All the Joys of Winter
There is a great deal to love about winter at Fforest Fields. The hills are beautiful in summer, of course, all green and generous, with long evenings and people wandering about in shorts. But winter brings something quite different, and to those who know it, something every bit as wonderful.
Winter at Fforest Fields | November – January
By November, the trees have surrendered most of their leaves, and suddenly there are views through the woods that haven't been seen since spring. The hills seem to grow larger. The little valleys and folds in the land become more pronounced, and the whole countryside takes on the lovely colours of an old tweed coat: russet, moss, bracken, charcoal and gold.
The weather, naturally, does exactly as it pleases.
Some mornings begin with a frost so fine that every blade of grass seems to have been individually decorated. The lakes lie perfectly still beneath a pale sky, and the first sunlight creeps slowly down the hillsides. On other mornings the rain comes charging across the fields, the wind rattles everything it can find, and the sensible course of action is to put the kettle on and wait a while.
There is a certain happiness in both.
Winter walks require boots, and preferably very good ones. The tracks lead through bare woodland, past the lakes and up towards the open hill, where the wind has a habit of reminding you that you are alive. The views can be magnificent. On a clear day, the air is so sharp and clean that distant hills seem close enough to touch. On a misty one, the world becomes wonderfully small, with just the path ahead, a few dripping branches and perhaps the sound of a raven somewhere above.
There is wildlife everywhere, though much of it takes a little more noticing. Small birds bustle through the hedgerows, squirrels go about their important squirrel business, and the winter trees reveal nests that have been hidden all summer. The lakes have their own quiet activity. If you stand still long enough, there's nearly always something to see.
And then, after a good long tramp, comes one of the finest pleasures of winter: getting warm again.
Back at the campsite, the drying room is doing its noble work. Boots are lined up, waterproofs hang in various states of dampness, and gloves that were quite forgotten at the bottom of a rucksack are given a second chance. The showers are hot, the clean socks are glorious, and a warm jumper feels like the best thing anybody ever invented.
By late afternoon, the light begins to fade. Smoke rises from a firepit, supper is being considered, and everyone gradually retreats to their little homes for the evening. A tent glowing softly from within, a caravan with its curtains drawn, a motorhome with a pan bubbling on the stove. There is something immensely cheerful about these small islands of warmth in the great dark countryside.
Winter food tastes better outdoors. A bowl of soup becomes a feast, a baked potato a triumph, and anything cooked over a fire acquires a certain importance. There is no particular hurry. The evening is long enough for cooking, talking, reading, playing cards and quite possibly going to bed at an hour you would never dream of at home.
And what nights they can be.
On clear evenings, the darkness here is magnificent. Orion strides across the winter sky, the stars gather in their thousands, and the Milky Way sometimes stretches overhead like a pale, scattered path. The hills become great sleeping shapes against the horizon. Standing outside for a few moments before bed, wrapped in a coat, with the cold air on your face and all that sky above you, it's difficult not to feel rather lucky to be here.
Of course, not every night is clear. Sometimes the rain drums on the roof until morning, or the wind makes a thorough inspection of every guy rope. There is comfort in that too, provided you've pitched well and brought the right kit. A warm bed, the sound of weather outside, and absolutely nowhere you need to be.
January arrives quietly. The days begin, almost imperceptibly, to stretch out again. There may be snow on the higher ground, ice along the edges of the puddles, or brilliant sunshine pouring across the fields. Every day feels a little different, and every now and then there is a small reminder that spring, though still some distance away, is on its way.
Perhaps the greatest pleasure of winter camping is how little you need to enjoy it. A decent pair of boots, warm clothes, good food, a little curiosity and somewhere comfortable to sleep.
There are hills to walk, creatures to notice, skies to marvel at and a whole countryside going about its winter business.
And at the end of it all, cheeks pink from the cold, boots drying and supper finished, there is that lovely feeling of being thoroughly tired, wonderfully warm and very happy indeed.
Winter has its own kind of magic. We wouldn't miss it for the world.
