WILDFIRE

The summer of 1948, which followed one of the harshest winters, was not especially warm but I wanted to enjoy being outdoors to the full, and in early August I had a clever idea. First, I needed the permission of Anthony, which he readily gave, and then I needed the support of the stables management as they were the caretakers for Anthony’s horse, and they granted me permission, too. Now I felt that I could go ahead and consult my grandmother. I was over the moon when she proved most supportive as well, but she cautioned me against the risks involved.

The idea was this. I would go camping on horseback for a few days in the Derwent Valley and perhaps on the moors over towards Stanhope. I lost no time in planning this adventure. Using my earnings at the stables, I was able to buy a small RAF tent and some of the other things I needed for the trip from the Army and Navy Store in Newcastle. My friends at Axwell Park, most of whom were classmates of mine at the grammar school, were most enthusiastic about my proposed adventure. They promised to visit my camp to bring me supplies and perhaps join me for a night around the campfire. I may have been young, but I realized that the trip was unlikely to turn out as romantically as I had first envisaged. Nevertheless, this in no way reduced my determination to complete all the practical preparations and to have a jolly good time with Wildfire, my four-legged friend.

To my mind, the Derwent Valley was the best possible place for such an adventure. The name Derwent may derive from the Celtic and means River of Shining or the Smiling River – either definition seemed right to me as I had already spent many happy summer hours with my friends enjoying its waters. The old word ‘Derwentian’ provides another definition: the river abounding in oaks. In 1892, W. J. Palmer wrote that the valley was so densely wooded that a red squirrel could travel from Axwell Park to Shotley Bridge, ten to twelve miles distant, without once touching the ground. Although the mass of woodland had receded since Palmer’s day, the area was still extensively forested.

I had made a swift reconnaissance by bicycle of where to make my initial camp and decided on a strip of land that protruded out into the river and was backed by a sheer rockface. I gathered twigs and dried moss as kindling and called over to the stables to collect the horse nuts and grain to feed Wildfire, who would also be able to graze along the way. I had decided to start off on Monday to avoid meeting up with too many walkers and hikers who tended to use the area mostly at weekends.

On the Saturday before I was due to set off, Anthony made a surprise call at my grandmother’s house to advise me on how best to manage the horse when I was out trekking.

‘Don’t overdo the first day,’ he told me, ‘as both the horse and yourself will be extra tired the next day. And remember to stop and water the horse at least every hour.’

He gave me some salt pellets in case Wildfire sweated a lot and a horse blanket in case the nights were very damp and cold. Then, in another surprise, Anthony drove me to the stables and showed me how to hobble Wildfire so that she couldn’t wander off during the night. He also warned me to be on the lookout for horse thieves who might see an opportunity in spotting a boy alone camping with a horse. He armed me with a thick leather whip to ward off any troublesome people. He also lent me a pair of saddlebags and a cigarette lighter in case my matches couldn’t get a fire going. He advised me to stay within five miles of my first camp and to prevent Wildfire eating certain plants that would be poisonous to her. He also told me to ask permission before crossing private farmland. Finally, he gave me a piece of paper with his name, address and house telephone number on it in case I needed help.

I was extremely grateful for Anthony’s help and advice not least of all for allowing me to ride Wildfire. He reiterated that I had been doing him a favour by keeping his horse exercised and fit.

He gave me a huge departing grin and said, by way of goodbye, ‘Enjoy your trip because by the time you get back I may well have sold Wildfire.’

I cursed my luck – every time I managed to befriend an animal, I seemed destined to in some way lose it from my life shortly afterwards. This made me even more determined to make the most of my time with Wildfire, who had become quite bonded to me.

On Monday afternoon when I saddled Wildfire for our trip there was a small group gathered at the stables to see me off. It was most unexpected but then people can be amazingly thoughtful at times. There were small gifts of fancy buns and an apple pie, and several contributors, knowing my taste in food, had pitched in to give me a paper bag containing about a dozen little pork pies. The stables had already given me a pair of second-hand riding boots. I was very touched by their kindness but was so embarrassed that I hurried with my preparations to leave as soon as I could. I was not accustomed to receiving presents of any worth from my parents and the kindness of my stable mates made me further realize how odd my upbringing had been.

Anthony’s saddlebags proved a boon and I doubt whether I could have managed without them. I had also managed to borrow a slicker, a kind of raincoat that fits over both the rider and the saddle, and so I tied this at the back of the saddle along with a long bag containing my tent, a sleeping bag and one or two cooking utensils. The food was stored in the saddlebags. I had already tried out putting all this baggage on Wildfire and, sweet horse that she was, she did not seem to mind at all. Even so, I could tell that she suspected that something different was about to happen. Waving farewell raised a cheer from the assembled group and for the first time I began to have real forebodings about the wisdom of making this trip. But I was committed now and there was no turning back.

