Homeward Bound

The final part (3) of my wild camping adventure.

Jul 20, 2026

I wake at 4.30am.

It’s a little cloudier today but I enjoy the fiery strips of red and orange that cut across the belly of the valley below. Somewhere in the distance, sheep bleat and a plover whistles a maverick melody of morn.

My tent has remained intact. Not only that but I don’t seem to have any creepy crawlies lodging with me either. #Winning.

I venture over to the stream, splash my hands and face before filling my bottle and glugging on fresh agua, reserving a little so I can brush my teeth back at base camp.

Can I call it base camp if it’s the only camp and just me?

Hm……

I take time to appreciate the mist cloaking the mountains and what look like ducks upon the tarn. Around 6am, I spot the first runners and dog walkers. This, is my cue to pack away. Not only do I want to make the most of the paths being largely free of footfall, but also the cooler air that undoubtedly aids hiking.

I remove each metal peg from the earth, tapping it firmly to shake off soil before carefully dismantling the other components of the tent frame. I savour each satisfying snap and click, the way the loose fabric succumbs to the faintest breeze.

And then, for the not so fun part. Fitting it all back in the bag. Packing up a tent or a sleeping bag is not dissimilar to spooning yourself into body shaping underwear. By hook or by crook, it’s ALL got to go in……but how? Apparently I’ve been going wrong all these years with my rolling technique - word is, that it’s all about stuffing. Unlike rolling which is most frustrating (especially when applied to human flesh and shapewear), stuffing, is most gratifying. I heartily recommend a good stuffing. That said, as I survey the result, it’s as though my pack has swollen somewhat. Maybe it’s trapped air.

As I stash away final bits and pieces, I remove a stray bit of parched grass from my bra. I am reminded of Joanna Lumley in the old ‘Mellow Birds’ advert when she used to do similar, turning to the camera to give a coquettish half smile as she fondly remembers a ~~roll in the hay~~ much cherished romantic picnic.

Shooting star…….we will always have last night…..

I muse, gazing out to some impossible yonder.

A quick scout around to make sure I ‘leave no trace’ as per the Wild Camper 101 and I’m on my way, invigorated by my rest and edified by my environment. Walking back doesn’t seem to take half as long, and of course, it’s mostly down hill.

The first person I encounter is a tanned, muscular guy of a similar age to myself. He looks very guide-like, wearing tan shorts and navigating the boggy terrain with the aid of a hiking pole.

“It’s hell getting through this lot”

He says in a Brummie accent.

“Yes. I remember from yesterday”

I say, as I sense he’s about to start doling tips out.

“Easier to follow the river bed”

I say. Clearly, my one night in the wilderness now renders me Huck Finn.

“I’m on my way to the top!”

He proclaims, decisively. I consider whether this statement of intent relates to one of the surrounding summits or his life in general.

He stabs at the ground with his hiking pole, the way a Polynesian spears a fish and I feel the need to meet his macho energy.

“I’ve been wild camping on my own”

I declare proudly, considering if this feat coupled with the formidable pack size is enough to out alpha Golden Graham so I can be on my way.

“I thought you had a lot of stuff with you”

He says and proceeds to tell me what he would and wouldn’t take.

The size of my pack becomes a talking point with everyone I encounter that morning.

I didn’t think I’d overpacked - generally speaking, I pride myself on being a bit of a minimalist. But there’s nothing like lugging a load of stuff up a mountain in the heat to humble you and kick you in the pants with harsh truths.

Speaking of which, I become aware of the weight of the pack starting to drag my trousers down and am sure I must be displaying a dangerously uncouth amount of arse crack. In an attempt to address this without taking off my pack, I semi squat and engage in a series of movements somewhere between a honey bee’s waggle dance and a Vic Reeves thigh rub. Thankfully, it works.

There’s another awkward moment when I open a gate and accidentally set off the battery powered mini air pump and end up scaring the sheep away. Naturally, that’s the exact moment I come face to face with a group of young lads who find me fiddling about in my pack trying to stop the loud buzzing sound.

Deary me!

I reach the bridge and this time, there is no-one there. I have the sublime crystalline pool all to myself. Sadly, I can’t find my cozzy, it’s buried somewhere at the bottom of the bag, but I go in knee deep before settling on a rock a while to watch the world go by.

‘Wild swimming’ is an odd concept, in that really, it’s just ‘swimming’. It’s the same with ‘wild’ camping. Why do we have to qualify what should be standard, our birth right by using the pre-modifier ‘wild’ as though it’s something unusual or exotic? Surely it’s our human norm and it’s the other forms of swimming and camping that should require an additional word to denote the extra ordinary. After all, what could be more natural than swimming in a body of water or living on the land? What a topsy turvy world, eh?

Satisfied I’ve put the world to rights in my head at least, I clamber out, towel myself off, reposition the pack and start back up.

After following the meandering river for some time, I reach the hub of Seathwaite farm and the tranquil trickle of water is replaced by the unpleasant din of rowdy dogs barking . I have flashbacks to when school made us do cross country running when I’d be forced to run through farms as a young teen. Shit - do these canines think I’m an intruder? The barking reminds me of the beginning of ‘Been caught Stealing’ by Jane’s Addiction. Jeez - am I about to meet the fate of a 90s American shoplifter?

Thankfully not. The animals must be penned in somewhere. I do see lots of humans though. There appears to be a campsite in the field adjacent - and a thriving one at that. The mood is one of a small festival. It’s a bustling space with box tents on car roofs, garish red domes and a burger van. Toddlers plead and matey towel-clad men appear from shower blocks.

It’s everything I fucking hate about camping.

A woman looks me up and down;

“Thought you had a baby in there for a minute!”

Well! That’s a bit bloody cheeky, Missus!

Oh…..hang on……she’s talking about my backpack, isn’t she? No need to tell her she’s a fat shaming neanderthal after all…….

Phew!

A little further on, there is another campsite, this time for glampers - a series of static uniform round constructions in neutral colours. There are flues in the roof to accommodate stoves and if we’re talking swinging cats, adequate room for a pride of lions to be flung.

I consider how much people must have shelled out for these. Quite a lot, I wager, given it’s the first weekend of the school summer holidays. For what exactly? Convenience? The comfort of hot showers? Luxury?

My mind casts back to my own camping spot

Yes, it had been a slog getting up there but what a pitch!

I saw sunrise in the mountains.

I may not have had hot showers but I’d bathed in nature’s gurgling plunge pools and rushing rivers.

I sang ‘Fernando’ acapella to an audience of stars!

As I sip a well deserved cup of tea in a characterful converted barn cafe, I smile contentedly, knowing that I got a better deal than any of those who paid.

I’d bagged the most private, serene pitch of all.

And all it had cost me, was the courage and determination to dare claim it.

Mother of Hope

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