On Nature: Unexpected Ramblings on the British Countryside. Литагент HarperCollins USD

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      On the front of the first edition of a book of mine called Cider with Roadies, there’s a picture I love. It’s taken in a nightclub called Bluto’s in Wigan in about 1978 and it’s of me and my teenage friend Dylan. He looks like trouble, frankly. You would cross the road to avoid him with his toothless snarling visage, however hammed up for the camera. I am looking, well, like a bit of a ponce actually. I’m in the grip of my adolescent Elvis Costello fixation and am wearing a grey ’50s demob-style jacket, a white brinylon shirt and a blue knitted tie. So far, so hipster. But my hair is all wrong and my glasses are not Costello nerd chic but tinted Doobie Brothers ‘style’. In time I would grow to love the Doobie Brothers but that time would not be for another decade at least. On the streets of Wigan in 1978 we cool kids aspired to Camden, not California.

      I have another favourite picture of Dylan and me (he was named after Dylan Thomas, loved the Clash and Kate Bush and, slightly disappointingly, became a policeman, but if you’re reading this, mate, I hope you’re well). In this one we are dressed very similarly – me in a leather bomber jacket, bumpers, Beatlecut and fag, I seem to have transferred my allegiance to Colin Moulding of XTX, whilst Dylan wears his shitstopper jeans and Clash T-shirt, but we are al fresco. By Esthwaite Water in the Lake District, looking distinctly pleased with ourselves as we cradle a plump olive-green tench in our muddy hands. A good six pounds, I’d say, which was very good for us.

      Though we were resolutely urban kids – the telly went straight off in our house when Jack Hargreaves came on, droning on about horse brasses and silage – our nocturnal pursuit of fun ran completely and happily parallel to a kind of punk Tom Sawyer existence of fishing and camping. We would often pile straight into Joe Mather’s dad’s van and go straight from a nightclub to a local canal or flash or gravel pit and spend the dawn catching nothing but talking about girls and listening to Radio One on the transistor radio before falling asleep in the morning sun and waking two hours later bitten to death, sunburned and starving.

      Mostly, though, we loved to head up the M6 to the Lake District for a weekend, usually spent catching a few fish and absolutely no girls. No matter. We had fun drinking in the pubs of Hawkshead by evening and poaching eels from the lakes overnight under cover of darkness, girded by seven pints of Jennings Cumberland Ales. The poaching of eels was a highly skilled and technical endeavour undertaken with as much ruthless efficiency as a teenage boy can when he’s drunk his own body weight in bitter, and eel fishing is very exciting. An eel is, in its purest essence, a thick muscular inner tube with a primitive central nervous system. They give you a hell of a fight and they taste kind of nutty. We ate them for breakfast every morning, cooked up on the old Primus stove at Farmer Brass’s campsite in the oddest and often least palatable combinations: eel risotto, eel kedgeree, eel au vin, vegetable curry with eelao rice, spaghetti eelanaise. Eventually I came to fantasise about one dark night being lucky enough to pull a Variety pack of sugar puffs or a Heinz Toast Topper from the murky depths, anything that meant I wouldn’t have to have bloody eels again.

      And on most of these trips, an item or two from Dylan’s bookshelf would accompany us. Not one of Richard Allen’s New English Library Suedehead thug fests. Not the well-thumbed NME Book of Rock – the one with the controversial verdict on Jethro Tull’s Minstrel in the Gallery. No. One of a series of volumes that I’d noticed as soon as I’d first set foot in Dylan’s house. His dad was an English teacher – hence the Dylan Thomas fixation – and he had all kinds of cool stuff, Kerouac, Mailer, The Gulag Archipelago. But my eye had been drawn to six or seven little hardback books that were obviously some kind of series. One was brown, another yellow, another green. They were hand-written and hand-drawn, things of such painstaking elegance of design and craft that even though the subject – Cumbrian hills – didn’t much appeal, the sheer loveliness of them, plus the maps and the local info, made them treasurable. They seemed to be written by a bloke called Wainwright. I imagined he was a bit of an anorak.

      Three decades on and on the shelf beside me are not one but two full sets of Alfred Wainwright’s Seven Volume Pictorial Guide to the Lake District Fells. Look closely at the two sets and you’ll notice a crucial difference that explains the need for both. One set is battered and dog-eared, stained with coffee and smeared with butter, stained with grass and dirt. The other is relatively pristine, the reason being that one is for the fireside and the other for the fellside, one sees action in the field, the other nothing more strenuous than being pored over whilst planning a day’s adventures.

      Notwithstanding the disadvantage of being dead, Alfred Wainwright has had a good few years of late. There’ve been biographies and celebrations. There’s a society bearing his name. And thanks to the Wainwright Walks TV series, a new generation has been inspired to take to the hills and retrace the steps he walked in between the late 1950s and the mid 1960s when researching his famous guide books. The success of the shows was due in no small measure to the choice of presenter, the extremely personable Julia Bradbury, a refreshing choice after years of blokes from the Jack Hargreaves school of outdoors TV presentation – crusty, bearded, curmudgeonly.

      All of which could be said to apply to Wainwright himself, or at least that’s the popular image. But he had his poetic side, one that drew him from the dark satanic mills of his native Blackburn to Kendal to be nearer his beloved hills. He’d have approved of Julia too. AW was a sucker for a pretty face. He was more than just that, in fact; he was a true romantic. His love letters to his second wife, Betty, are mildly shocking in their intensity and tenderness, especially if you had him tagged as a harrumphing sourpuss. But if you know the books, you’ll know his lyrical and poetic side too. That’s the side that has made millions like me a devotee of his work, even when it was a love that dare not speak its name, such as during my tenure as an NME writer, when a liking for anything more outdoorsy than the healing field at Glastonbury marked you out as a weirdo amongst weirdos.

      Wainwright classified 214 separate fells as making up the mountain landscape of the Lake District. Pedants and purists grumble about his list, saying that some such as Mungrisedale Common – a grassy pudding beneath the infinitely superior rocky throne of Blencathra – is not a separate fell at all and that Wainwright included it just to make up the numbers in book 6. This may be true. But now the list is canonical, and there are folk who will not rest until they have crested the summit of every one. I know because I am one. I’m not one of nature’s list tickers – I don’t collect records, I don’t keep a diary – but I decided to ‘do the Wainwrights’ as it would be a ready-made itinerary that would take me to every corner of the Lake District. It has been a long, strange, brilliant trip, to paraphrase the Grateful Dead.

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