Avoiding the steep bank of the roadway, I headed down the hill towards the river by following bridal paths used by the riding school on its accompanied rides. Wildfire behaved impeccably and seemed to be glad to be enjoying the new vistas. The countryside looked fresh and green after the heavy rainfall of the previous night and the fragrance from the grasses and the trees was born aloft by the gentlest summer breeze. I may have been a young, would-be cowboy, but as I moved on horseback through the trees towards the river in the late afternoon sunlight I was given a true taste of vintage England. I rode Wildfire at a fast trot through the river shallows, over the exposed gravel spits and continued past my choice of campsite just to enjoy the ride amongst the broad-leafed trees in full blossom. We neither saw nor heard another soul, as if the whole world was ours alone to possess and cherish.

I returned to make camp in the protective shadow of the rockface. Having the river to the front and sides lent a reassuring sense of security to my location. I dug a hole in the dry gravel and placed kindling and wood at its base to make the fire. I then raked a deep channel towards the fire-pit to keep it fed with air and I arranged a tripod of thick branches, tied at the apex, over the fire, using it to hang a pot of water. Having closely studied Baden-Powell’s Scouting for Boys I felt equipped for every contingency. My father would not let me join the Scouts due to some alarms that had been made public regarding incidents of sexual abuse by some scoutmasters, but my Uncle John had given me the book as a guide to camping and survival living outdoors.

Around us, there were patches of fresh green grass for Wildfire to graze upon and I fed her a few horse nuts as a treat for responding so well to the trip. I was aware that some horses would not be happy alone on a ride because the horse is basically a herd animal by nature. She seemed in good fettle and I was happy to fulfil my fantasy of being the lone cowboy travelling alone with his horse through the wilderness. I was in my element. As an orange sunset turned to cloudy gloom I hobbled Wildfire as Anthony had taught me and left her to graze at will. Then I lit the fire and after a brief struggle I soon had a glowing blaze. The salt in the driftwood that I had gathered caused the fire to spit and crackle as if fiery demons were about.

Soon, the lonesome cowboy had less imaginary demons to deal with as a war party of Comanche approached the camp, whooping and yelling. It was five of my friends, fulfilling their promise to join me. Carrying their bikes as they waded across the shallow riverbed, they had arrived in force but turned out to be very friendly Indian warriors, sharing their rations of fish and chips, paid for by indulgent parents, and several bottles of mineral water. No guests could be received with greater joy than these.

Feeding the fire to even greater heights we sat on the ground around it and consumed the welcome suppers. We talked the night away, swapping exaggerated stories. There was a wonderful spirit to our little party by the wild river, and the woods rang out with laughter as mirthful stories were repeated again and again. At last heads began to droop with tiredness and it was time to call it a day. Wading ashore with their bicycles held high, the group of five departed with much merriment and noise.

After they left I was too tired to do anything except stroke Wildfire and bid her goodnight. I crawled into the tent and lost myself instantly in a deep sleep, lulled by the soft murmur of the river. Tomorrow I would be riding out in to the woods again, knowing that whatever happened at home, I would always have the wonder of animals, nature and friendship to help me on my journey.

The night passed without incident to give way to a sweet reveille of birdsong as the first streaks of a yellow dawn penetrated the thin fabric walls of my tent. As the day took hold, the volume of the dawn chorus increased until the wall of sound outside my tent sounded like the bird population’s symphony to the rising of the sun. Wearily I responded to nature’s morning call to find Wildfire drinking at the river’s edge. She raised her head and whinnied hello. I went to her and stroked her magnificent head. Burying my face in her silky mane, with my arms around her neck I told her how wonderful she was and what a great ride we were going to have that day.

Feeding Wildfire a few carrots I’d brought along for her and making do with a simple breakfast of bottled water and some dry biscuits for myself, I broke camp and we were soon ready to move on. The weather was sunny and warm with only a slight breeze as we commenced riding, heading south between riverbanks heavy with foliage. I intended to travel at least five miles upriver before looking for a suitable site on which to make a new camp. I could feel the powerful muscles of my horse’s flanks effortlessly thrusting us forwards as we moved deeper into the Derwent Valley. As we wound our way up stream sunlight danced on the river shallows and tall trees creaked as their tops caught the full force of the breeze. The wind made slim branches heavy with late summer foliage fan the air, while butterflies and thousands of tiny insects took to flight. Soon we had to leave the river and follow game trails that wound through the forest. Now and again I would glimpse herds of roe deer browsing amongst the bushes and trees. Startled by our intrusion, they were sent leaping and bounding away in a symphonic dance to escape us.

