A wild night on Hedgehope Hill

Last weekend, my friend Richard and I climbed Hedgehope Hill in the Cheviots for a wild camp. Richard planned the route that started a few miles from Wooler and meandered up the beautiful Harthope Burn, also known as the Happy Valley. Despite many Cheviot hikes, this was my first visit to this valley, and I wasn’t disappointed. The path was strewn with wildflowers, and the occasional Dipper and Grey Wagtail darted past.

After stopping for a swim halfway up at a deep plunge pool, we reached the head of the valley, where there was a narrow ridge of exposed sand or soil tinted red, just like you might imagine in the Arizona desert. It’s uncommon to see ground stripped of vegetation in these hills, and I wondered if it’s a natural or man-made feature.

Although we had been aiming for a gap in the relentlessly wet British summer, the weather gods were against us because as we doubled back onto the ridge, clouds rolled up from the south. I feel like I’ve done my fair share of Camping in the Clouds this year, but I still admired the scene as the misty ethers rose and crossed the wire fence, soon to envelop us.

After negotiating several peat hags, we climbed up to the summit of Hedgehope Hill, where we made camp. Just as we were pitching tents, the rain started. Fortunately, I’d bought a tarp for this very purpose and set about stringing it up with various knots between our tents to create a communal shelter. We sat under the tarp on Richard’s groundsheet like a pair of gnomes merrily cooking dinner, chatting and watching the raindrops marble down the outside before dripping onto our legs. We tried several times to coax the raindrops to run sideways but to no avail.

We retired to bed around ten thirty, and I lay awake listening to the rain thundering on my fly sheet despite shoving in ear plugs. During all this time, there had been little wind, and I’d not considered the wind direction when pitching my tent or checked all my guy ropes and pole lengths like a good Boy Scout. After all, it was the middle of July.

Fatal mistake!

At some point in the night, the rain stopped, and suddenly, the wind picked up. My featherweight Tarptent has withstood high winds before on the Isle of Skye, so I wasn’t overly concerned until the poles started shaking as if possessed. At this point, I should have tensioned the poles, ensuring they were jammed in position and inspected the guy ropes with my headtorch.

But I didn’t. Instead, I made this video…..

A few seconds later, one of the poles blew out, and all hell broke loose. The flysheet transformed into an angry swan and flapped wildly, and I feared that the pointy end of the dislodged pole would punch holes through my beautiful tent, rendering it an ugly duckling. So, I resorted to what I’ve always thought might one day be necessary with this trekking pole tent: I collapsed both poles and attempted to wrap the now straggly flysheet around me like a bivvy bag. It was only partially successful and would have been a disaster if the rain hadn’t stopped. I kept changing my position because the tiresome wind (that we estimated was around 50mph) was either blasting my back or front. By morning, I felt like I’d been in a wrestling match and crawled out of the sprawling mess into the maelstrom.

Somehow, I managed to take a shaky picture of the sunrise over the North Sea through a gap in my collapsed tent.

The wind was relentless, and we both had to decamp by shovelling one item of kit at a time into our packs like a game of Hungry Frogs. One wrong move and wave goodbye to your sleeping bag. Nothing was rolled or folded, just stuffed. I thought I’d lost several items, including my watch, as we walked down the mountain, but fortunately, they all turned up when unpacking in the tangled mess.

You’ll notice that Richard’s tent held firm, but the wind blew open the zip on the flysheet, which caused me great anxiety in the middle of the night, fearing he had inexplicably gone walkabout in the storm.

I felt slightly discombobulated as we plodged back down to the car, perhaps due to sleep deprivation, so we cut the rest of the walk short. We passed several early-morning walkers climbing the hill who wondered where we’d come from. And I overheard one young lad refer to it as ‘Hedgehog Hill’, which made me chuckle.

The benefit of finishing early was a delicious coffee and breakfast at the Terrace Café in Wooler. The sun graced us with its presence, and Swifts and House Martins swooped around the church tower. It felt like a different country. I love Wooler :).

All in all, it was a grand day out, but next time, I’ll remember to check the wind forecast - even in summer.