I lie in the magic hour, between sleeping and lucidity. I fidget as my mind slowly whirs into action like an old pocket watch just wound for the day. I’m trying to find that comfortable spot on the narrow sleeping mat. It squeaks as I wriggle like a worm in my sleeping bag.
The tent is warm and the morning light is shining through the green canvas that covered me last night, a barrier between me and the stars. I wonder what new adventures this dawn will bring.
I’m conscious of a bird landing on the rib of my tent before taking off again. It's come and gone a few times now, willing me to wake while it acts like a naughty child wanting breakfast. The robin first appeared yesterday as I pitched my tent. I tossed scraps from my lunchbox while fussing over guy lines.
The tentative swoops became confident landings, it got cocky and now I’m paying the price with this early morning visit. It must be able to hear me shuffling as its impatience grows between landing and lifting off. The flutter of its wings makes me think about the film Jurassic Park where Jeff Goldblum explains chaos theory. “A butterfly can flap its wings in Peking and in Central Park, you get rain instead of sunshine”.
I start to formulate today's plan in my head and hope for some sunshine rather than rain.
Getting dressed in a coffin-shaped tent for someone my height has challenges but I manage it with amazing Houdini skills. Unzipping the flaps of the door I peer out, my eyes adjusting to the light, before crawling through and standing. I throw the odd gentle stretch and bask in the warm sun for a bit, leaving robin waiting. I need to tune into my senses a bit more.
A breeze moves up the valley in a wave and rattles the nearby trees, and the stream trickles, moving water over stone and away to a distant future. Robin is getting agitated so I grab my food bag and reach for the oats, placing a little pile on a nearby rock. It edges closer, darting in and out, repeating until the pile is gone.
I enjoy my coffee before taking the tent down and packing away. Robs watching me from the branches of a nearby hawthorn tree. I make a ‘tut-tut’ noise with my tongue and hold out my hand, trying to coax it over, but it's lost that bravery.
I put some more oats out before easing into my rucksack and fastening the buckles. I follow my last look ritual to make sure I’ve not left anything behind before saying my goodbyes, giving thanks to the gods of wild camping for such a sweet spot. Rob flies down to the pile and I turn to head off down the valley.