By Rob

It’s that time of the year again. Tree blossom is bursting into life, birds are pulling up moss to soften their nests, the shadow air is warming, and I’m migrating east to Nepal.

One of the many hats that I wear is the warm, waterproof version of a trek leader (I guide for Keswick-based, KE Adventure Travel) and spring in Nepal is the place to be. I write this on the train down to Manchester airport from where I begin the long and tiring flight to Kathmandu, end of the magical hippie trail. The city is dirty, noisy and, being home to some 5 million souls, way too crowded. It is a place to chill out and relax, before and after the trekking … if you can find one of the rare sanctuaries that is tucked away in corners of the city.

I’m there for two days before taking the short – but always memorable - flight to the reassuringly titled ‘world’s most dangerous airport’ at Lukla, gateway to the mighty Sagarmatha, or Mount Everest as it’s less poetically called in the west. I’ve flown there many times, and always feel the frisson of fear and excitement as the plane smacks down onto the short, uphill runway before veering wildly into the small apron. Without exception all the trekkers clamber off the tiny planes to breathe out a sigh of relief and inhale the crisp mountain air.

Even though the trail will be busy it will still feel wonderful to be amongst giants. The region has been synonymous with trekking and climbing ever since the tweed-clad Mallory and Irvine tried to scale the world’s highest rock in the 1920’s. The uncertainty of whether they made it to the top or not still swirls around the flanks of the peak and the wider mountaineering community. What is sure is that they perished whilst chasing their dream.

When I reach Everest base camp (by my estimate on April 20th) the climbing season will be in full swing and the sense of heightened ambition will be palpable. If the twin bedfellows of adrenalin and testosterone can be said to have a spiritual home then it is here, amongst the lurid-coloured tents that mark the boundaries of the world’s most expensive and exclusive shanty town. It is like a scene from some fantasy rock festival with the tents all crammed together and precariously placed on the jumbled rock mess that is the Khumbu Glacier. Folk from all over the planet have invested a lot of time and a small mound of cash to be here, to slowly haul their tanned and toned physiques from base camp, across the famous ice fall, up to and over the airless Hillary Step and on to the summit of their dreams. At the roof-of-the-world such dreams do not come cheap: failure equates to a year’s salary wasted for some, and, at the extreme, a life lost for others.

I have never held any illusions about where my ambitions and skills start and stop. I could never go to the top of Everest, I don’t ‘want it’ bad enough and my bank balance would never support it. But I love being in the region, I love feeling the clarity of air, love capturing the essence of this truly remarkable landscape on my many cameras.

Everest means many things to many men (and women). To me it is simply one of the most beautiful and spiritual places on the planet. Staring at the iconic black southern face from Kala Pattar is a privilege that I never tire of.

More pictures soon….

There has been a buzz in the news today about the loss of contact with nature among children today; something that has been termed ‘nature deficit disorder.’ The National Trust will be launching a consultation about this problem.

Nature – Deficit - Disorder. Or put another way: We are – Lacking - and in Disarray.

Where is the sense in losing touch with the natural world around us? There lie our resources, our space, inspiration and sustenance. How has it come to this? How have consumerism and the glare of screen and tablet become more alluring than the incredible gifts that the outdoors offers us?

A single tree, persevering despite difficult conditions, framed against a background swoop of hillside; an endless expanse of ocean that licks your feet to a rhythm that, strangely, is in tune with your breathing; the moist chill of a woodland morning teasing your nostrils, beneath the treetop chatter of birds; raging wind in your hair bringing a storm in from a distant black sky.

Where something is missing, the entire system has to compromise, and strains, stresses, even breakages appear. Where meaningful contact with nature, of which we are a part, is stifled, the deficit plays a role in mental stress, physical pain and illness, relationship conflicts.

The UK has a huge amount of green space. It has over 11 thousand miles of coastline and many thousands of miles of rivers and streams. So much of that is too seldom enjoyed.

There are a lot of groups of people talking about ways to tackle this, particularly getting children closer to nature. Keep it up ... and keep going. In our personal way of getting out and about, we’re not covering all the miles, but looking, calmly, for lone trees that act as reminders of both space and connection, that call us to attention, to a point of stillness. They embody nature’s beauty and its resilience, they bear years of history, reflect seasonal shifts, and hold seeds for the future. And they get us out beyond the walls of our house and the tarmac of our street.

This weekend, we’re going on a tree hunt, heading over to Torver or the Duddon Valley in search of what we hope will be the fourth of our seven trees. Whether we find the tree or not, we’re confident we’ll not be suffering from nature deficit disorder – quite the opposite, we intend to fill ourselves up with as much outdoor time as possible.

Read the BBC report on the National Trust and Nature Deficit Disorder

Troutbeck Alder on the curve of the water, bare-branched, still point, feet in the river. Sentinel to hills, water, shepherds, sheep and weather.

We huddle into a gnarled trunk as bands of snow slice across the fellside, the biting cold turning fingers numb. It’s a typical march day, though, and the air soon clears, a bright washed blue pushing clouds aside. A lone dipper skims the beck. This is his patch of river, for life.

Five hundred years ago this scene may have been barely different. Not the same tree, but another in its place. Herdwicks, frog spawn, snow showers, reeds, smooth whale-back stones, bog. Constants around the flowing water and shifting cloudscape.

A second flurry moves in but holds to the east and passes, a curtain of snow, soft white veil, behind the tree - a kiss, a whisper on the landscape; and the sun warms us from the west. Simple beauty, the kind that forces a soft smile on the inside, a moment of silence, a held-breath of gratitude.

On this planet, where war is taking lives, souls are stifled by the fruitless quest of consumerism and families are struggling with hunger or poverty, in the infinite variety of the planet we find this place, this still place, bright, fresh and enlivening. A wisp of cloud rests on the crest of the hill to the north.

‘may my sculptures be confused with elements of nature, rocks, trees, roots, mountains, plants, flowers – build myself a studio in the countryside, very spacious, with a facade that blends into the earth ... absolutely not white, and now and then take my sculptures outdoors so they blend in with the landscape’

Many people think of Miro as a painter – but take yourself along to the Yorkshire Sculpture park and you’re in for a treat. His talent as a sculptor, something he began to play with at the age of 14, working with a blindfold to really get a feel for the material, is phenomenal. And the sculpture park is a great setting for his pieces.

Give yourself plenty of time – to see the pieces, to have a coffee, and then go and revisit. Or to sit in front of them and contemplate. What went on in his mind? Often, probably very little in terms of words and thoughts – these sculptures are tactile, sensual, emergent from a space of impulse and instinct. The many versions of ‘femme’ share the tear-drop crevice of womanhood. The smoothed bronze in the sculptures outside is like alabaster, and catches the light in such a way as to move from grey to black to white. Heads are suggested by small lumps – maybe cast from an almond or an egg box – arms appear where ears should be.

Miro liked to use everyday found objects as casts. In his view this brought his art into the reach of the masses, ordinary ‘everyday’ people. It’s strange that what is produced is anything but ordinary, and often not recognisable. But, the more time I spent with these pieces, the less strange they seemed. Somehow Miro captures an essence, and it’s impossible not to be drawn in and feel that essence – as if you are somehow inside the piece.

Go – it’s on for nearly a year.

Yorkshire Sculpture Park

Independent, Review

Apologies for the lack of an image ... technical glitch, I will try and sort it out! Harriet