A special proposal for leap year

Stuart has invited me to Keswick for Leap Year

Stuart tells me he's taking me for a day out in Keswick.
For Leap Year.
“It only comes around every 1460 days so we should do something special.”

Something special for leap year? Does he mean he's going to propose? But we are already married....

I rack my brains about what he could be planning, before having a eureka moment. We're going to renew our vows! I imagine the little slate chapel, set into the Keswick mountains, with the sun beaming its approval through the clouds, just as he says I do, again. Perfect.

Keswick Town Centre

It's something of a surprise then, when we pitch up at the Lakeland Pedlar cafe and bike shop. "We're here for the 29-er” says Stuart to the man behind the desk. My ears prick up. Wasn't that in the Karma Sutra? “Er, what is the 29-er?” I quietly wonder out loud.

“The 29-er is the future” says a guy who introduces himself as the man from Cannondale.

None the wiser, I find myself being redirected over the road to Keswick Mountain Bikes, following a trail of mud spattered young men up the path. Ah, Stuart must be planning to buy me a bike for leap year. Well that's quite romantic.

“I'm here for my 29-er,” I repeat Stuart's words with confidence to the man behind the desk.

So this is a 29-er

“Right then, let's get you sorted out. I've got a really nice Jett here that might suit you,” he says, leading me out of the shop and onto the pavement where he hands me a spanking new mountain bike.I caress my new toy.

“Give it a spin and see if you like it,” he says, before going back into the shop.

I try to get on. It's a bit tricky because the bike has no pedals. A bike without pedals? Now that really is the future.

I'm trying to scoot around the car park when Stuart comes out with two pedals. “What are you doing?” he says.

I know a little about mud, sweat and gears. But apparently you need pedals too

“It's so sweet of you to buy me a bike for leap year.” I stammer, trying to cover up my mistake as he fixes them on. “I thought we might be getting re-married today but this is just as good.”

Stuart shoots me a look. “It's a test ride,” he says. “We have to bring them back in an hour. Did we get divorced and I didn’t notice?”

Heading out of town I put my determined face on

It's Alex from the bike shop who fills me in on the mystery of what I'm doing here, explaining that the shop has invited cycle enthusiasts to come and try out some 29-ers, bikes with a 29 inch wheel, to mark February 29th.

“It's like a new category of mountain bike,” he explains. “The 29 inch wheel will never take over from a 26, but it's really fun. The larger wheel inspires confidence in those without much experience. 29-ers have been around for ever and a day in The States. They're less common here but they are the future. I think you'll find it gives you a much smoother ride over the bumps.”

The bumps??

Heading  up the bridleway to Latrigg

The only bumps at Gregg's the bakers are sausage roll shaped. We unwittingly spend a good portion of the allotted hour buying a pie for lunch because there's a queue.

Stuart's pie seems to act like rocket fuel and he bombs ahead, leaving me bimbling along Keswick rail trail on my own. So much for our romantic day out.

Sometimes determination isn't enough!

I catch up with him at the top of Latrigg, wondering what all the fuss was with the 29 inch wheels. But as I descend I soon find out. This bike is the equivalent of a Range Rover, absorbing rocks and stones and jagged edges under its generously sized wheels.

“Watch out for Costcutters,” I think I hear Stuart shout as he races downhill ahead of me. I look everywhere for a misplaced supermarket, only to realise he meant cross gutters when I fall into one.

Climbing Latrigg there are great views out across the Northern Lakes 

But otherwise I fly. At the edge of the hill, as we wind back into Keswick, the sun belts onto Derwentwater, and the scene is exactly as I imagined, except I am holding a mountain bike rather than a bouquet. I'm surprised to find I'm happy about that.

We pass two of the mud splattered men from the bike shop coming the other way. They hold open a gate for us. “We've been to Glenderaterra,” they announce.

“We've been to Greggs.” I grin.

Heading down I realise what mountain biking is all about

It takes just minutes to get back to the bike shop.

“I've fallen in love with this bike,” says Stuart, who is also mud splattered.

“That's not how it was supposed to happen,” I say.

These are beautiful machines. How could one not fall in love?

In the shop I reluctantly hand the bicycle back to Alex.

“How was it then?”

“Awesome. Only twenty nine inches will satisfy me in future,” I say, loudly enough for Stuart, and the rest of the shop to hear.

I can dream can't I?

