If I say I started car camping out of necessity, I do sort of mean that in a financial sense, but fundamentally it was for my soul. I longed to hit the road again, to sleep in the wilderness, cook on a campfire, see the stars wheeling above me, and feel the chill of dawn on my skin.
Car camping bridged the gap between affordability and soul-hunger.
I was fresh out of rehab when I bought a cheap old Peugeot estate off some beekeepers in the Forest of Dean. Quite frankly, I would have been happy if it had lasted me until its next MOT. In fact, it kept going for another three years.
Primarily, I’d just wanted a car to get around in, maybe go a bit further afield. But when I discovered that the back seats of my new car were completely removable, making enough space to fully lie down, my world suddenly opened up a little wider.
My first trip was the autumn equinox gathering at Stonehenge. With an old foam mattress from a Z-bed, a cheap fire pit, and a single-ring camping stove, I was away. Oh my God: the freedom, the fear, the feeling of coming home, and the overwhelming awkwardness of self-conscious doubt that almost immobilised me as I set about setting up.
I’d arrived on the Drove – the public bridleway that runs alongside the Stones – just as it had gotten dark. Stumbling around by lamplight, I found a space for myself amongst the other vehicles, chucked a tarp over the car for some privacy, and got a little fire going. Bliss!
But waking to birdsong, seeing the Stones rooted in the landscape only a few hundred yards away, shrouded in early morning mist: that took my breath away.
And as the drove slowly came to life – people emerging from vans, tents, and cars; mumbled greetings, the clatter of kettles and cups as people made their first brew – my heart swelled.
Here was my tribe. I’d been missing them for far too long, but my cosy little car camper put me right back among them.
After that, there was no stopping me.
I’ve slept on cliff tops and swam in the early morning sea, stargazed on the commons enveloped by enormous skies, watched the sun go down beside rivers and streams, and watched it rise again over hills and valleys.
I’ve always felt safer in the middle of nowhere, with no one around. I’m not going to pretend that that I don’t sometimes, in the dark of night, get a little bit spooked by strange noises or my over-active imagination. It’s not that I’m fearless, just that I cannot let fear rule.
I read a post on social media recently by a woman who was camping alone in the remote wilderness of the Outer Hebrides. Having bedded down for the night, she was startled to hear a male voice nearby. Heart thumping, she eased open her tent to investigate and spotted a man with a large camera, trying to set up a tripod. He hadn’t even seen her tent and was out there to photograph a stunning display of the Northern Lights, which she hadn’t even been aware of.
It reminded me of a time, many years ago, sitting around a small campfire in the woods, enjoying a pot of tea. There was a great crashing in the trees and then a man stumbled into the clearing with a shotgun. For a few incredibly long seconds, as all kinds of grisly scenarios ran through my head, we just stared at each other. And then I blurted out, “Err, would you like a cup of tea?” He hesitantly said yes, and we ended up sitting around the fire, drinking tea, and chatting for the next hour.
I’m not saying that bad things don’t happen. I’ve spent much of my life walking the line between caution and freedom. Awareness of risk forms part of my everyday life, as it does for all women. But ultimately, freedom is too precious for me to accept a life curtailed by fear.
I’ve learnt to trust my instincts.
I often don’t know where I’m actually going to sleep that night when I set off on a car camping trip. There are exceptions – places that I’ve returned to – but often I just fancy exploring a particular area, or I feel the call of the sea, or of the mountains.
On a trip to Wales last year, for example, I decided to explore a fairly remote piece of coast. By the time I arrived, it was twilight: a good time to go and park up, but not so great when you’re still looking for the right spot.
Anxious about the fading light, I initially pulled into a big lay-by off the main road where a motorhome, already settled in for the night, offered a sense of legitimacy. I quickly vetoed that idea, though, due to the traffic noise. So I pulled up Google Maps on my phone and started looking for small turnings which led closer to the coastline. I’ve found that exploring little lanes that just peter out, or that loop away from major routes without any obvious settlements, are often the best bet. So, having identified a few candidates, I set off to seek a better spot.
As it turned out, the first dead-end lane I tried took me to a cliff-top gravel car park with nothing around except a little chapel hunched nearby, and a holiday park on a distant hill. A few vehicles lingered – people who had come to watch the sun’s final dip into the ocean – but, parking away from these, I started setting up my sleeping space. Putting my cut-out blinds in the windows, making my bed, switching on the fairy lights. It always makes me feel a little uncomfortable, since this is the point at which it becomes obvious that I’m not just parking. My movements become stiff and awkward, and I avoid looking around, keeping my eyes focused on what I’m doing. I’ve learned to press on through this, and so far I never have been challenged.
The car park soon emptied and the sun, having sunk below the waves, made way for an almost-full moon to gently illuminate the white-washed chapel. It was a beautiful night, with only the sound of the waves gently rolling in far below me and the cry of an occasional seagull, and I drifted into a deep sleep.
I woke to a clear, cool morning, tinged pink by the sunrise. As I brewed my first coffee, my anxiety spiked a little as a lone car approached. The woman driver looked a bit serious and no-nonsense, and I was half expecting an ‘I’m-a-national-trust-member-you-can’t-park-here’ lecture. But her passengers (her late-teen children, as I discovered) were gazing out at me, grinning enthusiastically. They tumbled out of the car with a couple of dogs, all smiles and morning energy. After a brief chat, they invited me to join them for their early morning swim – an exhilarating start to another beautiful day.
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