The idea of going camping in January at just above freezing temperatures seemed natural to me. I loved camping and I loved the muted nature of a winter’s day. I had a very warm sleeping bag and thermals. Of course I would go camping in the winter, just as I did in the summer. Other people’s reactions led me to realise this was an unusual desire…
Luckily I’m not the only person with this apparently strange urge, and I knew that Ciaran (a friend I’d initially met in Pokhara, Nepal and since done several hikes with) would be keen. I set aside a weekend in January and messaged him but got no reply. As the weekend crept up I thought about whether I’d still go camping, alone, if Ciaran wasn’t available. I decided I would, but the idea gave me a patter of anxiety. I loved camping alone but I did still get scared once the sun had set, and knowing how long the dark period would be in January made me apprehensive. I followed up with Ciaran. Turns out he was completely keen and had immediately put the weekend in his calendar, but had just forgot to let me know. My anxiety vanished and I was incredibly excited to get back out into nature.
I chose our route. We would continue the Ridgeway trail from where I left it with Angharad on the last camping trip of the previous year. A train to Princes Risborough, walk around 20km to Watlington and the Fox and Hound pub to warm up by their fire and enjoy a pub dinner, with Watlington Hill looking promising for a wild camping spot. Another 20km to Cholsey and a train back to London. For Ciaran and I, a little shorter than we’d usually do (not quite the monstrous 40km we did on one day on the Isle of Man…) but considering it would get dark early and Ciaran wanted to get back to London in good time on Sunday, we could live with it. For tips on how to plan a wild camping hiking route, see my previous post “Want to go Wild Camping? Start here.”
The usual flow of preparation took place on Friday whilst I worked from home. I baked oat cookies during my lunch break. I raided the cupboards for supplies - pre-mixing porridge oats with chia and flax seeds, and chocolate protein powder; a sachet of cous cous; apples; homemade roasted nuts leftover from a dinner with another travel friend the previous week; coffee and a variety of teas. I packed my hiking bag with warm layers and even an electric hand warmer I found stuffed in my desk drawer. I booked the outward train. I charged my portable charger and camping light. I got frustrated when I couldn’t find my headtorch after I specifically remembered putting it away somewhere safe so I would know where it was next time I needed to use it (as is the way). On Saturday morning, I got up early, showered and did a short yoga flow. I drank my hot lemon water and enjoyed the excitement I felt. This is life. Doing things that excite you, and being present for those feelings of excitement. I ate a huge bowl of porridge and got the tube to Marylebone, leaving enough time to buy an M&S salad for lunch and a coffee for myself and hot chocolate for Ciaran. I met him on the train and the adventure began!
Disembarking in Princes Risborough, it was grey and cold and quiet. We made a slight diversion to a co-op for Ciaran to pick up a few extra supplies, including malt loaf which would prove to be a saviour later. We found the trail and began our trot along it. It was 11:30am.
The Ridgeway is a 140km trail going from Avebury to Ivinghoe Beacon, across Wiltshire and Buckinghamshire. It’s referred to as “Britain’s oldest road” as it’s been used for at least 5,000 years as a route over the high ground by travellers, herdsmen and soldiers. The path is clearly marked and weaves through the countryside, making its way through woodland and across moor, sneaking between fields in a corridor of trees, pottering down and up valleys. It’s not spectacular by any means, but when you’re aim is to just get outside and be surrounded by nature, it certainly delivers.
We walked for around 5 hours on Saturday, reaching the pub at 4:30pm. We caught each other up on our lives and settled into our favourite topic of conversation - the trips we had dreamed up recently. This included discussing the long-distance hiking trails that we wanted to do most, the countries we’d most like to cross on foot, and any other adventures we could think of. Ciaran shares this obsession with adventure more than anyone else, and I’m always excited to hear his ideas. And his response to my plans are never to dampen them, he doesn’t point out the dangers or doubt my ability to do them. Any wild idea is met with enthusiasm and it is so refreshing and enjoyable. It makes me giddy with thoughts on how beautiful the world is and how we really could go and explore any part of it. The spaces between our conversations were filled with comfortable silence and the sounds of our footsteps. Another reason I love hiking with Ciaran, we both enjoy quiet company. Space to explore inside our own heads, or fill our attention with the outside world.