Did you do something special for Leap Year? We'd love to hear about it. Click comments below and tell us more.

This post is part of our Family Adventure Capital Season. We're exploring different ways families can adventure together in and around Cumbria, sharing ideas and inspiration to encourage families to get out, get active and adventure together. Got some ideas for things we should try? Let us know.

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A journey is never over until it's over...

We followed these signs for a week across fell and moorland. And then we reached the North East

A week after leaving the West Coast in Workington on our Winter Coast to Coast ride we were with reach of the East Coast near Sunderland. But a journey is never over until it's over. And it's not always when you expect it. But isn't that the joy of adventuring. 

Eight miles from the end of the Coast to Coast route and I get a puncture. I never get punctures. Except when I’m near the end of a ride and it’s getting dark. I blame the grit of the North East; there’s a glass shard of it stuck in my tyre. And it’s not just the tyre that’s deflated, so too are my hopes of finishing the C2C today. Although I sense Stuart may not feel the same. He never gives up.

In fading light Stuart works fast to fix the puncture, determined to finish the ride before dark

Puncture fixed we ride into Sunderland in the pitch black; pulling up at the Premier Inn; our hotel for the night. We’re out of repair patches now and Stuart notices an Argos store next door and insists we try and restock. How ridiculous with only four miles left to ride. While he browses through the catalogue for leeches and glue, the kids fill out forms requesting new Townsend Bikes and Boss Bikes. I love the naïve optimism they still have when it comes to their Dad.

“Must be a big Sunderland game tomorrow,” I say to Stuart after noting all the footie fans checking in. I’m worried about leaving the bikes outside the hotel. We’re only a mile or so from the Stadium of Light and the hotel staff have already mentioned security.

“We're not leaving the bikes anywhere,” says Stuart. “We haven't been to the sea yet.The ride isn't over until we get to the sea.”

“But the kids have decamped. I think they're already watching TV,” I say.

“Then get them out again, and we can get on our way.”

Arriving in the dark, the kids are tired and have had enough. And so have I!

We start to have a row, which is in turn interrupted by a brawl. But it isn't the football supporters; it's our own kids who are having a punch up in the hotel lobby. One is standing on the other's head and another is lying on the floor clasping her knee and screaming. Stuart pulls them off each other while the football supporters look on in shock.

“Right, that's it. We're not going to finish the ride tonight!” shouts Stuart. He thinks it's a punishment, but I can tell the children are relieved. He forces them to make a public apology to the lady on reception, who slips them sweeties, and gives them the keys to two rooms, with their own bed, delicious white sheets and a TV. Stuart is the only one left fuming.

The final countdown

In the light we can see how close the River Wear and Stadium of Light are. The end really is nigh.

Sunderland is different in daylight and so are we. For only the second time this week the sun shines on our backs, and our moods are transformed. We hop on the bikes and follow a gentle cycle path taking us along the River Wear. “How will we know when we get there?” asks Hannah.
“We'll see the sea, simple as that. It's how we started and how we end this journey,” I say.

In fact we are looking for a lighthouse and a C, as well as the sea. The route ends near the Roker Lighthouse where a C shaped sculpture marks the end of the route. We see the lighthouse but unknowingly cycle straight past the sculpture. Down on the beach we dip our bike wheels and toes into the sea in a ceremony that is a mirror image of that performed at Workington. Well almost. This time Cameron is first in. Having made the leap from a boy who was unsure whether he could even get to the end of the first day, to the child who has led us over the mountains, his confidence is sky high.

Down on the beach the closing ceremony takes place

“I'm not doing that,” says Hannah, who a week ago refused to dip her toes in at Workington. I reassure her she doesn't need to. But she decides to play a game of chasing the wave and the wave wins. She wails about her wet feet all the way along the promenade.

We ask a local where the statue marking the end of the route might be, but he says he's never heard of it. A few metres later we stumble across it. The information board says 15,000 a year do this route. Now it's 15,005. We stick out heads through the C that marks the sea. It doesn't look much like a C, but it's no time to be picky. We can see a lighthouse. We have made it. We cycled from C2C. And it feels good.

The final scuplture, not exactly a C, more like an O. But who cares!

Have you ever completed a family challenge? We'd love to hear about your experience. Click comments below and tell us more.

