Wild Camper

Wild Camping novice. Illegal here in England, not in Scotland. The advice: No fires. Bury any “deposits”. Arrive late, depart early. Leave no trace.

I leave a terraced house in Yorkshire, marking a place high on the Pennines – discreet and far from footpaths. I had travelled: camping, B & Bs, hostels and hotels. A cheap tripper. Why camp wild? Weren’t there maniacs on these moors? Bug-eyed Boggarts lying in wait for lost travellers?

I walk past schools, farms, a brewery. The Pennines loom up like a shabby cloud, my town far behind me, all dark bricks and concrete, towers and houses sliding into the valley. I walk on through heather and broken walls.

A small wood. Perfect. It’s gotten dusky and I’m anxious to pitch. Who’s likely now to stumble across this position? The farmer? A mile down the track. I almost asked for permission. Money? Does this hill belong to him? If not then who?

The tiny tent goes up in minutes with bended bars, ground sheet, fly and guys. A flimsy skin between me and the wildlife of these hills. And everything else. That wretched house I can see through the trees, roofless and imposing, is reputedly haunted. What residents slumber there?

I relieve myself against a tree and throw the rucksack into my coffin-for-the-night, my little stealth-bomber. Exhausted in my underwear, I wriggle into the sleeping bag and start to wind the clockwork gadgets, dimming the lantern with a sock; don’t want to be spotted from the farm. God forbid, the house through the woods. Tune the radio and reach for my flask of whisky, courage against psycho-waifs. Sipping happily, my innards glowing, I fall into dreams…

… Angels rise from the haunted mansion, descending upon the tent, their wings dusting the fly with a graceful patter…

I wake. Something IS beating against the roof. I stare down the length of the tent, my body a pupa in polyester. God’s sake what is that? A bird…? Gone now. I settle again, but every noise is a din in my ears. Wolves run hungry on the hills, the trees have mysterious voices. Agitated, I drift away…

…I’m sanding down a pine bed trying to get the edges smooth. There’s a head sitting in a box with my name on it. I continue sanding…

My mobile goes off like a car alarm at 5am. I unzip the flaps, break out the spirit burner and boil water for tea. The flavours of the forest fill my nostrils, a morning mist holds to the rough bark of the wood. I drink the tea with a cereal bar then start to decamp.

Down the track I see the farmer. He nods.
“Good night?”
“Err…Yes thanks?” I’m rumbled.

He climbs on a quad-bike and carries on his business, not caring. I stride out. A dozen miles from home.