Four Camp It Up
On Saturday morning, 1st May at about 0315hrs, I was roused from a delightful dream consisting of many scantily clad, buxom nubile women
(and I was their King!) by an inconsiderate BASTARD ringing me up at an ungodly hour. Tony, who has been looking forward to this HUFOS
weekend away for the last 3 years (even though it was only planned a couple of days prior [the word "planned" being what can only be termed
as just about the most vaguest sense of the word]), was calling from a telephone box about 50 yards from my house: "Darren?! It's Tony!"
"Huh? What? What time is it?" (Brief fumble) "Three thirty a.m.? What the fu…" By 0800hrs we, being Tony Barker, Andy McCartney,
Ian Anderson and myself, were setting out for a skywatch weekend which we decided to hold at a site near my old birthplace of Stoke-on-Trent,
a site by the name of Mow Cop.
This particular place is a small village perched on top of a very big hill. At the highest point, perched on a crag of rock is what appears to be the
remains of a castle. In actual fact, it's a folly which was built in (I think) the 1700s. From Mow Cop Castle, going through 360 degrees one can see,
on a clear day, Manchester, Manchester Airport, Merseyside, the Cheshire Plains, Jodrell Bank Radio Telescope, the (North) Welsh mountains, Shropshire,
Stoke-on-Trent, the Peak District and parts of Derbyshire.
On route we stopped off in Castleton where we stretched our legs. As there was walking involving distances of more than five yards, Andy elected to stay
and look after the cars under the pretext of suffering from near cardiovascular encephalitis of the paleotal Jurassic period which had been brought on by
the stress of getting out of bed before mid-afternoon (idle bastard!). Having blacked out the windows of Tony's car, he settled down with a copy of the
Daily Sport and a 'knowing' grin.
Meanwhile we other intrepid explorers wandered alongside a crystal clear stream running through Castleton, spotted a fish in the water, lost interest in
it and eventually arrived at the mouth of Peak Cavern which, ultimately, is a dirty great hole in the ground. A hole of which, no less, is grossly
exploited by the local populace. Entry to the cave is £4.75 for adults (for the same money one can enjoy a two-course meal and a pint in a nearby pub).
Did we go in...?
We returned to the car (extolling the virtue of the £14.25 we had just saved ourselves, having told the proprietor which hole to stick his hole in)
and set off once again for Stoke-on-Trent. Three minutes out of Castleton we halted the cars at the top of a steep hill - we had spotted a small
opening in a hill and wanted to investigate. A FREE CAVE! We found a small pothole, not of the grandeur of the previous hole, but a free cave none
the less. We each entered the cave(let) but only got as far as about 10 yards inside because the floor was water logged. It seemed to go in much
further and echoed when we shouted. We decided that wet weather clothing would be a requirement if we ever came this way again (see local newspapers
on our next venture "FOUR HULL MONGS TRAPPED IN CAVE"). Once more, we set off for Stoke.
We eventually arrived in Stoke-on-Trent where we stopped off at my mum's house for a quick tea break, nipped into Hanley - a major shopping area of
Stoke-on-Trent - for supplies then continued on to Mow Cop Castle. We were there by 1230hrs. As promised to the chaps, the view from the site was
splendid. They could see for miles around and agreed that it would make an excellent skywatch site. Andy would have done too but, having spotted a
small hill miles off in the distance, elected to stay put and guard the cars again (myoptical sporosis of the upper mitochondriatic hydracampus was
the malady this time - Idle git). On our walkabout we found a pub in which we subsequently sought to enjoy a cool, crisp and wholesome pint of beer.
Bad luck Andy!
Having had a good look around the place, we decided to find a place to stay for a couple of nights. The original plan was for us to get to the site
early, have a quick scout about then find somewhere to pitch our tents for a couple of nights before breaking open the beer and creating our own UFOs.
Easy? Not a bit of it. As it was, I didn't know of any sites before we went, but thought that, as it's in a touristy area, there must be a campsite
somewhere. So, off we drove looking for a suitable site. Many hours later when we found what must be the only Tourist Information Office in North
Staffordshire, we found that Stoke-on-Trent's one and only camp site is in fact situated in Derbyshire. According to the nice Tourist Info Office lady,
the campsite was situated behind a pub. So off we drove (again) to find the site.
