Diary of a Gen Z Student: An identity crisis sent me to the campsite — here's what it taught me 

Jane Cowan: 'I won’t sugarcoat this; my first real camping trip has certainly been a learning experience. But I feel it’s (mostly) good character development. And I’d probably recommend it to a friend.'

A common side-effect of finishing your college degree is experiencing an identity crisis. You’re being told you’re a free agent. Unshackled from the weight of the college library, you can now decide how to fill your time. You may be living with your parents and sitting down to watch TV in a pair of pyjama bottoms you’ve had since you were 16, but you can do whatever the hell you like (as long as you text when you’re going to be out for dinner).

I have embarked on many a side quest since bidding my lecturers goodbye. I’ve travelled, I’ve read non-academic books, I’ve taken up the piano again, I’ve started drinking Guinness, I’ve even experimented with waking up before 11am.

This week, my side questing has taken me camping along the Wild Atlantic Way with friends who have also just finished college. Our collective identity crisis has taken us to nature. Seeking refuge in sweaty tents while being attacked by midges is our idea of fun now. 

That’s how I know we’re getting old. Oh, how disappointed my teenage self would be. At 16, you couldn’t have paid me to skip conditioner when washing my hair, never mind sleep in a tent with no shower in sight. Now, looking at my phone and seeing that I have no service, I feel like I’m really living.

I won’t sugarcoat this; my first real camping trip has certainly been a learning experience. But I feel it’s (mostly) good character development. And I’d probably recommend it to a friend. 

Allow me to share some things I’ve learned so far from my dalliance with the great outdoors! There’s nothing glamorous about the great outdoors: that’s the first thing I gathered. There is nothing pretty about spitting your toothpaste into a hedge. Or using suncream to slick back your hair because you’re not in shower territory. 

It’s nearly impressive how quickly all of my usual standards managed to slip. I’ve not used a hairbrush since leaving Dublin. Because frankly, what the back of my head looks like is none of my business now. 

I’ve also spent the week dressed like a teenage boy. Because there’s no need for an underwire bra or flattering outfit on a campsite. Frankly, I don’t remember what I look like with make-up on. And I don’t care to. It’s been liberating.

Other learning moments have included things like checking which of your friends is the best Google Maps navigator before things get serious. It’s a skill that is not shared by all. And the tension that exists in a car that has just driven 30 minutes in the wrong direction is palpable. 

You should also look into earplugs. Or at least figure out who snores like a combine harvester before picking your spot in a tent. Being woken up at 4am by the sudden snores of a campmate is not a pleasant start to the day, no matter how close the friendship. On that note, I’ve learned a lot about patience and forgiveness on this trip. This must be what it feels like to be a monk.

We’ve also learned that, while wild camping is technically illegal in Ireland, showing up to the local pub with a friendly smile is the best way to find a spot to pitch a tent. You’ll have to be prepared to give everyone your life story and have your grandmother’s maiden name at the ready, for when they inevitably try to make connections between you and their third cousin twice removed. 

And it may feel a little awkward at first, but those conversations are where you’ll hear about the best coffee spots and lookout points, so you’ve got to be open to them.

You will also find out you’re never far from your Irish mammy. Well, she won’t technically be your Irish mammy, but she will act like it. Reminding you to use factor 50 and to watch for cold water shock. Your Irish mammy will be very concerned about the logistics of camping. 

She may even tell you it’s too dangerous and you should camp out by a Garda station for good measure. It’ll feel like she’s about 45 seconds away from telling you to turn off the immersion. But it’s just because she cares.

Between the fly bites and my deteriorating standards of hygiene, I may be unrecognisable by the time I make it back home. But I have also scheduled this camping trip to end in time for the Love Island final. So, maybe I’m not developing as much as I think. It’s the post-college identity crisis. I can’t be trusted to know what’s happening at this time.