An eruption of splashing was causing commotion away to our left on the bankside. Reigning Wildfire to a halt I watched through the branches of a tree an otter family – a female with two pups – at play. Shining wet, smoothly contoured bodies were grappling with a trout, no doubt the mother’s catch of the morning. The pups shrieked and whistled with sheer excitement to have the big fish in their paws as they played an otter’s rendition of pass the parcel. While watching them frolicking and splashing about in the spray that rose up from the whipping of their rudder tails against the river surface, I was reminded yet again that animals also play for fun. Enchanted by their antics and appreciating the independence of their untethered play, I felt a pang of fury against the river authorities who still permitted otter hunts to take place.

Glancing ahead I spotted a belt of green land bordering the river and swiftly heeled Wildfire into the delightful sway of a cantor. At the end of our run I could see that the Forestry Commission had levelled the land and made a picnic area with wooden seats for the general public to enjoy. A group of women and young children were already making good use of the facilities and obviously appreciating the relaxing charm of the riverside bordered by a line of willows. It was time to stop and have a break. I led Wildfire to the river to slake her thirst and then tied her by a short line to a stout fencing post. I loosened her girth so she could also relax. I drank from my bottle of water and ate some of the small pork pies and a couple of cupcakes the girls back at the stables had made for me, and then lay down on the ground to rest. The children playing near their mothers were fascinated by the sight of Wildfire up close and there was much discussion going on about why she was there and what she was doing.

Not far upriver, there loomed the awesome site of the cokeworks where a good number of my father’s family, including my paternal grandfather, had found work on their arrival from Ireland. Despite his proximity, I had met my paternal grandfather only once. When I was ten, my father took me to see him because he was very ill and expected to die. I remember an austere-looking man sitting up in bed. The room had a bare appearance as if nobody cared about it. Above the bed there was a large crucifix hanging from a nail in the wall. The only other furnishing was a chair with a torn wicker seat at the bedside, against which rested a walking stick. He wheezed when he spoke, a grim memento of his time working at the coke ovens, and just before we left he placed a bony hand on my head and said, ‘Remember to keep the faith.’

I never saw him again. I never met my father’s mother, which was a legacy of her refusal to accept my mother into the family even after she had converted to Roman Catholicism. I also fell within the ambit of her rejection, especially as she may have heard the rumour of my true parentage.

Here on this summer’s afternoon, such prejudices seemed totally out of place. I wondered if my father’s family were ever able to feel the simple joy of looking at a flower or listening to a songbird without feeling guilty or reducing the sensation to a sinful pleasure, which was the impression some of them always gave me. When I reached thirteen years of age, my Aunt Kathleen felt impelled to warn my mother not to feed me too many eggs in case I got some girl into trouble. She once took me aside and advised me in all earnestness that I should go to Dublin to visit the site at the Post Office there where one of my relatives, Rory O’Connor, had been killed by the Black and Tans because he fought for a free and independent Ireland. She seemed weighed down by the bitterness and acrimony of the past as well as her joyless version of religious conviction. And she was determined to make sure that her own heavy impediments were foisted on the new generation.

Pushing such thoughts aside, I stood and stretched my limbs after lying on the hard ground. The clean freshness of the air made me reflect on the beauty of this area. Nature keeps her most precious gifts for those of us who take time out to pause and think how fortunate we are to live amongst it. England is such a wonderfully endowed heartland of nature. Long may we preserve it. I looked across at Wildfire who epitomized for me the earthy quality of this land and marvelled at the life-force within her. I whistled and she turned her head towards me. I could tell by the look she gave me that she was ready to return to our adventure.

We stepped up the pace as we passed the cokeworks, which were belching flames and foul-smelling smoke. There were rocks now sticking up from the river bed and the water flowed fast over them causing spray to plume into little clouds of vapour hanging over the stream. Riding up the valley became more difficult as the sides became progressively steeper and the tree-growth thicker. As Wildfire was having difficulty negotiating the slippery, uneven terrain, I dismounted and together we scrambled our way up to the top of the hill.

Halting to regain our breath I was able to look over the far side of the hill towards the village of Rowlands Gill in the near distance. Mounted up once more I rode along the ridge until I saw the railway track as it ran along the valley bottom next to the river below us. Soon the hill gave way to an undulating landscape which enabled Wildfire to descend with ease to the valley floor.

