Cefn Croes wind farm

Let me start by sharing three recent conversations.

The first, with a writer who was once a prominent road protester. Would you have climbed those trees to stop the building of a wind farm, I asked?

The second, with a writer and environmentalist, as delightful as she was committed. I care most deeply about the landscape, I explained, my view on wind farms is really a matter of personal priorities.

And the third, with a writer whose generous mentoring has helped me more than any other. I've discovered the way to success, he said. Write nothing controversial, acknowledge all opinions and say bugger all of consequence.  He had a twinkle in his eye.

I recalled these snippets as I neared the summit of Pen y Garn on Saturday, walking on a treble-width forest track, five miles east of Devil's Bridge in the Cambrian Mountains. The 'road' leads to the Nant Rhys bothy, arguably the most perfect and isolated of all in Wales.

Of course, I knew what to expect. After all, I'd been this way before. I'd written of my hatred of the Cefn Croes wind farm, its impact on the landscape and the inappropriateness of its turbines. I'd gone so far as to say that before passing judgement every campaigner (for or against) should stand under one of the monstrous contraptions.

You'll understand then, I'm no fence-sitter on this issue - though it's fair to say that over recent years I've tried harder to listen to alternative views. Sometimes I even find myself nodding.

But as I crested the rise that visceral response hit me again... I began ranting to my walking companion... and again... reeling off photos... and again... spitting into my iPhone's voice recorder: fucking turbines.. and again... arrogant, criminal... and again... they make me want to puke..  I was listening to no one and to trucking no arguments.

And you know, I was glad about that. For in those few minutes of rage I felt more authentic than any amount of reasoned argument, probing questions or careful assessment of perspectives. I didn't give a toss for the technical reports available as pdf downloads, the website propaganda of the energy companies or the paranoia of the eco-lobby that positions windfarms as a binary alternative to nuclear-fuelled wastelands. Nor did I care about the European grants, the Welsh Assembly's Sustainability Strategy, or the 40,000 homes putatively benefiting from this 'clean' energy.

What I cared about was this place.

The Elenydd wilderness is one of the few mountain regions worthy of that epithet. The Cefn Croes windfarm is barely visible from the road, it takes miles of walking to get up close, it directly affects but a handful of homes and doesn't offend the tourist's windscreened view of Wales. And that's precisely why it matters so much.

This landscape is precious; it's rare and special, and I'm angry because we despoil it with industrialisation on a scale that would be unthinkable in any urban equivalent. This is wrong, and it's plain and obvious when you go there. But because most of you won't, I'd ask you to spend 14 seconds watching the video below.

Just sometimes it's entirely rational to follow our gut.

The perfect family car?

Our car - by Dylan

There is an ongoing joke at work about me and cars. According to my colleagues, the only thing I'm interested in, is whether or not it has a roof rack. This isn't entirely true, although roof racks are important if you variously need to transport kayaks, bikes and roof boxes. In fact, I have quite a number of considerations; it's just that few of them would matter much to my executive colleagues for whom image seems a lot more important than practicality.

So what exactly, would be my perfect car?

Well for a start it needs to be roomy; I have two teenagers with an immense capacity to spread themselves, and a four year old who requires all the usual toddler paraphernalia. Add the camping gear, the bikes and I suppose we are talking about a people carrier. Sliding rear doors are a must and, yes, a roof rack - and not one that requires you to buy the manufacturer's fittings. Thule roof racks are way the best and I want to be able the transfer the ones I've already paid a small fortune for.

As it's a people carriers, I expect it to have individual and removable rear seats (I'm not very bothered about seats number six and seven which tend to sit in my garage anyway) But here's the very important bit - listen up manufacturers - I want the seats to be on runners so I can position then far, far back in the car - far enough to give a six foot teenager enough legroom to lounge to his heart's content! You might think this wouldn't be too much to ask, but there isn't a car on the market that allows for this. There are any number of people carriers with two seats in the far rear, but not three - it's something to do with the wheel arches evidently. Just sort it please.

And some other things. I want the air con to work in the back of the car too. I want a twelve volt socket for every seat so there's no squabbling over the ipod, DVD, Gameboy chargers. I want the floor to be rubberised for easy cleaning, and a set of removable carpets that can be disposed of about once a year at reasonable cost. I want the seats in a washable fabric; I want a decent sized waste bin (between the front seats perhaps) and I want a the storage lockers to be large and simple. I don't want miniature cup holders, boy racer gadgets, cigarette lighters, fancy dials and those fabric storage pockets that are just perfect for food litter.

