A night in ‘The Rough’
- 2 days ago
- 6 min read
Updated: 2 days ago
As an avid bikepacker and ultra-cyclist, the concept of wild camping isn’t new to me. However, the version that I’m most familiar with involves chucking a cold bivvy into a roadside ditch and hoping for the best. No slow, cosy mornings. No awe-inspiring sunrises. Just a stolen two hour kip to take the edge off the tiredness and get me back on the road.
And whilst those experiences have their place, I’ve always envied those who get to enjoy the ‘other’ type of wild camping. The type where they pitch their tents on the shoreline of a lake in a remote valley, or on a clifftop with a panoramic view. The type where nature sings, and they have the time to listen. My style of adventure has always been fast-paced and frantic; get in, get out, and keep pedalling. But I also want to make sure I carve a space for stillness. For adventures that are slow, and quiet, and meandering. I want nature to sing, and I want to be all ears.
So this past weekend I decided to scrap the big miles and the structured training, and get back to basics. Instead of fixating on pace or power, I left the heart-rate monitor at home and measured my ride in moments. The times I felt free, and genuinely happy.
Escaping the city
It can be pretty hard to squeeze an adventure into 48 hours when you live in London; navigating through busy stretches of roads and stopping at hundreds of traffic lights is a great way to kill the zen vibes. And then, after all of that, to arrive at a campsite crammed with people, noise, lights, and queues — it’s no wonder I find myself questioning whether the stress of getting there is worth it.
So this time I decided to do things a little differently. I was going to forego the usual campsite in favour of one of CampWild’s wild spaces (this one, to be precise).
Terrifying, you may think. And you would be 100% correct. That is an accurate depiction of how I was feeling when I loaded up my bike and hit the road on Saturday morning. “There’s so much that can go wrong” I kept thinking, over and over again, alongside the constant mental recap of what I’d packed and what I might be missing.
You see, with regular campsites, you have access to facilities. Things like running water, a bin, and—my personal favourite—a toilet. In a wild space, you have none of those. You need to be entirely self-sufficient. Which, in theory, sounds brilliant (my inner Girl Guide is screaming) but the reality can be very different.
First of all, let’s not forget the fact that I’m on a bike. A bike that has very limited capacity for what it can carry. My hands, which I would usually recruit for extra carrying duties, are unfortunately preoccupied with other important tasks such as steering, and trying not to crash. That means I have to be seriously frugal with my kit list—a challenge when I pack like someone who’s going off-grid for a week, not heading out for one night within walking distance of a Tesco.
Getting prepped
In order to adjust to the concept of self-sufficiency, I had to make a few changes to my usual setup:
Take my bigger-but-harder-to-get-out-of-the-holder water bottles for increased water-carrying capabilities
Pack a couple of old plastic bags that I could use as a makeshift bin (and then elegantly transport using my aerobars)
Avoid refilling my bottles with carb drink or sugary substitutes (rinsing my cooking pot with powerade doesn’t qualify as a hydration strategy)
Purchase a pee-cloth, lightweight trowel, and pack of scented dog poop bags (please don’t make me explain)
Gear upgraded, I felt slightly more confident in my ability to survive the night. That is, until the next fear started to creep in…
"What if someone murders me in my sleep?"
There. I said it. Let’s not pretend we haven’t all had that thought when settling in somewhere remote for the night. It’s a very real fear — albeit probably an irrational one. Still, it felt valid. At a campsite, it was more of a background hum. But knowing I’d be completely alone, miles from anyone, it suddenly felt a lot louder.
Thankfully, that fear subsided pretty quickly once I arrived at the designated space. Not only was it well off the public footpath (read: unlikely to be stumbled upon by any dodgy passersby), but getting there required navigating through a field of longhorn cows. These guys were great. Not only because–hello– they’re longhorn cows, but because they became my unexpected guardians, standing watch at the gate that led to my hidden little pitch. I couldn’t be more grateful.
By this point, most of my nerves had started to settle and I began to relax. I took a moment to pause and look around.
Holy shit, I thought, this place is incredible.
A meal with a view
After whipping up a Michelin-star-worthy feast of Super Noodles, I settled in for the evening. And what better way to wind down than with a good book? (Barefoot Britain by Anna McNuff, if you must know.) I felt oddly out of place, lying there in a tent, reading. A familiar ritual that I’d usually perform whilst horizontal on the sofa, or in the bath. But now I was in a tent. Part of me couldn’t shake the sense that I should be out there, doing something. Reading about someone else’s adventure whilst mine waited patiently just outside the (tent) door felt… strange.
But maybe that was the point. I was so used to seeing adventure as this all-consuming, daring activity, that I forgot that it doesn’t always need to be big or epic. Adventure can be whatever I want it to be; a high-octane, life-on-the-edge kind of affair, or eating noodles in a field and being in bed by 9.
This time I was choosing the latter.
As the last light slipped beneath the horizon, I zipped myself into the tent — a fragile barrier between me and the vastness beyond. This was the part I’d been dreading. I mean, sure, I trust nature... from a distance. But now I was lying in the middle of it, with only a wafer-thin layer of fabric between me and whatever was making that noise in the trees. Every snap of a twig, every whisper of grass, stirred the imagination. Shadows shifted. Thoughts raced. But then… nothing. No threats. No drama. And once I stopped imagining worst-case scenarios, the quiet began to feel strangely reassuring. Wrapped in the stillness I soon drifted off, feeling oddly protected by the very world I’d been so sure would keep me up all night.
A fresh start
One of my favourite things about camping is dragging myself out of my sleeping bag just in time to catch the sunrise. This usually involves setting a painfully early alarm — 5am, in this case — giving me a solid ten minutes to question all of my life choices before the sun finally peeks over the horizon. And you know what? I’m always glad I do. Sunrises have a way of making everything feel new again, like no matter what came before, today is a fresh start.
This time was no different. I unzipped the tent to the most brilliant band of orange reaching across the sky, and sat staring, completely in awe. The world was waking up, and I was there to witness every glorious second of it.
I used to believe that anyone who enjoyed getting up before 7am was either lying or in denial. But as I got older, I found myself falling for the early hours. There’s a stillness that feels like magic, like you’ve slipped backstage before the curtains rise. The sunrise doesn’t ask anything of you, it just arrives. Silent. Magnificent. And reminds you, for a few minutes, that life is more than just emails and errands.
Time to go
Caffeine consumed, I felt ready to embrace another day on the bike. It was already time to head home — less than 24 hours after I’d arrived — yet somehow, it felt like I’d been there much longer. I don’t know about you, but I always feel as though time moves differently when I’m out in nature. Without screens or schedules to distract me, I’m almost forced to witness the passing of every minute. Each moment feels a little fuller, a little richer. And I’m reminded that even the shortest escape can leave a lasting mark.
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