We proceeded along a rough track parallel to the river, with the railway on the far side, when without warning we encountered a roughly formed camp of tree branches covered in a ceiling of foliage, in front of which there was a ring of stones bordering a camp fire. The makeshift campsite had been crudely camouflaged by fir-tree branches to shield it from casual view. Squatting by the fire were two unkempt-looking men dressed in shabby clothing. Before I could react one of the men, sporting a ragged beard and wearing long, shaggy hair, jumped up and, spreading out his arms, forced us to halt. Then he began to speak in a dialect that I found difficult to understand. It sounded like normal Yorkshire but was full of old-fashioned words like ‘thee’, ‘thou’ and ‘wherefore’, which gave it a distinctly biblical connotation.

As far as I could gather the gist of what he said was, ‘Now, boy, what do you think you are doing riding a horse into private property like that? Get down because there’ll be money to pay before we let you go, if we let you go. Maybe we’ll have ourselves a bit of fun first.’

This last sentence was said with a toothy grin and a sideways glance at his companion who looked equally disreputable and sniggered at the other’s words. I felt for Anthony’s whip from where I had looped it around the saddlebag. Meanwhile, I felt Wildfire’s body go rigid so, as the tramp approached, I pressed my feet firmly down in the stirrups so that I would be ready for anything. The stench from the man was sickening as he came closer and it well may have contributed to what happened next.

Suddenly, with her ears laid flat back against her head, Wildfire bared her teeth and screamed a sound that made the hair rise on the back of my neck and sent me cold all over my body. Then she raised a front leg and smashed a hoof down on the ground with such force that I felt it shudder. The man shrieked and stumbled backwards, tripping over piles of empty bottles and tin cans. Wildfire lunged forward, almost unseating me, and broke through the weak barrier of evergreen fir branches surrounding the site. As we charged past I stared into the eyes of our assailant and brandished my whip as a threat so that he would know what to expect if we ever met up again.

As we galloped through the overgrown bush and tall grasses I slowly reined Wildfire down to a manageable trot and spoke calm words to her while I stroked her neck, easing her back to normal. I rode on a fair distance although I doubted whether there would be any pursuit. Eventually I called a halt as we approached a stream pouring down from the hillside above us. I dismounted and allowed Wildfire time to slake her thirst after all the trauma of the engagement with the tramps. She was lathered in sweat and still trembling a little so I walked her round a small glade to cool her off. I gave Wildfire one of Anthony’s salt tablets because she had sweated so much.

Quite suddenly we were confronted by a tall, burly man dressed in green denims and wearing a bush hat. He had a German shepherd dog accompanying him. He introduced himself as the official ranger for the Derwentside Park. When I explained that I was on a camping trip with my horse he asked for my camping licence and I had to tell him that I had no idea that I needed one. He said that the local environmental agency was anxious to preserve the park and its wildlife, and had implemented a policy controlling camping access. He said that a great deal of damage had been caused by campers in the past and told me that a fine of £50 was payable for camping without a licence.

I assured him that it was not my intention to cause damage and there was no way I could pay £50. He scrutinized Wildfire, me and my equipment, and questioned me at length. Finally, he said that he would forget about the licence this time. Then he brought out a map and, handing it to me, pointed out where we were, indicating that about two miles upriver there was an official campsite with shelters, washrooms and showers, and places to light fires and cook food. Since I was just a kid he would forego any fees as long as I camped there, and nowhere else, until the trip was over.

Thanking him for his kindness and advice I informed him about the two tramps further back on our trail and told him how one of them had tried to attack us. Stepping to one side, he unhitched a walkie-talkie device from his belt and began speaking to his headquarters.

He then turned to me, saying, ‘Keep to the regular trails and I’ll look for you tonight at the camp. We’ve already had reports about those two and now my colleagues will move in and arrest them.’ With a casual wave goodbye he disappeared into the trees and was gone.

The two tramps had blown my confidence about riding and camping alone in the woods, so I was reassured about our safety following our encounter with the park ranger. I stripped Wildfire of her saddle and started to give her a rubdown when she suddenly moved away from me and lay down in the shallow stream bed. She rolled back and forwards in the cool waters whinnying with pleasure and, when she felt contented, she stood up and shook herself, working up a spray that caught the sunlight. I tied her to a tree, giving the rope a good length so she could graze. Then I held her head close to mine and told her how proud I was that she had lived up to her name and protected us both. Back at the stables I would recount the tale of her courage so that everyone there would appreciate that she was a splendid horse. Then I stripped off my shirt and gave myself a quick wash in the stream. After a brief rest it was time to move on and find the ranger’s campsite.

All saddled up and refreshed, but eager to stop for the night, we skipped along at a good pace. It wasn’t hard to follow the sketch map the ranger had given me and we headed towards the camp, situated in an expanse of valley sheltered between two small hills. Sure enough, just as the sun was sinking towards what promised to be a glorious sunset, I spotted a scattering of huts and an orderly row of tents about half a mile away on the other side of the river to our approach. The river was deep and, being tidal, the currents looked strong enough to sweep a horse off its feet, so I was glad to spot a ford.