A few minor tweaks: an extra rear view mirror (sometimes called a conversation mirror) to keep an eye on the little darlings; a speed limiter to stop me falling foul of Gatso cameras; a system for adjusting seatbelts for little ones - all nice, but not essential. If the front seats swivelled round 180 degrees for picnics on wet days, even better.

And as for the boot. Can I please have a washable liner that fixes with Velcro to keep the mud / sand at bay. I'd like a clip in electric coolbox that is big enough to hold two bags of shopping. And I'd like one of those hoses that come in Range Rovers for washing wellies.

Typical, I've not mentioned the engine yet. I don't really care, so long as it's economical and adequate; I'd rather it had low emissions that a high posing value. And certainly nothing that could ever make me say soemthing like, I've got a 7 series but I'm changing it for CX300. What does all that mean; who cares?

That's about it. Apart from the seat configuration, you can get any one of these items in lots of different cars, but not all of them in any one. I find this surprising because it's not exactly a demanding list. Sadly, it reflects how little attention manufacturers pay to practical family needs.

Car design and marketing is so dominated by image that for many people their car is fundamental to their sense of self worth. You can have any amount of meaningless sporty variations - but ask for an integrated coolbox and that's way too difficult. It seems that our technology has come a long way from the Deux Cheveux and the Volkswagen Beetle (the original people's cars), but in family terms, we've not gone quite so far.

In the meantime, it's windy again, so I'm going to polish my roof rack.

The trouble with technology

Most of you will know that a Global Positioning System is device that tracks its position using geo-stationary satellites. For mountaineers, this is particularly useful as it pinpoints your location to within five meters - handy in a white out when a wrong turn can be fatal. The better models also have a particularly neat feature which allows you to navigate over complex terrain by following a direction pointer. Safe as houses - unless the technology decides to have a bad day.

Our trouble started after we'd climbed Red Pike, a 2,600 feet summit south of Buttermere. As we ascended the direction pointer had worked fine - who was I to know that the pre-programmed route had picked up a few stray way-points in Pembrokeshire, inserting them into the High Stile ridge? Every time we ventured from the summit we'd follow the trusty arrow, head in the wrong direction, flail about on the slopes in a thick pea-soup and eventually return somewhere near Red Pike again.

I write about it now with a sense of jest, but although we were never seriously in trouble, it wasn't a pleasant experience to feel quite so lost and exposed. I like technology - I really do - but is there anything, when it fails, that can induce more stress? And stuck up a mountain, in the mist, with a teenage son who's getting cold and fractious, is not the best place to test my patience.

If I'm honest, it distressed me that with so many years of experience I couldn't work out what was going wrong. I felt dependent on this gizmo and it wasn't performing as I expected; it took all my effort to stay calm.

But salvation came in two guises. Firstly a return to old fashioned technology - I got out the map and compass! And secondly a return to traditional values - I asked some walkers we stumbled on for assistance, which of course they gladly gave. Half an hour later we were back on route, I was confident again and the stress was a distant memory.

In a way, this story is particularly apt, as our destination was the remote Black Sail Hut, high in the Ennerdale valley and approachable only by foot or mountain bike. It is about as old fashioned and traditional as it gets - one of the iconic hostels of the YHA and little changed in over sixty years of use. I had long wanted to stay there, booking last January to ensure we could go on midsummer's weekend.

Black Sail was all I had hoped it would be - the simplest of buildings, in a unique location, enjoyed with great company and a sense of adventure. I wasn't just pleased that we'd made it, I was delighted, elated, refreshed by the whole experience - the best night out this year, by far.

And yet as I sat there, enjoying every minute I knew that to others, particularly many of my colleagues at work, it would be something entirely different. To them, Black Sail would be a musty old shepherd's hut to be endured on Outward Bound type weekends. Why is it, I wondered, that I like these places so much? And what is it about them that means I chose to seek them out, often in preference to the best hotels?

There are some obvious answers. I love the landscape; I treasure the time spent with my sons in getting to these places; I thrive on their remoteness and isolation. And I think too, that there is a particular pleasure in sometimes leaving technology behind and returning to simpler ways.

That word 'sometimes' is important here. Because I'm not so 'head in the clouds' as to deny technology's good side. Nor am I so Romantic as to think that Black Sail (or its like) would remain as charming after a few weeks stay. But a short time away from it all helps us appreciate the rest of our busy, stressful, digitally enabled lives. At best, a little time out helps us to sort the crap we need to ditch from the things that really matter.

What did we do at Black Sail that I enjoyed so much? Well, epic over, we met up with Ian and Mike who'd biked in - and who had their own stories to tell. We enjoyed a meal, drank some beer and wine, played monopoly, laughed a lot, chatted to the other walkers and watched the stars flickering over Great Gable.

Simple stuff - old fashioned values - the best of times.