lost in the forest

This morning, out on the road to Symond's Yat for one of the more arduous of the walks in our book "Walks in the Wye Valley". 14 kilometres and 400 metres of ascent, it's a good little tester, and the map seems clear enough. We've done several of the more difficult walks in the book already, so we felt quite well equipped.

Donned up in full wet weather gear, secured last year in advance of our holiday in the Lake District (which proved a wise move, as the place should be re-named "The heavy and persistent Rain District"), we set out confidently.

Somewhere around the half way point we must have strayed from the correct path and found ourselves deep inside an area of dense woodland. The Forest of Dean, I think they call it. It was around this time it began to rain, gently at first, but then more heavily. We wandered this way and that for nearly an hour, finally heading for the sound of what we thought was a nearby road, but were confronted instead by a 100 metre precipice, at the base of which was the River Wye itself. Far below we could see the path we had walked over an hour earlier.

We had walked in a great circle, a phenomenon which I believe is quite common in people who are lost. I remember reading in Wilfred Thesiger's "Arabian Sands" that people lost in the desert often describe huge circles, before finally arriving where they started.

In some ways it remains a good experience in the memory: we got lost, but we found our way back. And we did get in a good long walk. Not too bad, then. But the feeling of having failed in our enterprise still rankles a little in the competitive middle-class breast.