I’VE always loved wild swimming, sorry I meant camping. The exhilarating freedom of plunging into the sea, by which I mean a tent on Dartmoor, heals the soul.
The court ruling banning this age-old English activity which I have been doing for simply ages rent my wild camping heart in two, and left me no option but to write about how special and marvellous it is, and that I do it.
When did I begin? Ah, I remember standing overlooking the lake, wondering ‘will I actually jump in?’ And no, not that, in fact wondering that as I put up my tent by the lake with ‘jump in’ being a figure of speech.
I loved it. The bracing cold, the invigorating feeling on the skin, the actually the canvas and the magical feeling of waking up to see a herd of deer outside the tent or similar. Putting on my DryRobe, which campers wear no doubt, to do yoga at sunrise.
There’s nothing like it, I imagine. Comparing it to normal camping is like comparing the thrilling experience of diving into a mountain lake with swimming at a municipal pool. That’s just the first comparison that comes to mind.
So as an evangelistic wild camper everywhere from Windermere to Bournemouth to Penzance, I will be protesting this ban. Yes, perhaps I should have protested before the court case and its publicity, but I’d forgotten how much I love it until then. I’d confused it with the other thing.
I will not be silent on the subject. In every newspaper, on your radio, on your television and your social media, I shall be proclaiming my passion for wild swimming, shit I’ve done it again, camping.
You’ve never done it? No, I imagine you haven’t. Not really the type, are you?
