“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” ~ Henry David Thoreau

During my first winter here in the UK I had an interesting encounter with someone who had just returned after living in the United States for five years. She was having some difficulty readjusting to life in her native England, and a wistful expression clouded her features when she spoke of all the camping trips she and her husband had taken from their home base in Ohio, which had allowed them to experience up close many of the natural wonders in the US.

I felt a stirring of pride at hearing my homeland praised so highly, and in an effort to reciprocate and express my love for the UK I told her that my husband was planning to take me camping in the Lake District in August.

The woman’s wistful expression vanished in an instant to be replaced by one of disdain, and she shook her head in a sad, condoling manner. As gently as she could she leaned forward and confided,

“It isn’t the same.”

Up until that moment I had been eagerly anticipating our camping trip in the north of England, but with her sombre words the woman had planted a seed of doubt in my mind. What horrors were awaiting me in the wilds of Cumbria? What made camping in Britain so different from camping back home, and not in a good way? Just what was my husband getting me into?

Over the coming months we made our preparations, and I calmed my occasional qualms by reassuring myself that I had camped in primitive locations before. I had endured nights of teeth-chattering cold and days of scorching heat. I had dealt with pit toilets and sponge-bathing in glacial water. I felt confident that my previous camping experiences in the US would provide an adequate bolster for anything the UK could throw at me.

Yet the seed had been planted, and in spite of my best efforts to put it out of my mind it took root and began to grow. Was she correct, that woman who shuddered and said, “It isn’t the same”?

*

Our first stop was the GO Outdoors store in Swindon. A trip to the GO Outdoors store is like an afternoon in a theme park for me, and potentially equally expensive. Just walking through the front doors makes me feel fitter and more active. I imagine myself clinging to a sheer rock face by my fingertips or striding magnificently up a mountain slope. I picture myself whipping up some gourmet creation over a one-burner gas stove or knowledgeably pointing out constellations traced across the vast night-time sky. Gone is the pedestrian me, replaced by the rugged outdoors me, staunch daughter of my pioneer ancestors.

Our tour of the GO Outdoors store got off to a rocky start with me sitting on the floor of the Wellies aisle trying on pair after pair in a vain attempt to find some that would fit over my – ahem – muscular calves. Even the wide calf sizes with huge gussets could barely fit over my tree-stump legs. When I did manage to finally squeeze my leg into one there was no room left over to tuck my jeans casually inside it as other people do with room to spare, and getting it back off again entailed my husband straddling my foot and dragging me halfway down the aisle before we were able to budge it.

I ended up hot, red faced and close to tears. “Do I seriously have the biggest calves on the planet?” I wailed.

Mr. H wisely changed the subject to warm socks and steered me over to the hiking trousers. My mood improved slightly when we managed to find a nicely fitting pair of light-weight, water resistant trousers for me to wear. No more waterlogged jeans weighing me down. Hurrah!

We were in the sleeping bag aisle comparing the merits of various double sleeping bags when a very helpful young sales clerk approached and offered his assistance. He steered us toward the Vango Starlight Double sleeping bag, pointing out that it was by far the longest and widest double bag they carried, as well as the most popular. I’m always amused when one of the key features is a pocket to hold your phone or MP3 player. I want to be warm; I don’t care if my phone is.

Next we moved on to tents. Outside was a large display area with their wide range of tents set up for us to tour. It was great fun exploring the many features of modern tents (yes, pockets to hold your phones and MP3 players are all the rage these days). In the end we decided that we would have to forego buying a new tent and would stick with what we had.

What we had was my old dome-style tent originally purchased in about 1990 or so, and Mr. H’s much newer, hi-tech bachelor tent. My tent had the advantage of more floor space and enough head room so that the two of us could actually stand upright, but it was old and had spent the past decade mouldering in the attic. I no longer trusted it to be thoroughly waterproof. My husband’s tent was newer and reliably waterproof, but it was small. For one person it was adequate, as long as he didn’t mind crawling in and out on all fours, but for two people it would be a test of marital harmony. In the end we decided we would take both tents. We would set up my tent first, but have the bachelor tent as a back-up just in case.

On the morning of our departure we loaded our car with the tents, the sleeping bag, the air mattress, our clothes, flashlights, lanterns, towels, books, maps, food and everything else deemed necessary to survive in an English campground for 10 days. We packed until not another thing could possibly be squeezed inside. Thankfully we were camping with a large group so we did not need to haul a camp stove or more than the bare minimum of food with us. If we had we would have required a moving van. Gingerly Mr. H closed the hatchback door and waited for the car to explode like one of those peanut cans with the snakes that spring out when you open them. When it didn’t we both climbed into the front seat and fastened our seat belts. To the opening strains of the Indiana Jones theme we turned out of our drive and headed north.