We rode the Coast to Coast cycle route as part of our Family Adventure Capital Season. We're exploring different ways families can adventure together in and around Cumbria, sharing ideas and inspiration to encourage families to get out, get active and adventure together. Got some ideas for things we should try? Let us know.

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Ever felt like you were just destined to meet someone?

Outside the Moot Hall, Keswick, dusk is fast approaching

Day two of our winter C2C tour took us along Lorton Vale, up the Whinlatter Pass and down into the popular North Lakes town of Keswick. After refuelling on fish and chips, we headed into the descending gloom of a winters night to search for our hotel; bumping into a number of old and new friends on the way...

You can't beat a bag of chips in the open air

There's nothing quite like a Northern bag of fish and chips consumed outdoors, especially after a wintery day’s riding. But these chips come with an unexpected surprise. As we sit devouring fish suppers outside Keswick’s Moot Hall we are tapped on the shoulder by a new old friend, Graham. Just 24 hours before, Graham was a stranger to us, someone we’d only ever tweeted with. Since then, we’d visited his house in Cockermouth, eaten his homemade flapjack and learnt all about his job as a John Muir Award assessor.

“Hello again. You made it then,” says Graham, as though bumping into us is no surprise to him. It's great to see an unexpectedly familiar face on a cold night.

“We did. Powered by flapjack all the way,” grins Stuart, while fixing lights onto bikes for the ride to the hotel.

Supper over, we press on again into the dusk, and stop at a junction on the outskirts of town en-route to the hotel. A van pulls up beside us and the owner asks us where we got the kiddie cranks for our tandem, telling us he has a daughter about Hannah's age.

Approaching darkness adds a certain frisson to the riding 

Coincidence or meant to be?

“I know you,” I say, but can't place him. Stuart can; he taps a keyword into his iPhone and brings up a picture on our blog of Ed Roberts, a guy we met five years ago while riding from Lands End to John O Groats. As Stuart passes around the phone, the memories come flooding back. “You gave us money for Children in Need. And a bottle of wine to help us on our way,” I laugh. Coincidence or meant to be? I don’t know.

Ed departs and we cycle on. Darkness spins through our wheels. “Mum can you see your nose? I can't see mine,” says Hannah in a small voice. I can hear her wondering if it’s still there. We're used to Cumbrian winter evenings, but this is a particular kind of darkness that we don't get in the south of the county. There are few street lights once you leave Keswick, and tonight, no moon. Consequently we can't see a thing and I start to wonder if my own nose is still there. Attempting to keep a tandem on a straight path around winding roads through Applethwaite and Millbeck, I'm trying not to panic. Behind me in the stoker's position, Hannah audibly shivers. Together it feels like we are heading into the thundercloud of doom on a rollercoaster. But the boys are loving it; I can hear their squeals of excitement.

Darkness is something we've previously avoided, but that's not so easy in winter 

Stumbling around in the dark

Darkness is something we previously avoided on cycling trips. As signs of it approached we would scurry away into the safety of a campsite. But doing the C2C means doing bigger distances, with pre-booked accommodation, and the available light can’t even begin to stretch as far as we need it to. So each day we soldier on in the dwindling daylight; hoping for quiet roads or shafts of moonlight to help us navigate.

One thing we aren't hoping for is a puncture, but we get one anyway. When Matthew's tyre blows out, he comes to an abrupt halt. We all pile up like dominoes behind him. The darkness and the cold suddenly become magnified and we all wonder if our noses are still there. “The hotel should be somewhere around here, says Stuart consulting his GPS. “Let's wheel the bikes.”

The warmest of welcomes

It’s an understatement to say we are pleased to see the lights of Lyzzick Hall Hotel. Set on the lower banks of Skiddaw, I suspect it's a hotel with a view, if only we could see it. I bundle the younger children into the building, leaving Matthew and Stuart fixing a puncture on the doorstep. Lyzzick Hall falls somewhere between country house and stately home. Newly opened after its winter refurbishment, it's warm and inviting, and the staff can't do enough to help us settle in. Tyre sorted, we pile into the glass fronted swimming pool, warming up freezing toes and hands. I'm in the sauna when I hear someone enthusiastically introducing herself.

“You must be Cameron, splashing about over there. And you are definitely Hannah.”

I pull a towel around my swimming costume, and head to the hot tub, where Dorothy Fernandez, the co-owner of Lyzzick Hall gives me a huge hug. “Welcome to you all. Well done for getting here. You must be starving. Come to dinner as soon as you are dressed. Or would the children prefer a sandwich?”