We caused something of a stir as we rode up to the gated entrance to the site. A young woman in ranger uniform came out of the main hut and greeted us with a smile. The ranger we had met earlier had passed on the information about us and it seemed that I was something of a celebrity. I was given an official badge to wear and then she opened the gate for us to enter. I dismounted and led Wildfire forward as the ranger directed us to a site well away from the other campers. There was a rustic stone hearth and a flat finely mown surface on which to pitch a tent. Nearby, there were several large heavy stones which could serve as seats. She pointed over to an enclosure where she said kindling and logs for the fire were available and, if we ran out of matches, we could get some from her. There were also washroom facilities behind the line of rental huts. Finally, she mentioned that it would be advisable to keep Wildfire tethered as not everyone among the campers was familiar with horses. Then she wished us goodnight and walked back towards the main area by the gate.

Since we were surrounded by swathes of fresh meadow grass I immediately unsaddled Wildfire, hobbled her and tied the rope firmly around the base of one of the large stones. I fed her some grain nuts and set her to graze while I went to fetch her a bucket of water from a standpipe about fifty feet away. Satisfied that I had done my duty to my mount as any good cowboy should, I then turned attention to my own needs.

With kindling and chunks of ash wood I soon had a fire going. I permitted myself a muted hurray, which Wildfire noted, raising her head and hoarsely whickering with her mouth full of sweet grass. I quickly set out my tent and opened a can of beans, placing it to heat on one of the flat stones of the hearth. I then gathered more wood for the fire and positioned Wildfire’s saddle so I could lie down and rest my head by the fire. As I watched the soft evening wind blowing sparks from the fire, I thought my camp was akin to the cowboy style of outdoor living that so thrilled me when I read or watched Westerns. I gingerly wrapped a cloth around the hot tin of beans, which had just begun to sizzle. Setting it aside to cool a little, I lay back on the saddle and allowed my eyes to stray skywards.

The promise of a special sunset had been more than fulfilled. The vista above me was ablaze with light and colour. Streaks of green, indigo and blue opalescence washed over an awesome orange and crimson light. No gods of Ancient Greek lore or even the great artist Turner could have conjured a more magnificent display. Then everything seemed to stop and the sky surprised the onlooker with a final theatrical act in its performance – an explosion of tints and electric shades that made my heart leap with delight. As the sunset colours faded into duskiness I relished my beans and sticks of cornbread, washed down by a bottle of Tizer soft drink that I had brought along as a luxury despite its weight.

I was where I wanted to be and I could not have been happier. I was glad that I had met up with the park ranger who had been both bemused and amused by this a kid of fourteen who had embarked on a solitary camping trip on horseback without precise planning. I think my ‘Just mount up and ride out’ attitude had struck a chord of empathy in this nature-loving man, and he had discreetly made sure that I was given the protection that such a venture demanded.

Later, just as I was about to turn in, lulled to eye-drooping wooziness by the leaping flames and aromatic fragrance of the fire, the young lady ranger appeared carrying a plate of steak and chips. A camp barbecue had been organized and she had thoughtfully brought me a plate of the leftovers. The sight and smell of the steak suddenly awakened a tremendous appetite in me, brought on by my long day in the saddle in the freshest air that could be breathed. I thanked her profusely and soon demolished the meal.

Whilst I had been eating, the ranger had sat quietly on one of the nearby boulders. Now she came closer and sat by the fire with me. In a friendly conversation that lasted well over an hour she managed to elicit my life story so far, barring any mention of my abusive father. She told me that her name was Sally and that she was from Australia, as was the head ranger I’d met in the woods, who had served in the British Army during the war and had decided to settle here. She had lost her brother and father in the war and, since her mother was already dead, she’d decided to come to England to make a fresh start.

Before she left I felt obliged to dig out three pounds and six shillings, which was all I had, and offer it to her as a token of my gratitude for all the hospitality the rangers had extended to me. The sum was graciously declined. She told me with a smile that the rangers laughingly thought that they had come across a latter-day young Davy Crockett suddenly riding out of nowhere from the Derwentside woods. She said they ‘were tickled pink’ to see me and couldn’t quite believe I was real. As she stood up to leave she mentioned that I could have some of the sketch maps they gave out to the hikers to help me plan a ride and, even better, she would join me on horseback if I wished. She explained that the rangers kept two ponies at the centre in case a hiker got lost in a part of the forest where a jeep couldn’t reach.

‘If you like, I could show you one of the more scenic trails and we could be company for each other on the ride,’ she said.