The adventure had begun.

*

The weather was hardly propitious, and perhaps this was the first clue of how camping in the UK differs from camping in the US. Back home August can be oppressively hot, and if you go camping you head for the higher mountain elevations where you can expect it will be slightly cooler, though still warm enough to spend your days in shorts and T-shirts. It is only at night that the temperatures plummet and you have to bundle into a sweatshirt or a coat.

Our camping trip began on the 1^st of August in a driving rain storm. The farther north we drove the harder it rained. It rained and it rained and it rained. Through the traffic around Birmingham and Manchester it rained. For five hours it rained, and still we pressed northward.

My husband took the scenic route through Windermere and Ambleside. When we left the motorway the traditional Lakeland scenery closed in around us. In spite of the rain it was achingly beautiful. I thought my eyes had grown used to so much green, but the green of the rain drenched hill farms of Cumbia was more intense than any green of the southwest. Rock walls snaked up and across the hillsides, dividing them into incredibly steep pastures where the traditional breeds of hardy Lakeland sheep grazed contentedly in spite of the rain. Homes of traditional stone squatted in the valleys, blending perfectly with the landscape as though they had grown there.

After passing through the towns of Windermere and Ambleside we followed increasingly narrow, winding roads toward Coniston Water. I could sense my husband’s increasing eagerness as he ticked off the familiar landmarks along the way. He had camped here many times over the years, and as we drove he told stories about past trips.

“We’re almost there,” he said, and I felt a flutter of excitement growing inside me to match his. We were almost there. Ten nights of camping in this breathtakingly beautiful area. How my life had changed.

Nearly thirty years before I had travelled through the Lake District with my family on our way to Scotland. We spent one night in Ambleside, and at the time I had thought to myself that someday I wanted to come back. I vowed to return and stay for a week or more and hike up those beautiful rocky hills and explore the area where Beatrix Potter had lived and painted. Now here I was, somehow fulfilling that teen-age wish in a way I never would have expected. I felt incredibly blessed and grinned at my husband, ridiculously happy.

As we entered the small, pretty village of Coniston the rain suddenly stopped. The clouds gradually rolled back and weak sunshine sparkled on the lake as we drove out of the village and down a narrow lane. Green fields dotted with sheep sloped down toward the shoreline with its small marina and a cluster of farm buildings.

We stopped at a gate by an old farmhouse that housed the campground office to collect our entry pass, then drove through the main campground area to the group site at the far end.

This was where I noticed one of the first big differences between US campgrounds and British campgrounds. In the US there are usually individual campsites clearly demarcated, and you are assigned to one when you arrive, or you reserve your preferred site in advance. This campground was just a huge, sodden field where people pitched their tents willy-nilly. On crowded summer weekends it would become a sea of brightly-coloured canvas with very little privacy except that provided by windscreens strategically placed by the tent doors.

These camping fields are called “pitches”, sensibly because that is where people pitch their tents.

We drove through the pitch, through the gate at the end, and into the group campsite. This was a wooded area which straggled up a gentle hillside, with open glades branching off the road where tents were pitched. Our group had a large marquee erected for eating and socializing, and for coming in out of the rain, but we proceeded on up the slope to our assigned glade.

We quickly set about erecting the tent while the sunshine held, and friends kept wandering by remarking on our funny-looking American tent. The more I looked around at the other tents the more doubtful I became about my poor old tent’s abilities. All the British tents looked very strong and space age and were held down with about 300 or so guy lines. My old dome tent with its sad-looking rain fly which didn’t come all the way to the bottom or have a single guy line looked quite pathetic alongside the rest.

Old faithful was quickly made cosy inside, with our queen-size air mattress and sleeping bag spread out in the centre and our suitcases scattered around the edges. Nearby we could hear a stream tumbling down the hillside, swollen from the recent rainfall. The air was cool and fresh, and as darkness fell we added layers to keep warm before heading down to the dining tent.

We were both tired after the long drive and retired early, crawling gingerly onto the air mattress. That was when I discovered a couple of things: 1) The first person onto an air mattress very nearly gets catapulted off by the sudden redistribution of air when the second person flops down and 2) Sharing a double sleeping bag is rather like riding a tandem bike – where one goes the other must follow. Whenever my husband rolled over he took me with him, and it was a constant battle to try to kick and tug my half of the sleeping bag back over to my side of the mattress.

All these little details managed to sort themselves out in the end. We were here at last. I was living my dream. With a contented sigh I closed my eyes, and to the accompaniment of the burbling stream and a hooting owl drifted off into warm, peaceful slumber.

Sometime during the night I awoke with a jolt, all my senses on the alert, my ears straining to identify the sound that had penetrated my subconscious. What was it? There it was. Drumming on the roof of the tent.

Rain.

To be continued…