I've already noticed that warmth and welcome seem to be the trademark of this hotel. But Dorothy and I have another connection. “I always hoped we'd meet,” she says. “I followed all your columns in Cumbria Life, and feel like I know you all.” Soon I feel like I've known Dorothy forever, as we settle down in front of a real fire in the wood panelled lounge over a glass of wine while the children play Monopoly.

The kids obviously feel at home and are quick to sort out a game to play 

Children are part of things here

We aren't the only family enjoying themselves; two teenage girls have retired to a corner to get away from their parents. “A lot of families come here,” Dorothy says, “my husband Alfredo is Spanish and very family orientated; children are part of things here.”

I'm not surprised to discover that their marriage was made in a hotel. Dorothy had bagged herself a holiday job between school exams when she met Alfredo, who had come to The Lakes from Spain to work in a hotel and practice his English. Four decades later the business has also embraced their daughter and son-in- law, and most of the staff have worked here for years. “They are part of the family and our guests can tell that they care for each other. Tell me off if I sound schmaltzy..,” Dorothy laughs. The building also lends itself to a family atmosphere. “It’s not grandiose; there’s a familiarity to it.”

And Dorothy quickly makes me feel at home too  

But the history is grand; dating back as far as the Doomsday book and involving several changes of ownership. And under Dorothy and Alfredo's stewardship, it's been attracting repeat guests, who come for the locally sourced food, the view and the atmosphere.

Suddenly a row breaks out in the corner. Not the teenage girls but our own kids, “You stole money from the bank,” says Matthew, pulling the board from Cameron to reveal a stash of pastel coloured banknotes. It’s not quite the family atmosphere Lyzzick Hall is known for.

Perhaps all these meetings were meant to be

As Dorothy and I part she gives me another hug. “I'm really glad we met,” I tell her.

“I am too,” she replies, “but then I always believed we'd meet eventually.” As she leaves I wonder if all of today's meetings were destined to be.

The views from the hotel are mesmerising 

Over a breakfast fit for royalty, we meet Alfredo; the other half of the partnership. He works the room with a fatherly presence, checking all of his extended family are enjoying their breakfast. Cameron glowers into his silver pot of hot chocolate as the row rumbles on over the great Monopoly fraud. The rest of us eat more than we decently should, and attempt to motivate ourselves for the day ahead. First stop is Keswick Climbing Wall.

Leaving Lyzzick Hall 

The doorstep, which last night hosted a puncture repair operation, now offers up a view of snow-capped fells and heart-stoppingly sheer climbs. Matthew tentatively tries his bike, checking that the tyre has healed. And this time when we ride, the Keswick winter sunshine spins gently in our wheels and we all wonder what fate has in store for us today.

The view from the terrace over the Northern Lakeland fells

Ever felt like you were destined to meet someone? We'd love to hear about your experiences. Click comments below and tell us more.

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We rode the Coast to Coast cycle route as part of our Family Adventure Capital Season. We're exploring different ways families can adventure together in and around Cumbria, sharing ideas and inspiration to encourage families to get out, get active and adventure together. Got some ideas for things we should try? Let us know.

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Disclosure Note: Our thanks to Dorothy, Alfredo and the staff at Lyzzick Hall Hotel whose hospitality  enabled us to bring you this story.

We climbed out of Cumbria and arrived in Iceland

We have an important meeting with Dick Phillips, Icelandic Travel Specialist

About half way through our winter C2C tour we stopped off in Nenthead to visit Dick Phillips, an expert in Icelandic cycle touring. We were hoping to shape some more definitive plans for a summer tour of Iceland but you don't always get what you want or expect...

We’re late, we’re late for a very important date. It’s cold on the climb up the Nent valley and misty on the moortops; and we’ve an undulating days ride ahead, crossing the Pennines to reach Consett before dark. But we can’t really start that until we’ve had a meeting about Iceland. Five miles up the road in Nenthead.

I feel like a bit like we’re in Iceland already. This part of Cumbria is so quiet and wild compared to the honeypot towns of The Lakes. Well, it was quiet until the boys had a fist fight as we were leaving the grounds of the once peaceful Lovelady Shield Hotel. And now Cameron is riding at protest pace, wailing like a banshee at the injustices of sibling rivalry.

