KEMPSTON HARDWICK

The secret diary of Bedfordshire’s greatest adventurer

Kempston Hardwick is a keen-as-mustard-adventurer and dad, in that order. Old enough to remember when car interiors smelt of petrol, Hardwick defies his rapidly amassing years by seeking outdoor recreation, and the exponential escape from domesticity it offers at every opportunity. His readiness to embrace al-fresco challenges has delivered him with worldly opinions that he applies to every turn in life, whether bagging Munros or browsing the organic frozen pizza aisle of Waitrose. It is believed he was named after the place where he was conceived, a disused railway station somewhere near Milton Keynes. He is a good friend of Dan Milner.

Part 2: Getting After It

Everyone worth their weight in mapping apps knows the smell of adventure, right? Climb a hill, lie back, close your eyes and let a tsunami of invisible stimuli flood your nasal cavities. Ah those smells. I reckon most adventurers could even breeze through a blindfold test.

How about the olfactory punch of crisp alpine glacial ice? Hell yeah. Easy. The musty slap in the chops of lichenmunching reindeer? Bring it on.

What about the Great British Countryside (or GBC as I like to acronomise — so much quicker to text) and its iconic heady mix of sweet hay and spilled diesel, or the GBC’S repressive nasal wrench of damp Welsh sheep and… sizzling sausages? WTF. Sausages weren’t part of my Fresh Air Immersion Plan, or FAIP for short. Especially since I’m trying so very hard to become more selflessly environmentally conscious.

But now a pungent shroud of vaporised fat is hovering around me like a swarm of lardy horseflies. At least it’s drowning out the funk of my tent; I really should dry it out better before packing it away. No, I didn’t come to North Wales to smell sausages. I came to Get After It.

I came to hike energetically up ambitious inclines to reach summits where I could raise both arms above my head and claim another Instagram shot (arms at 10-past-10 position, if you’re asking). Crib Goch ticked. I came to gaze across sweeping vistas, clamber up mossy rocks, squelch carelessly through bogs and wallow among tussock grass. And to find immersion in escape. Oh and later, brew in hand, to also pull ticks from bodily crevices that only qualified urologists should see. I didn’t come to be enveloped in an aerosol of sausage oil. Nor did I come to listen to snoring. But sausage oil and snoring is what I have ended up with.

Maybe I only have myself to blame. Maybe I should have stuck with plan A. Plan A was good, at least in theory. That’s why it was called ‘A’. After all, the grassy knoll between those mossy outcrops that delivered Instagram Gold could have been a decent camp spot. It had potential: it was quiet, and it was out there. It ticked boxes. Maybe I should have persisted. But then, it did seem a long way from civilisation, and well, you know, The Big Outdoors (TBO) can seem awfully big at times. Lonely even. And anyway, that crystal clear brook nearby was appendage-numbingly cold. Even in summer. Okay, I could smash out my little wood stove (you remember; it’s the one that charges USB devices too), make tea and rehydrate my dehydrated dinner. But damn, that water was way too cold for washing my feet. And I hate camping without a decent wash. Washing stops my sleeping bag getting fusty, and Kate hates having to wash my fusty gear. Our dryer isn’t big enough, she says. I think that’s just an excuse.

Don’t get me wrong. I did unroll my tent. A moth flew out. Can moths last eight months without eating? And I sat marvelling at the corner of paradise I’d found by myself. I was soaking up solitude, silence, smells. Ah, the smells. Rich and voluptuous. I wish you could post smells on Instagram. Hashtag: Smellsoftbo. They almost made up for my hay fever kicking off. No, the mildew-peppered groundsheet didn’t help my allergies (thanks for pointing that out). But like any adventurer I know how to push through. Forty minutes passed. I was feeling good. Good about life, good about my recycling efforts helping the planet, our planet, good about me. And if there’s one thing that makes me feel even better, then it’s feeling good about myself. Try it: it’s the perfect spiral.

But then I hit The Midge-ing Hour. Or TMH. The adventurer’s nemesis. I’m sure these little shits have shut down expeditions. I think it was in the Antarctic, or maybe the Arctic? Whatever, the one with the penguins. So I fended off this haze of pests with one arm — not both, just in case someone thought I was engaged in an Instagram frenzy, or worse, called the Coastguard. Or would it be the RAF? Anyway, I’m not the sort of person who needs rescuing, not with my extensive outdoor experience.

So I retreated into my tent. Bang. Midges outsmarted. But it’s hard to charge your phone and rehydrate your dinner inside a tent. Dangerous even. It says so on the label; something to do with my outdoor gear being made from oil-derived fabrics. That’s probably why Native American tents had such high roofs — so they could cook inside them. But my tent has a low roof. It’s for the solo adventurer in each of us. I think it’s called ‘Solitude Found’ or ‘The Hermit’ in the catalogue. So while I lay inside and posted Instabangs, my hot stove melted a neat hole in the space-age nylon. And the biting blighters poured in. WTF.

So I was forced to reach for plan B. And I am enjoying Plan B. Don’t get me wrong; I’m still immersed in the outdoors. This weekend is all about being immersed in the outdoors. But now I’m safely nestled between the weekend homesteads that are Colin and Sue’s caravan to my left, and Ralph’s canvas emporium to my right. Col’ (as Sue calls him) is from Solihull. He likes sausages. Ralph’s tent has two bedrooms. He snores. Yes, Plan B has its downsides and no, it doesn’t pack the same social media potential punches of Plan A, but nor do I have to endure the instability of boggy ground, or the wee-inducing babble of a crystal clear brook. I mean, how does this campsite make its turf so level?

And gone with the brook and bog are the midges. Instead I have a washing up sink, shower and toilet just a short walk away. Handy. After all I’m never sure what to do with my used bog roll in the wilds. Even if everyone else seems to just leave it behind. And okay, Plan B costs £8.50 per night and comes with a list of Do’s and Don’ts. But we need those out here, don’t we? Otherwise there’d be chaos. Embracing the tranquillity and fresh air of the GBC doesn’t mean the natural order must always prevail. Even here, surrounded by pungent and bleating sheep, there is still a place for snoring and the smell of sausages. Isn’t there?

My tent has a low roof. It’s for the solo adventurer in each of us. So while I lay inside and posted Instabangs, my stove melted a hole in the space-age nylon