I've always firmly believed that what I wanted out of camping was to head into the hills and find a nice secluded spot in which to spend a few days alone. In the past, my desire for this has been so strong that I've flatly refused to even consider camping on a site.
But now after several failed (and incredibly miserable) attempts at the former, I've come to the conclusion that I have neither the metal nor the ability for the Ray Mears' way, and that it is the idea of wild camping that appeals so much, not the reality. And furthermore, that campsites are wonderful places. This decision I came to over the last three days. Read on.
My sister and her hubby had booked into a hotel in Wales - in the lovely Llangollen - and on a whim asked if I wanted to pack my tent so that they could drop me off in the hills and then pick me up on their way home. I jumped at the chance and began researching the area. I located some woodland nearby, which from Google maps looked ideal (fairly remote, no major paths or walkways). So, at about 6:30 on Wednesday afternoon they dropped me off as close to as possible, and off I walked. The walk into the hills was much harder than anticipated and by the time I reached my destination (which I now suspect was PP as I had to climb over a locked gate to get to it) I was soaking through with sweat. Light was already failing and it soon became apparent that I wasn't going to find anywhere suitable to pitch my tent. I found a large tree on the brink of a big hollow and had to concede that I was probably going to go without any sleep until daylight came and allowed me to walk out and look for somewhere else. I settled down and after cooking some food on my mini Trangia, began counting the hours. At around 1am the rain came. The tree gave little shelter and by 6am I was pretty much drenched. I walked for miles (still raining) and eventually gave up hope of finding anywhere suitable. I'd decided earlier that I couldn't get any wetter, I was wrong.
At this point I reluctantly admitted to myself (reluctantly - in my state!) that I would have to head for the main road and look for a campsite.
Anyway, I'm waffling. The point I want to get to is that the last two nights spent on the site I found were the best two nights I've ever had in a tent. Maybe it's just a case of me wussing out, but I now realise that these places offer me the best of both world, and that the advantages are invaluable - no jumping at every twig break, wondering if it's some irate landowner coming to ask what the hell you're doing. No need to hold back that shit because the idea of squatting in the woods doesn't appeal. No rationing your water supply. No need to worry about the weight of your pack and sacrificing certain things (like pillows, for instance), so that you don't wake up feeling like a horse has repeatedly kicked you in the head, neck and shoulder. No need to avoid the further off places because going in blind is too much of a risk - just book at a site in your choosen area.
Mr Mears, I salute and respect you even more than I did before, but from now on I shall be sharing your enthusiasm for wild camping from the comfort of my armchair, and getting my fix of the wilds and outdoors by venturing there from the convenience of campsites.