This trip was supposed to be a coming of age for him, his first solo tour, and not for the first time I wonder if maybe I’ve misjudged it. Perhaps the cold and the hills are too much. His elder brother’s first tour was a simple spring-time ride around cycle trails in Holland. But second born’s don’t get it so easy. I dread to think what Hannah might face.

As I cajole Cameron on the slow crawl up towards Nenthead I wonder if as a family we’re ready to cope with Iceland. Everything I’ve read says it’s certainly not touring for the faint hearted; it’s a challenge destination. And between us, Kirstie and I have to judge whether or not we should take it on. I'm hoping our meeting with the UK's expert on Icelandic cycle touring will lift the mist that’s been surrounding our plans. And may lift Cameron’s mood.  

"You can always get a coffee in the community shop in Nenthead"

“You're going to see Icelandic Dick?” says a lady in Nenthead when we stop to check the map. “It's the last house on the hill, at the top of the climb. Leave your bikes here if you like.” She points us up a steep winding cobbled lane and wishes us luck. “If you need a cup of tea to warm up afterwards then the community shop does tea and coffee.”

We dump the bikes at the bottom of the hill and tromp up to find the last house in the village. Up and up we go and I’m sure the air feels thinner and colder. The wind whips past us on its way up to the open moorland behind and the kid’s zip their coats up even tighter. Dick's house is the last in the village; standing on its own, white, weather-beaten, and peeled by the elements. An old car sits outside, rear seats folded down to accommodate a trusted old touring bike. Both look like they've done a few hard miles. It feels like we’ve climbed out of Cumbria and into Iceland.

It's a cobbled climb up out of Nenthead to reach Dick's house

Dick invites us into his office, clearing papers off a row of old wooden chairs to make space for the kids to sit down. He seems warm enough in his knitted fisherman’s jumper but the room is cold and sparsely furnished, the gas fire turned off.  Every available shelf, window ledge and table is covered in books, maps, files and paperwork; this is the engine room of his Iceland touring business, one of the smallest and least advertised operators in the world of international travel. Run by a 79 year old from this front room in Nenthead.

Dick Phillips first visited Iceland in 1955 and was amongst the first cyclists to attempt and complete a crossing of the Icelandic interior by bicycle, at a time when even locals said it couldn’t be done. Since then he’s been back every year and has developed a unique business taking independently minded travellers to experience what he calls “a land of challenge.”  In his 52^nd season now, this rugged and resilient septagenerian is well known not just for his personal achievements, experience and intimate knowledge of Iceland but for his forthright manner and an unrelenting focus on keeping people away from the nightclubs in Rekjavik to show them the real Iceland.

Standing behind his office counter, complete with typewriter and fax machine, Dick opens out a map and tells us it's a useless piece of paper. “I've just tried to persuade someone who rung up to buy it not to bother because it’s no good, but they wouldn’t be put off,” he explains, visibly irked by their apparent stupidity.

Unable to convince the customer not to buy it, Dick folds the map for sale

Where are you going today?” he asks us.
“Consett.” we reply in unison.
His brow furrows. “Consett?”  He looks at the motley crew seated in his office much like I imagine Icelandic locals looked at him when he announced he was biking across the interior of Iceland. “I'm not sure you'll get there today,” he continues.
“You've got a big hill out of Rookhope, and one or two other substantial climbs.”

He seems equally unconvinced we should do Iceland by bike. “You don't want to do the ring road. It's 1400km all the way around, narrow and there are a lot of cars in season.”
“So where would be good to go?”
“Well I can't tell you that. It's all good. Actually that's not true. I can tell you some places you shouldn't go because they're desert or just plain dull. Or where’s there’s nothing for 150km or more.  I'm not helping you much am I?”

We came to Dick expecting to leave with ideas for an Icelandic tour itinerary. I thought he’d be able to tell us whether or not we should do a family cycle tour there this summer, but after half an hour talking around a map he really didn’t think was good for much I feel none the wiser.

But I am certain about one thing. That he is  something special. Perhaps a little eccentric, probably not the world’s greatest salesperson, but certainly the kind of pensioner I’d like to be; a determined and passionate fellow, 79 years old, still cycling 2,500 miles a year, getting out touring and still in love with the rough stuff. I so hope I have some of the same spirit when I’m in my seventies.

