Read an example chapter here

I have now finished my first full edit of my book and sent a sample to a publishers. 
Here's a sample to (I hope) tickle your interest.

Contents

Dedication

Preface

Chapter One – Meeting the Boys
Chapter Two – From Pavement to Peaks
Chapter Three – Finding My Feet
Chapter Four – The First Wild Camp
Chapter Five – The Berwyn Baptism
Chapter Six – The Gift of Getting It Wrong
Chapter Seven – Back to Where It Began

Chapter Eight – The Call of the Lakes
Chapter Nine – First Steps by the Water
Chapter Ten – Highs and Valleys
Chapter Eleven – Hard Miles, Hidden Gems
Chapter Twelve – Heat, Hills, and One Unforgettable Poodle Adventure to Grasmere
Chapter Thirteen – Back to Where It All Began
Chapter Fourteen – Haystacks, Innominate Tarn, and the View I Once Couldn’t See
Chapter Fifteen – Closing the Lake District Chapter

Chapter Sixteen – The Poodle Packing List
Chapter Seventeen – Training for the Trails
Chapter Eighteen – The Weather Will Not Wait
Chapter Nineteen – The Magic Moments
Chapter Twenty – The Setbacks
Chapter Twenty One – Why We Keep Going

Authors Note

Acknowledgements

Sample Chapter

Chapter Six – The Gift of Getting It Wrong (Mini Chapter)

There are moments in life when we replay our mistakes on a loop. A wrong choice, a harsh word, a plan that went badly, they echo long after the moment has passed and long after everyone else has moved on. After the Berwyns, my mind kept dragging me back there whether I wanted it to or not. The rain, the wind, Teddy shivering, Buddy soaked through and still wagging, my own panic as I packed up too fast and tried to force a bad decision into a good one through stubbornness alone. The guilt was sharp and persistent, like a small stone in my shoe that I could never quite shake loose.

In the days that followed, I barely slept. My hip throbbed constantly, a physical reminder of how badly things had gone wrong, but it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest. I lay awake in the caravan listening to Teddy breathing softly in bed and Buddy snoring in cute little bursts beside me, and I replayed every decision in slow motion. What if I had stayed put that morning. What if I had waited for the storm to ease. What if I had turned back sooner. What if I had never taken them there in the first place. Each question felt like a quiet accusation, and I had no good answers for any of them.

The worst part was Teddy. I could not get the image of him soaked and shivering out of my head. Teddy, who normally sidesteps puddles with polite disgust. Teddy, who curls up neatly at night and sighs as though the world has finally aligned itself properly. I had taken him into misery through my own impatience and pride. Even when he trotted over to me days later and rested his chin on my knee as if nothing had ever happened, the guilt did not lift. If anything, it made it heavier. His trust felt undeserved, and that sat badly with me.

Buddy, of course, had already forgiven me without even realising there was anything to forgive. He bounced around the caravan as though we had just returned from the greatest holiday of his life. He brought me toys. He stole socks. He launched himself onto my injured hip with no regard for my pain and then looked confused when I yelped. His world had reset the moment we were warm and dry again. To him, the storm was already a story that no longer mattered.

Watching them both made something uncomfortably clear. Dogs do not live in the past. They do not keep score. They do not catalogue your failures and replay them back to you at three in the morning. They simply look at you and say, you are here, we are together, and that is enough. If I am honest, that simple truth has done more to change me than any book or lecture ever could.

The hills teach the same lesson, whether you are ready to hear it or not. They do not let you live in the past either. A mountain does not care what you wish you had done yesterday. It only cares about the choice you make with the step in front of you. You can stand at the bottom of a path full of regret, but the hill will not soften for you because of it, and it will not punish you either. It simply waits for your next move, indifferent and patient in equal measure.

For days after the Berwyns, I could not bring myself to look at my rucksack. It sat in the corner of the caravan like a silent accusation. Mud still clung to the straps. The tent was crammed into its bag half damp because I could not face dealing with it properly yet. Every time I glanced at it, my stomach tightened. Part of me wondered if that was it, if my short wild camping adventure had ended as quickly as it had begun, and whether that was what I deserved for getting it so wrong.

Instead of big walks, I took the boys on tiny ones. Just down quiet lanes. Across flat fields. Around the edges of Shropshire villages where nothing dramatic could possibly go wrong. Teddy walked close to my leg as though he was guarding me. Buddy bounced ahead and back, still convinced life was perfect. I moved slowly, testing my hip, feeling weak and old and embarrassed by how quickly my confidence had evaporated.

