Suzanne Harrington: The thrill of wild camping is waking up alive
Since when did camping become wild camping, and swimming become wild swimming? Since the invention of campsites and swimming pools?
OK, so not everyone wants to do what bears do in the woods — except unlike bears, responsible campers bring a shovel and dig deep — but humans have been wild camping since before we were humans. So why do we swim anti-clockwise in tiled rectangles of chlorinated child wee when there is the sea, the lake, the river? Why camp in a row of tents when we could strike off — with our shovel — into the wild? Or even the semi-wild?
This is the conversation we are having deep in the woods, miles from anywhere, at midnight, when we hear the first noise outside the bell tent. A crashing through the undergrowth kind of noise. This is a private wood dedicated to forestry conservation — we have permission to be here, hidden in its depths, but it’s far from public pathways; we sit bolt upright, groping for our head torches. The dog snores on. She’s 82 in dog years, as useful as Scooby Doo’s grandma. WHAT’S THAT NOISE?
Earlier, wandering through dappled glades and thickets like a menopausal Snow White, entranced by ancient trees and sunset birdsong, I see a shadow in the distance, drifting amid the foliage, carrying what looks like a metal broom. A ghost? Do ghosts have grey hair and wear Marks & Spencer pastels? Did I imagine it? There’s no human life here.
“That was my wife,” says the man who suddenly appears in my path. “She’s the bat detectorist. I’m the dormouse wrangler.” I rack my brains, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t taken any mind altering drugs today. He points to tiny wooden dormouse houses, like bird houses, half way up the trees, and the CCTVs that monitor them, before going off in pursuit of his wife in pursuit of the bats. Pipistrelles. “She’s bat mad,” he says. I smile and nod, putting it all down to a prolonged hallucination.
But what’s this ultra-real midnight crashing? Bears? Unlikely, 20 miles outside Brighton. Besides, the crashing isn’t heavy enough. It’s pitch dark outside, no moon. “Maybe it’s the leafleter?” whispers my companion. The what? Someone delivering leaflets for pizza or double glazing, way out here in the deep dark woods? With an axe?
“No, the leaf litter. Making everything sound louder.” It’s dormouse breeding season, involving much nocturnal friskiness — we Googled it, because we are not too wild for 4G. “Or it could be a very underweight maniac in night vision goggles?” That’s it. I leap out of my sleeping bag, wake the dog, and shove her outside to see what it is. I can hear her having a relaxed wee. Then she comes back in and lies down again.
Somehow we make it to sunrise. Breakfast tastes great, because we are not dead. That’s the thrill of wild camping — the buzz of waking up alive, unsavaged by horny dormice. You’d never get that on a campsite.