We eventually found a derelict building with a forest growing at it's rear which, according to a local chap (who incidentally turned very pale when we
four ugly chaps climbed out of our cars in his driveway) had at one time been the local pub but had shut down one week before we arrived. Lady luck
sure was pooping from a great height this weekend. Andy at the loss of a pub broke into tears while we studied the road map and made an executive
decision - we would head back towards Castleton where campsites were aplenty, though on route, we would keep our eyes open for alternative sites.
In Buxton, we passed a road sign with a little triangular character depicting a tent. A CAMP SITE! Off we tootled following the directions and soon
arrived at a campsite nestled in a quarry(?!!).
Harpur Hill camping and caravan site is nestled down in what appears to be an unused quarry workings. Not many metres away from this site is a former
MOD underground shelter complex which is now being used to store cheese and wine in. Worthy of a visit later that night we all thought. Wrong.
Unbeknown to us there was an alarm system linked to a "Pervy, four man group intent on drinking beer, harassing locals and women" detector. We must
have stood out a mile when we passed it because, as we drove down the driveway, the proprietor rushed around the tents, relocated them both to fill
in the gaps then turned us away under the pretext that they were full. He was, however, kind enough to direct us to another site about seventy miles
away from his own. So of we went again and despite his directions which I think were aimed at leading us to anywhere but Buxton, we found another camp
site. Ian and I very nearly didn't make it. Ian, who was driving, spotted scantily clad females out of his side window and was watching them intensely.
Having leered myself, I turned back and spotted what appeared to be a BMW badge. Unfortunately, the badge was still attached to it's car which in turn
was about three feet from smashing into us. I yelled at Ian, or at least I tried to - I think I sounded more like something that hedgehogs sound like
when they realise that they aren't going to make it across the road after all! Ian's quick thinking got us out of trouble though, much too late to rescue
my undies I'll add. Seconds later, we arrived at the booking office of the campsite where we were greeted with: "Gerrorff my larnd!" We hadn't even
gotten out of the cars when we were turned away. By now, with less than a few hours til' dark, we were stuck, dejected, sick of driving about and well
and truly annoyed (Tony wanted to use other terminology but Sean says he can't print it, obscenity act and all that).
We drove towards Castleton hoping to find a campsite which would let us stay and, low and behold, we found one daft enough to. I spotted a few caravans
in a small field some distance away from the road so we drove off in the general direction. Pretty soon we found the site and, with a bit of gentle
persuasion, the owner let us stay (I blackmailed him, saying I had photos of him with a sheep, a bucket of wet slime and a box of featherlight).
Tents pitched, we had just settled down when up rolled a transit minibus full of teenagers and a scoutmaster type with a beer belly which surpassed even
mine. Andy, bless his little cotton socks (greeny grey at that point because he hasn't washed them yet this year - Idle git) immediately termed him the
"fat controller" on account of his girth. The name seemed apt, it stuck.
We ate then out-stared Fat Controller and watched as he led his group away from us to the relative safety of Buxton (they have some very violent fights
in Buxton on a Saturday night - maybe I should have told him?). Earlier in the evening, the site owner told me about a local club which we could use.
Great beer and good entertainment, he said. They come from miles around to the country club on a night, he said. Some very good musicians and plenty of
single young women if we wanted that sort of entertainment (nudge nudge, wink wink say no more), he said. I have to say, he lied.
The club is frequented by the locals (anybody see Deliverance?), the beer is wet and very water-like, which explains why we were able to drink fifty pints
each and still not wet our shoes in the gents, the women were closely and fiercely guarded by their menfolk (with mutters of "ere, look at em' thar
strangers. After our wimmin ey' be."). And the musical entertainment? We were treated to a musical extravaganza by the famous artiste, world renowned,
J** O*******. He is the archetypal pub singer - smarmy, gushing at the audience, full of his own brilliance and utterly crap in the sing department.
If you get a chance to see him on his tour of Buxton, don't!