Whilst we waited for the pub to start serving dinner, we laughed our way through a book giving tips on how to better live your life, and playing a hard fought round of couples (which I eventually won I must add). We both chose a steak and ale pie with mash and seasonal greens, which we demolished with great delight, whilst sat by the roaring fire and accompanied by the rather lovely pub dog. With our bellies warmed by the pie, our brains by two pints, and our skin by the fire, we adorned our jackets and pulled on our bags. The other pub goers took interest and we had a fruitful chat with one lady who offered us her farm for camping, and when we realised this was quite far in the wrong direction, gave us some good advice on where we could find a camping spot. We followed her instructions and made the short walk along a road, turning off onto Watlington Hill. We immediately lost the path and ending up using the contour lines on the map to guide us back over a small overgrown area to re-find it. The laughter slipped out as I hurried after Ciaran, the sight of him pushing through the undergrowth by torchlight being all too exciting for me. I love doing things alone, but was amazed at how fun and safe this felt just by having someone I trusted with me. We followed the path a short way until we came to the brow of the hill, then it was time to find a spot to pitch up. We pointed out different areas that looked suitable, before finding one that seemed perfect. Ciaran ran down to the other side of hill to confirm this was in fact the best spot, which it was. We quickly and seamlessly put the tent up, blowing up our roll mats and unfurling our down sleeping bag/quilt. Into the tent they were carefully laid, followed by me and then the bags, which Ciaran passed in and I positioned at the end of the tent, where our feet would go. Ciaran crawled in last. We collectively sighed and stretched out in the comfort of the tent, before finding the energy to finish getting ready for bed. I swapped my hiking clothes for thermals, and Cieran just stripped down to a tshirt (a true crazy person!). We brushed our teeth and spat the toothpaste out of the tent door, zipping it up afterwards. I was so happy to crawl into the warmth and luxury of my sleeping bag. We commented on how easy that had all been.
To lull us to sleep we played some of the audiobook I’d told Ciaran about earlier, “Walking the Himalayas” by Levison Wood. The book opens with Wood exploring Pokhara, describing the lakeside street and the vista of the mountains. He meets a fellow traveller and remarks on how you often meet other travellers you connect with completely for a day or so, and then say goodbye to perhaps never meet again, or to perhaps bump into them in another internet cafe in some far flung place. Ciaran and I had met in Pokhara, almost 2 years ago, and here we were now, listening to a podcast about Pokhara cuddled up in a tent on the Ridgeway. Life is strange and oh so beautiful.
We woke before the sun and I savoured the act of opening the tent door; of feeling the freshness on my face and the smell of the morning. Still enveloped in my sleeping bag, I sat up and looked out across the faint lines of the hill. I sleepily made a cup of tea and cradled the warmth. I was surprised at how well I’d slept, only feeling a slight twinge of cold in the morning and being completely warm the rest of the night. I lured Ciaran awake by slotting an oat biscuit under his quilt. We both got dressed back into hiking clothes, something that was less pleasant in the cold, and then packed up. By 8:30am we were making our way off the hill and back to the path. We spotted several deer on the hill ahead of us, and then a whole herd of stags ran across our path. I was able to catch it on my phone as I had this out to reply to a work email (the annoying realities of corporate law, but lucky in this instance). It was even greyer and colder today, but the hand warmer proved very useful to warm my fingers stiff from packing the tent up.
More footsteps, more crunchy leaves underfoot, more conversations about life and more silent reflection. We interacted with a run club, them passing us twice, including once whilst they ran up a huge hill. We walked along the river for one section and saw Oxford rowers training. We stopped for a brunch of porridge and coffee, only to discover the cold temperatures had killed the gas cylinder - thank god for the malt loaf! By 1pm we had made it to Cholsey and by 1:15pm we were back on the train to London. Tired, legs surprisingly fresh, a blister on one of my heels, and a revitalised love for camping. We watched a documentary about the race across the Pennine Way (the Spine) on the train, and I had a very disappointing coffee from Reading station. Soon enough we were back in Marylebone and hugging one another goodbye.
I feel like I’m often struggling with the desire to do things alone, and the desire to share the experiences with people. In this instance, I felt no fear or concern whilst camping, something which I definitely would have if I were alone. I had more fun, chatting and playing cards in the pub, than I would have alone. It was all easier with someone. But does that mean it’s ‘better’ than doing it alone? Absolutely not. It made me appreciate the continued value of doing things alone, of doing things which are challenging and uncomfortable, to build resilience and confidence and to master your own mind (as silly as that may sound). Life is about balance and variety. There is no ‘better’ option in isolation, only a ‘better’ option based on your needs in that moment, considering the experiences you have had before and will have after. If I’ve spent a lot of time adventuring alone, it may be ‘better’ for me to adventure with someone else. If I feel overwhelmed and need some quiet and space, it may be ‘better’ for me to go alone. If I feel unsure in my self, alone. If I feel like I need to talk and laugh, with someone. It’s all about listening to what you need an honouring it. Here’s to more camping, alone and with company.