Escape To The wilderness.

There comes a moment in every adult’s life when you decide you must escape to the wilderness. 

This usually happens after a stressful week, such as one in which you have received 47 emails marked “URGENT” about things that are not, by any definition known to science, urgent. So you announce, boldly, “I’m going to reconnect with nature.” What you actually mean is: “I’m going to sit somewhere without Wi‑Fi and hope my brain stops making that buzzing noise.”

The trouble is that the wilderness is not as straightforward as Instagram suggests. Instagram shows you serene lakes, majestic mountains, and people wearing knitwear while holding enamel mugs and staring thoughtfully into the distance, as if pondering the meaning of life or possibly the price of avocados. What Instagram does not show you is the part where you try to pitch a tent in a gale while being eaten alive by insects the size of commuter trains.

Let’s start with packing, which is where the first mistake happens. You imagine you will need only “the essentials”. This is a lie. The wilderness requires you to bring approximately 400 items, including but not limited to: waterproofs, spare waterproofs, emergency waterproofs, a torch, a backup torch, a torch to find the other torches, a first‑aid kit, a compass you don’t know how to use, and a sleeping bag designed by someone who has never met a human body.

Then you arrive at your chosen wilderness location, which the website described as “remote and peaceful”. What this actually means is: “You will have no phone signal, and the nearest shop is in a different geological era.” You step out of the car, breathe in the fresh air, and immediately swallow a fly. This is nature’s way of saying hello.

Next comes the hike, which you embark upon with optimism and a map that appears to have been drawn by a toddler. The path is clearly marked on paper, but in real life it has vanished, possibly stolen by sheep. You stride confidently in what you believe is the right direction until you realise you have been walking uphill for 45 minutes and are now in a cloud. Not under a cloud — in one. Visibility is approximately one inch. You could be standing next to Stonehenge and you wouldn’t know.

Eventually you reach your campsite, which is a patch of ground that looks flat until you lie down on it, at which point it reveals its true nature as a landscape made entirely of rocks, roots, and one particularly aggressive lump that positions itself directly under your spine. You attempt to pitch your tent, which the instructions claim can be done “in minutes”. This is technically true, in the same way that climbing Everest can be done “in hours”. After a prolonged battle involving poles, ropes, swearing, and at least one moment where you consider simply living in the car forever, the tent finally stands. Slightly. At an angle. Like it’s had a few drinks.

Night falls. This is when the wilderness truly comes alive, mostly with noises. There are hoots, rustles, snaps, and something that sounds like a bear dragging a wheelie bin, even though you are in a country that does not have bears. You lie in your sleeping bag, listening intently, convinced that every sound is either a serial killer or a badger with anger issues.

But then  just when you’re ready to give up  morning arrives. The sun rises. The mist lifts. Birds sing. You unzip the tent and step out into a world that looks like it’s been painted by a very talented watercolour artist. And for a moment, you feel it: peace. Actual peace. The kind that makes you think, “Yes. This is why people do this.”

Then you remember you still have to pack everything back up.