I drag out my reliable old Osprey haversack as I feel the first suggestion of seasonal change. Daytime temperatures start to rise, and occasional cloudless days provide an irresistible urge for outdoor activity, a need to flick winter sluggishness, to stretch glutes, to ‘…breathe the mountain air’, to get out from under!
Georgie is on the phone with the suggestion that we tackle the mountains. We meet up over coffee; she has her dad’s fragile old map, now spread across the tabletop. We are honing in on a hitherto unknown part of the ranges. There was a boxed note, “Look out for the nighttime …”
Just at that moment, my cappuccino spills frothy milk, sticky marshmallow residues and coffee across the map. Serviettes mop most of the mess, but the old paper dissolves! No matter, we have a proposed itinerary and our anticipated excitement overrides any lasting memory of the map’s note.
Two days later, our bicycles glisten in the sunshine at the start of our adventure. We will be camping out for the next couple of nights, and our packs are loaded to the gills: lightweight gear, food, including energy-giving jubes, a small bottle of scotch, to ward off evening chills, and a first aid kit. The sentinel, snowcapped mountains, the marshy wetlands along the valley floor and our enthusiasm herald enjoyable times. We’re off!
The uneven, gravelly track-surface is spotted with tussocks of winter growth, necessitating quite careful riding. It slows our pace, and when we take a lunchtime spell, we’re surprised just how far off our anticipated schedule we are.
The sun is sinking behind the mountains, and a chill descends as we’re forced to bivouac in a small, scalloped clearing on the steep hillside, a dramatic, albeit unplanned campsite. Low scrub, leaf litter and twigs, not much to sustain a fire, but we heat tinned beans on our tiny gas ring. The scotch warms our cockles, and nibbled sweets round off the meal. We squish down into the tent. We both fiddle around, finding intrusive sticks and pebbles, but eventually, tired bodies fall asleep.
An urgent need to pee has me outside. There’s no moon, but the valley is glowing, softly. As I watch, I see a gentle movement, almost a pulse, as the light drifts back and forth. The wind is gusting, but it doesn’t explain the goings-on below. I sit and take in the show: it’s quite wondrous, eerie, but fascinating. I consider possible explanations – marsh gas was my guess.
Muesli bars and coffee start the day as I tell Georgie about last night’s sighting. She suggests it might be glowworms or fireflies. We leave the bikes and clamber down onto the valley floor. On hands and knees, we find the explanation: Georgie’s right, thousands of tiny insects lined up along the grass stalks, recuperating after their nighttime revelry.
I remember the map’s note. Had it been alerting travellers to this nightly spectacle? Had my weak bladder finally provided a positive outcome?