I readily agreed and thanked her for the offer. At the same time, I wondered if this was the wardens’ way of keeping tabs on me in case I got into trouble riding alone. I believed that Wildfire and I could to handle any trouble that came along, but I understood how they felt the need to keep me, a minor on horseback in rough country, under close observation. If anything went wrong they could be held responsible.

I gave Wildfire a last stroke and told her again how wonderfully she had dealt with those two tramps. I then slid into my sleeping bag and checked the time by my old-fashioned pocket watch, a present from my Uncle John which by now had seen better days. It was just after midnight. I listened to the sound of the river coursing its way downstream and the occasional bark and whistle of the local wildlife, but I was soon slumbering away.

In the morning I got up quickly and was soon tackling chores. I never minded doing chores except for the ones I had to do for my father, such as taking his bets to the bookmaker or collecting heavy tea-chests from the Co-operative yard for him to break up for firewood. I didn’t so much dislike the jobs he gave me – it was just that he never thanked me or praised me, and treated me as if I was a menial slave. The first job was to refill Wildfire’s water bucket and to feed her some of the maize and grain nuts I carried with me. She seemed genuinely pleased to see me and I was treated to some affectionate nuzzling and snorting before she got to work on the horse nuts. It was a real luxury simply to walk over to the washrooms and take a refreshing shower. I didn’t have a towel with me so I just dried myself with one of my spare T-shirts.

My fire was a mass of grey ash with just a few red embers but a few careful pokes soon had it blazing again. I had brought along a small frying pan with a collapsible handle and started to sizzle strips of home-cured bacon that Mrs Bramer had given me. I opened another tin of beans and placed it to warm on the hearth while I filled my empty Tizer bottle with water. The morning looked full of promise and after breakfast I washed up, tidied my campsite, stowing away my sleeping bag and cooking utensils inside the tent.

My watch showed ten minutes past nine so I had nearly an hour to wait before joining Sally for the trek on horseback into the forest and hills. Meanwhile, I rubbed down Wildfire, brushed her beautiful mane and saddled her up, ready to move off. I also carefully checked her hooves, something else Anthony had warned me about since the smallest stone lodged in a horse’s hoof can turn her lame and unrideable. She looked fine so obviously our little adventure was doing us both the world of good, as my grandmother was fond of saying.

Just as I was finishing combing out the tangles in Wildfire’s tail I happened to glance over towards the ranger’s hut and saw the young ranger leading a dark brown horse towards us. The horse’s name was Tango and he was a four-year-old gelding. The two horses made contact, sniffed each other’s identity and then seemed content with each other’s company. After a few brief words we were eager to get going and, with Sally leading off, I followed behind. Soon the camp was out of sight and we were riding through thickly wooded terrain on the slimmest of trails, possibly a game trail used chiefly by deer. After a while we emerged on to an undulating plateau covered in gorse and clumps of dark-coloured heather and we were able to ride alongside each other.

I have often found that wildlife is much more tolerant of people on horseback than people walking. We passed stray pheasants and foraging wildfowl, who hardly gave us a second look. Rabbits were numerous in the vicinity of our track and away to our left, as Wildfire noted with an inclination of her head, a herd of roe deer was grazing. Ahead, I could see that we were approaching more trees and soon we were in a forest of older trees with a predominance of oaks and ash. Now and again, we forded powerful streams that cut their way through the forest and led down from the innumerable hills above us to the narrow, hollow vales below.

At one point Sally reined in her horse and pointed down to a beauty spot nestled below us, which she identified for me as Allensford. We avoided the roads that covered the countryside around us but stopped several times to admire the bridges we could see in the distance. Occasionally we could hear the whistles and chugging of the railway trains that travelled through the area. After two hours of fairly gruelling riding we were ready for a break although the horses seemed remarkably fresh. We rested by a glade of willows that graced the banks of a clear stream. After the horses drank their fill, we unsaddled and roped them securely to stout trees. I’d brought some horse nuts for Wildfire, which I shared with Sally’s horse. She had brought along a picnic, which included amongst its delicacies some small pork pies, the aroma of which made my mouth water. She’d also brought along a straight-sided flask, the like of which I had never seen, but which fitted more easily into a saddlebag than the rounded variety. It was full to the top with sweet, hot coffee.

We ate the food and drank our coffee in verdant surroundings where, apart from little clouds slowly tracing their way across a clear blue sky, nothing moved. While the horses close-cropped the grass, Sally talked at length about riding. She told me how she had learned to ride on a small farm her family owned in the outback of eastern Australia where she could ride all day and never see another person. She described how wild and open the country was and that it was really easy to get lost or have an accident and no one would ever find you. So it was important to always carry a reliable compass and she showed me hers, a heavy-looking Army model. She looked at me inquiringly then and I felt myself blushing as I admitted I didn’t have one. She then proceeded to give me a short lecture on the dangers of camping out in the wild country without taking due care and preparation. She reminded me that the first principle of survival is never travel alone and always leave clear information about where you are going and when you expect to be back. And always, she emphasized this point by raising a finger, carry more provisions than you think you’ll need.