We hogged the pool table until kicking out time then weaved a somewhat wobbly way back to the tents, lured by the smell of beer in tins which we took the
precaution of obtaining earlier that day. We reached the tents shortly after so we broke open the cans, started scoffing on whatever morsels of food were
lying around (not necessarily in our own tents either) then proceeded to right the wrongs of the earth, put the world to right and discuss the meaning of
sugar coated smarties. In other words, we engaged in bollocks talk. This continued until about 0300hrs when we decided to go to bed. It was a family
site after all - we didn't want to keep the other site users awake all night.
At this point, I would like to highlight a small point to those of you who haven't yet cottoned on. We didn't do a great deal of skywatching up to this
point. What originally set out to be a serious UFOlogical field trip had, by now, collapsed into a state of utter disorganised abandonment. - a mega
booze up The only UFOs we would be likely to see would have been flying beer cans or pink pixies.
Andy woke us up the following morning. I won't bother to repeat his exact words because I know straight off that Sean will take on look at this submitted
article and consign it to file 13 (spelt B - I - N). Use you imagination as I try to explain. The Fat Controller and his merry posse woke up at about
0630hrs and proceeded to do what a dozen or so teenagers do when they're given their freedom for a couple of days. They made a bit of noise. No problem,
that's acceptable. The two adults with them though were asserting their self importance over the kids. Not content with allowing the kids to get on with
whatever they were doing, they had to shout and bellow at them as the kids were doing it. By about 0730hrs, Andy had had enough. Using his bestest
diplomacy, superb eloquence, mastery of the use of English Language and colloquial Hull dialect, he yelled; "Keep the f***ing noise down f***ing fat t**t!".
To which came the reply, in poshest snobbiest London West End; "Well one shouldn't have stopped up until three in the morning talking should one?"
Talk about a red rag to a bull! Andy's response was instantaneous. "If you don't shut the f**k up I'll rip your f**king head off and shove it up your
f**king arse you fat paedophile!"
Silence dropped like a lead balloon, then, after a few seconds, we began to hear sniggers from the kids - their leader had been shown up in front of them.
Andy was their hero of the day!! About twenty minutes later we heard the sound of a vehicle moving off at a fast rate of knots. When we finally emerged
from our tents, besides being glared at by the other site users, we found that the troupe had packed up and left. Another camp-site which we will no
doubt be barred from in the future.
We breakfasted on sossies, egg, beans and bread rolls, all lovingly prepared by Ian the chef - nice one Ian, you can come again. We experienced downpour
as we ate but this did nothing to detract from the spirit of things. While we ate, Andy did his best to persuade us into driving over to Sherwood Forest
in Nottinghamshire. "It's great over there. Tons of places for a sky watch, I know some brilliant sites. All in the forest too so we don't have to pay
camping fees on a site" Okay, we let him talk us into it. We hoyed the kit into the back of the cars, took one last look at the area, then left (Andy
with his bare backside against the car window in symbolic gesture!).
We found a traffic jam in Nottinghamshire. It was on a quiet country road (though not so quiet that morning) in the middle of nowhere. No towns nearby,
no villages, no places of interest. Except that this particular morning, some fool had decided to plonk a market in the area. Of course, anybody within
a thousand mile radius of this particular mud field just simply had to go. So, we ended up in the middle of a tail back which moved at a rate of two miles
a week - the average speed of many of the pensioner drivers out where I live. We pulled off the road and had an ice cream from a van, the vendor of which
was sobbing because all this traffic was passing and nobody bought an ice cream off her. They all must have had one before because like them, I'll never
have another one from her. It was ice alright but I failed to spot the cream. The area we were parked in though seemed suitable enough for an overnight
stop but Andy wanted to go further on, so we went further on.
We eventually lost the traffic jam and moved along a bit faster. Eventually we came across the only camp site in the area. Prior to this we pulled into
a car park where we were asked for £1.50 parking charges. I explained that I was stopping only long enough to ask for directions at the Tourist Information
center. Nope! £1.50 or move on. We moved on. We eventually found what we wanted. A camp site in pleasant surrounds, peaceful and spaces as far as the
eye could see. We made the fatal mistake of sending Tony in to secure a couple of pitches. They must have taken one look at him and decided "Thug
brigade". Ian tried - he put on his doe-eyes and sad puppy dog face but he was dealing with a couple of hard hearted cases.