Qualities needed for Iceland touring: rugged and resilient

As we leave, the rain is starting. The wind is raw and we walk back down the hill in silence. As we pick up our bikes and start the climb up onto the moors, we ride into the mist again, towards the eastern edge of Cumbria. In this wild landscape, in this weather I imagine us in Iceland and try to summon some of Dick’s spirit. We conceived this winter C2C ride as something of a test ride for a summer in Iceland, to see how we cope with the cold and the wild. But right now I'm not sure I want to go any more. The look on Kirstie's face tells me she feels the same. But Cameron seems different, he’s off, pedalling furiously, yellow jacket billowing in the wind, fading into the mist.

Off and into the mist, this billowing yellow jacket is leading the way

Besides being a test for us, this was always going to be a transitional journey for Cameron; his first solo ride and in challenging terrain. I wondered how he’d cope, not just physically but mentally. The night before the trip he confessed he wasn't sure he could do it, and we weren't entirely sure either. But he decided he wanted to try. And after an initial day of grumbling and complaining on the Whinlatter Pass, I’ve watched him grow in confidence and develop a tougher attitude towards the hills, especially on the climb up to Hartside Summit. And now he is way ahead, leading the climbs, shouting for instructions at every mist clad junction.

“Do you think he should ride his own bike in Iceland?” Kirstie asks. While it was never in the plan, his performance today has got me wondering the same.
“Are we still going to Iceland?” I ask.
“Will it be a bit like this?”
“Probably.”
“I think we could handle it.”
“Shall we go then?”
“I don't know.”
“Me neither.”

Eventually the mist lifts, but little else becomes clear.

Cameron's positive attitude and resilience makes me wonder what more he is capable of

At a café in Allenshead we warm up with hot tea and chocolate and I pick up an old magazine to read.  Inside is an article about the Two Things (you need to know about every subject). It says the Two Things distilled from dozens of self help books are: 1) If you can tolerate a little discomfort you can achieve almost any goal; and: 2) It's amazing the lengths we'll go to to avoid discomfort. The first 'thing' reminds me of Dick (not that he would EVER read a self help book), and the second is..... well, food for thought.


Do you think we should we take on the challenge of Iceland?  We'd love to hear your thoughts and comments. Click comments below and share your opinion.

This post is part of our Family Adventure Capital Season. We're exploring different ways families can adventure together in and around Cumbria, sharing ideas and inspiration to encourage families to get out, get active and adventure together. Got some ideas for things we should try? Let us know.  Subscribe via email and never miss a post. You can unsubscribe at any time.

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Wilderness Survival Expert shows us how to make fire (without a match!)

Goodness gracious, a great ball of fire

As part of our Family Adventure Capital Season we've been investigating Bushcraft in Cumbria. This week we were lucky enough to meet and talk with Ben McNutt, owner of Cumbrian Bushcraft experts Woodsmoke. 


Ben did an apprenticeship with Ray Mears and has spent much of his life learning bush-craft from indigenous people around the world. Put it this way if I were to be stranded in the jungle, desert, on an icecap or even on a Cumbrian fell, this is the man I'd want to have around. Most Woodsmoke courses last a week or more; we only had an hour! But even in that he showed us a core bush-craft skill - how to light a fire using only the natural materials around you, technically called the bow drill friction fire lighting technique.

Somewhere up in a clearing in the woodlands, we are offered a lesson in the bushcraft of fire-starting

We'll be profiling Ben later in the season, but for now we just couldn't wait to share some pictures of this magic. One word of warning, please don't try this in your local woods, forest or at home unless you are absolutely sure fire-lighting is permitted and know what you are doing.

Or have Ben with you.

After clearing a space you need to prepare your materials. First comes the drill
  

Then the bow, socket and fireboard are assembled

Then you get organised and ready to generate some heat

The friction produced drawing the bow drill back and forth soon generates heat and smoke 

And where there's smoke, there's the possibility of fire, but not just yet... 

The first stage produces hot embers, from which you can hopefully light your tinder 

The embers are carefully placed in the centre of your dry tinder ball

And with gentle blowing to feed oxygen ....

You soon have smoke, and everyone knows there's no smoke without....  

Fire....

With your tinder ball alight who needs a match?

Now that's what I call a fire-starter

Have you ever made fire without matches? We'd love to hear about your experience. Click comments below and tell us more.

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