When she finished I felt rather shamefaced and admitted to her that my expedition had been severely flawed and seriously dangerous now I looked back on it. She glanced across at me and smiled as a wise older sister might have done. Then she said that she admired the get-up-and-go attitude that you might find in a boy’s adventure story but this was real life and if I hadn’t encountered the head ranger I could have ended up in grave danger. She made me promise to take more care in future and I said I would. We shook hands on it, which she said was the Australian way to agree something binding.

All saddled up again, we rode downhill along the routes taken by the many brooks and burns as they descended to become part of the river. I needed all my riding competence to cope in places where the downward slope was very steep. Sally turned and gave me a thumbs-up sign after Wildfire and I managed a precipitous bankside where the horse slid right down to her haunches and, but for sheer willpower, I would have been unseated. Riding a horse downhill is a most difficult task – if the horse doesn’t panic the rider might and it is a recipe for disaster. I noticed that Sally leaned back and grabbed her horse’s tail to steady herself during the descent and I filed that strategy away for future use. Once we reached the valley floor the going became progressively easier and every so often we kneed the horses into a rocking canter that was so intoxicating that it made us both laugh out loud, with only the stony, craggy outcrops that lined parts of the valley and the sentinel trees to witness our delight.

We crossed the ford and rode up to the rangers’ station almost before I realized that we had arrived back. Sally said I could bring Wildfire to the stable yard to give her a good wash down with a hose.

Having dismounted she came over to me and said, ‘You’re invited to have a meal with us all tonight and tomorrow, after you’ve had a chance to do some birdwatching from our hides, I’ve volunteered to see you on your way home.’

I realized that I was being taken in hand, but considering how caring and friendly the rangers had been to me I considered it only fair that they would want to make sure that I got home safely without being any further trouble to them.

I dismounted and, taking Wildfire’s reins in hand, I smiled at Sally. ‘I really appreciate all you have done for me and the way you have directed me. You have allowed me to have the experience I wanted but with your protection, so thank you. I much appreciate your kindness that you didn’t send me packing off home that first night.’

She nodded her head with relief and said, ‘Well, we were in two minds about that but we admired your initiative even if it was foolhardy. We thought that maybe if you stayed a while with us we could teach you something. Right?’

‘Right!’ I said.

And on that note we parted to see to the horses and wash up.

‘See you around seven-thirty,’ Sally called out as she led Tango away.

I walked Wildfire back to my campsite, stripped her of saddle and saddlebags, and then strolled back with her to the stables. Sally had meanwhile washed and rubbed down Tango and now it was Wildfire’s turn. I held her gently by her noseband as I turned on the hose and gently sprayed her body with cool refreshing water. She snorted at the first impact of the shower then visibly relaxed as I hosed her down all over. Then I brushed and combed her mane and tail, by which time I was ready to drop with exhaustion. My knees especially were achingly sore.

Back at my campsite I fed Wildfire some horse nuts, filled a bucket for her and, after hobbling her, simply flaked out on top of my sleeping bag and had a much desired siesta. I awoke to the sound of ball games being played across on the grassy expanse near the rangers’ station. I walked over to the shower stalls and gave myself an invigorating sluice down after which I discovered that I had a raging appetite.

Since it was already after seven according to my pocket watch, I hung around to watch the preparations for the barbecue. Roast potatoes, heaps of vegetables and fresh salad were being prepared but the main item of attraction was a large piglet that was already speared on the spit, ready for cooking. The charcoal base was just beginning to flame as I walked up and offered my services. I was told that I could help with the serving and general distribution of the food. I saw a sign that said ‘Barbecue 5 shillings a ticket’ and offered my money, which was politely declined by a female ranger that I hadn’t met before. It appeared that everyone knew that I was the kid with the horse and that I was to be a guest this evening.

The barbecue proved a great success. Families collected their food in a spirit of conviviality and gathered in groups to enjoy the al fresco dining. The weather was calm and the river tranquil as it moved slowly past us. After the campers and stray hikers had been served I joined the rangers at a long trestle table and we all ate hungrily of the juicy meat and fried vegetables, which had come from the same local farm as the piglet. I listened avidly to the stories of these men and women who, despite their relatively young age (most of them were in their thirties), had experienced so much. Later, one of the campers started playing a guitar and the singing spread to the whole assembly as the night wore on.

