My usual haunt was a wee island up Benlister Burn. Stepping stones if the river was low, trews and shoes off and a wade if it was higher. Wooded island with a clearing for camp - I'd camp there again if I happed to be passing.
Getting the wee dirtbike let me stretch out a bit and most of my camping at the early highschool age was done in the valleys and hills covered by the forestry tracks around the south end of the island. Sometimes with company as a few of the other kids had bikes too, most often still on my todd.
Then I joined a youth group - the Junior Moutain Rescue - and it was climbing trips in the summer, ice axe training in the winter, survival stuff, orienteering.......
....ropework/rescue demonstrations off the ramparts and towers of Brodick Castle. Used to practice so hard for those that the techiques were all down pat.
We played bodies for proper MR exercises too. Hunkered down in the heather awaiting "rescue" - sneaking peeks, listening to the radio chatter at whisper volume and on a couple of occassions a ten minute ride home in the SeaKing.
...and marshalled the Goatfell race every year(or at least that was the theory. Was more like child slave labour. Wonder who hauls up water these days).
Then a schoolpal decided to camp out for the whole school holidays when we were fifteen. Joined him for most of it and if I were going to get rose tinted it'd be about that six weeks.
....but I'm not the rose-tinted type really. Here we are 25 years later and nothing's changed. The world is still a beautiful place and never fails to impress.
I haven't even ventured very far afield - most of my camping these days is done only ten miles or so from where all the time above was spent and on a clear day I can see old campsites.
Still love it.
Couple of knives and axes, some sour mash and my pipe, sorted!