By now we were extremely p**sed off because once again we were driving about looking for somewhere to pitch tents instead of being set up and ready for
another hard night's sky watching (Andy by the way had LIED TO US about knowing his way around the area. Andy, you old dog you). We looked at the road
map and checked out the local area for possible sites, and spotted a small place called something like "Neverfindit Namillyoneers". Boy, talk about a
backwater. When we did find it, our suspicions were well and truly justified. Utterly and completely. We climbed out of our cars when we reached
the place and the first thing that met our gaze? A caveman, dressed in furs, brandishing a big, BIG club, the works. There were even signs saying
"Prehistoric caves and stuff this way". We promptly left, but not before spotting "Ye Olde Touriste Informatione Signposte" (Honestly! That's how it
was labelled!) bearing a list of camp-sites, one of which sounded nothing like a pub owned site.
The Gods were shining in our favour from the moment we rounded a bend and saw our destination. A campsite, behind a PUB and far enough from civilisation
for Andy not to cause distress or harassment to some poor old yokel out walking his cow. The next hurdle arose - would we get a pitch? We had already
taken the precaution of booking a couple of pitches from Captain Caveman's house before we got there, but that was no guarantee of getting on site, not
when four thug types turn up on a camp site promising that we'd be in bed by 1930hrs, not to drink and certainly not to harass other campers. Here it
came. We all strolled into the pub, Ian spoke to the barman and, amazingly, he welcomed us with open arms. Immediately suspicious, I went out and checked
the site for hidden bombs, traps, lonely desperate spinsters, whicker men and witches covens looking for fresh sacrifices. Finding none of these, I
relaxed a little. Then I spotted the landlord's secret weapon. The pub has it's own women's tug-o-war team. They were practising until late that night.
Honestly, their individual leg hairs had bigger muscles that we four could muster up between us all. We decided to be quiet that night.
We soon had the tents up and we were almost ready for a night's sky watching. Just the small matter of a little something to eat. We decided to have
nothing more than a light snack for tea, so we broke out my portable barbecue, set it going then fished out pork steaks, sausages, turkey breast, beans,
bread rolls and bread cakes, crisps, biscuits and anything else which was edible, or at least digestible. The tents were situated in a bit of an exposed
spot which meant problems with a breeze whilst trying to cook, so we did the smart thing. We used our heads and cleverly put the gas cooker and barbecue
as close to the tents as possible, risking a raging inferno I know but, hey, who gives a f**k (we were already halfway too drunk to care) as long as the
food cooks. We stuffed our faces with as much food as we could fit in our mouths (Andy won by the way), then Ian came up with the bright idea of going
for a walk in a nearby forest. When I say nearby, you could see it if you had a pair of 2000x5000 binoculars handy. So a quick blast in Ian's car and we
were there in only seven hours. Before we even got out of the car, Andy was thinking up some excuse not to go because somebody had mentioned the word
"walk" - Idle git!. Promising nothing strenuous and that we'd carry him if he so much as stubbed his little toe, we enticed him into the forest.
I won't bore you with the details of the walk because nothing happened. We saw some trees, some more trees and we even saw a tree. Before going back to
the camp site however, we took a ride into nearby Worksop. Have you ever watched a western on TV and seen the inevitable ghost town that always seems to
crop up? Well the emptiest of those ghost towns had more life in them than Worksop does. Man, it was dead. At one point on our trawl through the streets,
we passed another car but it turned out to be some poor chap who had taken a wrong turning off the M1. We also found another camp site. Slap bang in the
middle of the town tucked away behind a bowling green. Why?
Back at the ranch, we decided to kill a bit of time with a sit down, a few tinnies and a couple of games of chess. Andy played a good game, I had to use
my thinking cap to win over him. Tony played as I tend to do - if there doesn't appear to be a winning situation, go for stalemate. Ian however, well,
let's just embarrass him and say - seven moves.
Understandably, he sulked after that. The night continued to draw in and as soon as it got dark, we prepared for a good night's skywatch. We readied the
chairs, put on our coats and put water in the kettle for our hot toddies etc. Then we went to the pub.