It was dark when I got up to leave. I shook hands with each of the rangers and Sally reminded me that she would show me where the bird hides were in the morning before we left for the journey home in the late afternoon. I nodded agreement and looked across at the big head ranger, who liked to be called Chuck. His face was ruddy and lined in the reflections of the firelight as I expressed, as best I could, how much obliged I was to him. He didn’t say anything at first, and just gave me a casual wave of acknowledgement with his right hand. But then, as I was walking away, he called out, ‘Come back again and I’ll teach you some real bush craft.’

Only I never did ever see him again. Shortly after my adventure the local council closed the rangers’ centre due to expense cuts and the wardens were dispersed elsewhere.

Come the morning, after clearing my camp, seeing to Wildfire and using the washing facilities, I made do with a breakfast of plain biscuits and water. I still wasn’t very hungry after the barbecue. At ten o’clock Sally came to take me to the bird hides. One was situated in the border of the woodland and the other was cleverly stationed just by the river. There were large information charts pinned to the walls within the huts and she left me to spend some time there. I chose to watch from the woodland hide first and what a find it was. The rangers had hung bird-feeders filled with a variety of bird food and they were in full use. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom I could identify, with the help of the charts, a number of birds that I hadn’t even known by name before. Over the space of about an hour I had seen black caps, white throats, blue tits, long-tailed tits and bullfinches all frequenting the feeders. In addition, there were numerous goldfinches as well as greenfinches and chaffinches, the latter identifiable by their military-type white flashes along each wing. Once, to my surprise, I saw a great spotted woodpecker, distinguished by his red cap, drumming away at the peanut holders.

Moving on to the hide by the river the viewing was disappointing as far as birdwatching was concerned but I was treated to a flush of blue damselflies swiftly zooming and then hovering above the surface. Then, just as I was leaving, a blue and scarlet streak splashed into the middle of the river and then rose in a veil of spray to fly to a tree. I was convinced that I had just had a brief glimpse of a kingfisher. I was thoroughly satisfied with my birdwatching and, when I met up with Sally again, I didn’t hesitate to tell her how impressed I was with the work of the rangers who had set up the hides and feeders. She thanked me and went on to tell me that the rangers bought the bird food with money out of their own pockets, which impressed me even more.

At three o’clock Sally, now riding a sable-coloured gelding called Jonty, sought me out again for the journey home. As we left the centre the other wardens waved us goodbye from the veranda. It had been a wonderful experience and I was sorry to go. I thought that the centre was an amazing place, enabling visitors and schoolchildren to take advantage of the wonders of nature all around. I was enchanted by the setting, which offered everything that I had long yearned for.

It was late summer and some of the trees were already beginning to shed leaves as a foretaste of the autumn to come, but everywhere I looked there were still remnants of nature’s summer show. It had rained overnight and the horses’ hooves left tracks in the softened earth. Flocks of birds, chiefly siskins feeding on the mature seed grasses, took wing as we approached. There was an unexpected eruption in the calm river surface ahead of us, causing huge splashes of white water. I looked across at Sally we said the same word at the same time, ‘Otters!’ and laughed together. No doubt the otter family I had seen on my journey up stream were busy fishing and also having fun at the same time.

Gliding past the giant black edifice of the cokeworks, I began to hear the muted sound of traffic on the road to Rowlands Gill, while away to the right was the distant outline of the old railway viaduct. As is so often the case, the return journey seemed so much faster than the outward one, which was full of unknown trails and landscapes to discover. The urban outline of Swalwell soon came into view.

Leaving the trail by the river we halted by the bridle path that led back to the stables. Sally moved her horse alongside Wildfire and reached over to give me a sisterly hug. Barely whispered words of farewell were exchanged and then, turning her horse, Sally was gone. A beautiful episode in my young existence had come to an end, but would be stored forever in my memory.

Back at the stables there seemed to be no one around. Suddenly Amanda appeared and greeted me with surprise. Perhaps sad that I had reached the end of my adventure, I didn’t feel like talking much so I said only the minimum and excused myself to take Wildfire back to her paddock. Once there, I groomed her until her coat had a silky sheen. I stored the gear that Anthony had lent me in his shed and left the key with Amanda. She had a message for me: Anthony had sold Wildfire to a man with a pony-trekking business near Ullswater in Cumbria. I was sad and yet happy at the same – sad because I would probably never see her again but happy that she wouldn’t end up pulling a milk cart.

With as little fuss as I could manage, I stole away to walk the long route to my grandmother’s house. It was a new experience to be using my own legs again and my knees soon started hurting after so much riding so I stopped and removed my riding boots, preferring to walk the rest of the way barefoot.