And yet, in the quiet rhythm of those small walks, something strange began to happen. The guilt stayed, but it softened. The anger at myself stayed, but it dulled. Without meaning to, I started to see the Berwyns differently, not as a disaster to be erased but as a brutal lesson I had been given exactly when I needed it most. I realised how close I had come to making things far worse, how lucky we had been, and how easily pride and panic could have turned a bad situation into a truly dangerous one.

That was when the idea first began to form in my mind that this might not be the end of our story at all. Maybe this was the beginning of doing it properly.

That, I think, is the gift of getting it wrong. Mistakes hurt, but they shine a light on the places we need to grow. They strip away illusions of control and force us to focus on what really matters, safety, love, responsibility, patience, and the next sensible step forward instead of the dramatic one. For all the pain and fear of that night in the Berwyns, it had shown me something I badly needed to see, which was that wanting adventure is not enough on its own. Freedom comes with responsibility, and confidence without humility is just another kind of danger.

For years I had lived by what was expected of me. Teaching. Working. Being dependable. Fitting into the pattern that society seemed to have drawn out. I did everything properly, sensibly, carefully, and I told myself that meant I was safe. Only recently had I begun to discover myself as myself, not as the version I thought the world wanted. The hills helped with that. The quiet of the trail. The honesty of a storm. The unconditional loyalty of two little poodles who do not care about my job title or my social calendar. They all chipped away at the mask I had been wearing.

The Berwyns ripped it off completely. They showed me that growth does not come from perfection but from the struggles that test us. They forced me to face my limits and accept them instead of pretending they were not there. They taught me humility in a way no gentle success ever could.

To really grow, we have to let ourselves be uncomfortable. Progress rarely happens when everything is easy. Growth lives in the moments that test us, when we question ourselves, when we fall short and learn to stand again. Making mistakes is not failure, it is movement. If we never get anything wrong, if we never stumble or doubt or push beyond what feels safe, we never give ourselves the chance to become anything more than we already are.

I started writing notes in my phone, little promises to myself that had nothing to do with gear or routes and everything to do with judgement. Always wait out bad weather. Always leave a clear escape plan. Never rush a decision because of fear or pride. Always pack for the dogs before packing for myself. Always listen to the uneasy feeling in my chest when something does not feel right. Those rules mattered more to me than any list of kit ever could.

Slowly, the guilt began to change shape. It stopped being a punishment and started becoming a compass. The Berwyns had taught me humility, patience, and the cost of rushing. They reminded me that growth does not come from perfection but from the struggles that test us. I began to see that I did not need to erase that experience to move forward. I needed to carry it with me and let it guide me.

One evening, sitting outside the caravan wrapped in a blanket with Teddy pressed against my leg and Buddy chewing something he absolutely should not have had, the thought finally landed properly. We would go back, not to the Berwyns and not yet, but to where it had all begun. We would return to the Long Mynd, to our first wild camp spot, not to prove anything or chase redemption, but to reset, to do it slowly, gently, and properly.

If you take anything from my story, let it be this. Do not replay your mistakes on an endless loop. They have already happened. Take the lesson, then press on. Trust the ones who forgive freely, because dogs forgive instantly and we can learn from that. Let struggle shape you, not break you, because growth rarely comes from comfort and almost always comes from setbacks. Give yourself permission to be imperfect, because you are not here to live out someone else’s script, you are here to live yours.

The Berwyns did not end our story. They deepened it. They slowed me down in exactly the way I needed to be slowed down. They taught me that courage is not always about pushing forward, sometimes it is about stopping, stepping back, and choosing a better path next time.

I am learning, slowly, to stop replaying the mistakes and to stop letting guilt gnaw at me long after the moment has passed. I am learning to take the gift that getting it wrong offers and then to move forward.

That is not just a wild camping lesson. It is a life lesson.

Teddy Says:
Dad keeps thinking he let us down in the Berwyns. I wish he would stop doing that. He carried us there. He kept us warm. He turned back when it was too much. He held me close when I was cold and told me it was going to be alright, even when his own leg hurt and his eyes looked tired and sad. From where I stand, that is not failure. That is love. Dogs do not need perfect days or perfect plans. We need our person to stay with us, to try their best, and to keep going with us even when things go wrong. Dad did all of that. So I will keep walking beside him, because he is my human, and because wherever he goes next, that is where my place is too.

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