The pub was putting on a quiz at 2100hrs. When it finally started at half ten, we were truly loosened. The beer in this pub was actually alcoholic,
not like that we had the night before. It even served a favourite of mine - Sheep Dip!. Of course, we entered a team under the name of "UFO Crash
Site Retrieval Team" (dunno who thought of that one but he deserves a medal for such apt and original thinking). Well, the quiz got under way and
though the questions were tough, we had a varied background of knowledge - Tony for his musical brilliance and us other three for looking at other
people's papers. We sat smugly in the knowledge that if we four bright sparks couldn't get some of the answers, at least these other teams wouldn't.
The quiz was rigged, the cheating dirty b**tards!
How those excuses for intelligent life managed to answer the questions I'll never know, but they did. I'm ashamed to say that out of 30 questions,
we only got 20. The other cavemen in the pub were getting 28s & 29s. Okay, on with the show. Next, there was a card game in the style of "Play Your
Cards Right" (yes, I too had a Grandma who, when she visited, watched all the incredibly crap TV that a human being could ever take in, depriving me of
such intellectually stimulating delights as Star Trek, Dr Who etc). The idea is that, starting from a base card, the other ten or so face down cards
above it are each turned over with a guess that it is either higher or lower than the last. The prize for guessing right a full set was £70.00. The
first person drawn from the bag failed. He got two cards the same, which is a lose. The second person drawn also lost, again on a draw. Each time this
happened, the matching cards were low - 3s in fact. The third person, lost. Guess how? The fourth number was pulled out of the bag. IT WAS US!
We delegated Ian to pick for us on the pretext that if he won, he would be our hero for life. In actual fact, we said in his absence that if he lost we
would take him out behind the pub, beat him up, steal his wallet and leave him for dead. Three cards into the game, we matched on a 3! I'm not saying it
was fixed - okay then, I am. Lousy bloody rigged cheating scum bag game (general consensus between us all that night actually). The person who went up
after us was on first name terms with the landlord. Guess what? She won. Unbelievable eh? Well, after that game, we supped up and went back to the
tents.
The sky was relatively clear which I have to say is somewhat unusual for a Bank Holiday, even more unusual for a HUFOS Skywatch too. We sat out for a
good two or three minutes before we adjourned to the largest of the tents and proceeded to finish off the tinned stocks. We sat up and we talked through
to the early hours of Monday, which realistically was about 0010hrs before we all flaked out and went to sleep.
Monday morning (real morning time being anything after 0900hrs) came about and four weary looking souls clambered forth from the tents. No fried
breakfast to greet us this time however (you're not coming again Ian), only eggs. Hard boiled eggs and whatever was left of the bread rolls and English
mustard. On top of the sheep dip and stones beer from the night before, it was one hell of a concoction. Luckily we weren't stuck in the confined space
of Ian's car for too long when we went home. There was very little happening to tell you about suffice to say that we packed up and left for home.
It was a very enjoyable weekend in all, the only let down being that there was so much driving involved for what was a relatively small area covered.
Having said that, we were only scouting for new places to visit for future sky watches. Our next field trip will be a heck of a lot more meticulously
planned, with the probability that we will be contacting other groups around the country and doing joint watches (so hide away quickly!).
If anybody is interested in attending future skywatches, you are more than welcome. As always, the skywatches and weekend field trips are very well
publicised either at the meeting, in the magazine, on the website or by mouth and telephone. You don't have to do anything more than turn up suitably
dressed. You don't even have to take a flask or food - the people who organise the skywatches are now providing hot drinks and even hot food (hot dogs
and the like - take a pat on the back Vic, Sean & Ian for all your hard work), all of which is sold very cheaply (any profits will go towards funding
future skywatch equipment) or provided free of charge if you contribute towards the provisions. I can promise you that there is a lot of fun to be had on
these events. Don't sit at home letting all our hard work and planning go to waste - get yourselves out there. Just one more thing though. Please, if
you say you are going then find you can't make it, let one of the organisers know (by ringing any of the Sighting Investigators - numbers at the bottom of this page)
so that we aren't left waiting around needlessly. We have wasted a lot of time in the past trying to pander to the needs of the selfish and thoughtless
few (who incidentally, from now on, WILL BE NAMED AND SHAMED).
If you are interested in attending a H.U.F.O.S. organised Skywatch, contact us for further information.
Below are stories of other skywatches we have been on. (Warning: Some of these may contain strong language!)
Four Camp It Up
Right Back At East Gate
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Darren Parr |
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