through the Andes mountains with a friend and I could vividly remember having sweated into it on a roadside in Argentina while suffering from a nasty virus.
I had been meaning to wash it since returning home, but… you know, life happened. Naturally, I then decided that 24 hours before our departure was a fantastic time to wash that down sleeping bag for the first time in five years.
Apparently down takes a long time to dry (who knew?), even when you enlist the help of many, many, many spikey balls in a tumble dryer. When I pulled it from the dryer after three hours it hung heavy and sodden in my arms.
It soon became apparent that there was no way I could sleep within it without being crushed by the weight of sodden down, so I headed out to the shed in our garden to find an alternative slumber sack for the night, along with the rest of the kit I’d need.
When we’d moved into our house a few years ago, we’d just dumped anything that was vaguely related to adventure and the outdoors into what we now called the ‘adventure shed’. I began pulling items out of musty boxes and, to my amazement, I discovered that much of what I needed was there; Sleeping mat, merino top, beanie, head torch. Check. Check, check. Surely that’d be all I need. It was summer, after all. Packing light was the way to go.
But then I had a wobble of confidence.
We were having one of those wet British summers which didn’t feel much like summer after all, and my mind wandered… what if it rains? Better pack rain stuff, I thought. And what if there’s snow? ‘Anna, its’ August.’ I said to myself. ‘Yes, but it’s August in Britain. This is the Wild West of climates — anything could happen!’
Just then, Jamie popped his head into the shed and interrupted my runaway train of thought.
‘Everything alright?’ he asked.
‘Mmm? Oh yes. Just trying to figure out what to take. It’s been a while.’ I said.
‘It has. It smells fusty in here.’ He said, sniffing the air.
‘I think that’s the smell of adventure.’ I smiled.
‘If you say so’.
‘Isn’t this amazing, though?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Our adventure stuff. Our adventures, even. It’s all just sitting here, waiting for us to come back to it, one day…’
‘Aww, that is cool.’ He said, before turning and leaving me alone again, so that I could get back to the business of overthinking things.
At 7pm the following evening, I rumbled down a gravel track up towards the foot of Sugar Loaf in my midnight blue Ford Galaxy people carrier…