Wales is a country where it rains roughly 98.73% of the time. I know this not only because I have a bachelor’s degree in geography, but also because I have attempted to go camping there on several different occasions throughout my life.
I’ve chosen the word ‘attempt’ for a reason.
While the country is stunningly beautiful, there really is little variation in the weather. It’s not one of those adventuring experiences where a few minor things go wrong and you’re forced to band together, talk about ‘Band of Brothers’, and ramble on through despite it all. Maybe break out the fire-lighters instead of the hand crafted ‘bow and string’ method. No amount of ‘stiff upper lip’ positivity is going to dry your socks out for the 17th time when you are essentially sat in a lake the size of a country. That you paid to get into.
Despite this wealth of knowledge, a group of friends and I decided to go back and attempt to camp there again. Pat and Pete – the punk liberal intelligentcia – were always up for some sort of foray into, or with, nature. They were the sort who, in the words of Stewart Lee, would go anarcho-punk orienteering: they had the boundaries marked out on the maps but they would cross them out and make a spud cannon instead. Then there was Kim, the rational and calm cornerstone to our quartet. She’d seen every antic we could pull, and was somehow both positive and caring when we’d come back to base camp having lost a fight with a pine tree.
If we were playing a role playing game you would have sighed at the dungeon master and asked for a better party.
So why did you bother go back then, you ask?
Did we want to practice our survival skills? Perhaps overcome previous barriers and become more developed individuals? No…
We went back because they had built a trampoline.
…A really big one.
Not only was it a really big trampoline, it was also built in a giant abandoned mineshaft underground*. This gave the impression of bouncing up and down several hundred feet in the air while in an eerily-lit cavern. As we were (and still are) dirt poor we decided that we would have to brave camping again. We would also drive because a majority of the countryside is inaccessible to anything other than small cars, bikes, or putting saddles on the local sheep**. We would backpack between campsites over several days and have some hiking adventures along the way***.
The road trip began well. We set off from a sunny Southampton in high spirits. Driving to Wales took several enjoyable hours where we passed the time by singing along to music and joking around. Once in Wales there was another couple of hours of driving to do before reaching our first campsite…And then another couple of hours…After yet another hour we were beginning to distrust the SatNav. It didn’t matter which celebrity voice actor read out the directions, they all translated to ‘fucking lost’. It was especially disappointing in the voice of beloved and mild mannered TV personality and doctor of physics, Brian Cox.
By now the light was fading, and the weather was getting worse. The rain had intensified and the single track roads we were carving down in Pete’s tiny car were beginning to fill with mud. Still, the SatNav insisted we were going the right way****. We pressed on into the night, each looking up different routes and attempting to locate ourselves. Meanwhile, it had become apparent that the thrashing rain wasn’t the usual, totally normal thrashing Welsh rain we were used to: it was definitely part of a storm. Still, we kept trundling through the countryside, listening to the wind whistling against the dinky car and the distant rumble of thunder on the horizon.
Eventually we stumbled across a few blurry buildings in some fields far away. These had to be the basis of the campsite we theorised, because fuck all else would be built out here (unless, of course, you have seen the film ‘Dog Soldiers’). We carefully made our way to the buildings… but there was no sign of any other tents. Or indeed, anything you would even vaguely associate with camping. Just some empty fields and some outhouses.
Polite SatNav Brian Cox was in the back of our minds, meekly chiming in ‘fucking lost’.
But, the old wooden sign on the way down the track had definitely mentioned the name of the campsite. By now it was late and the storm was raging around us. We made the choice to pick a spot in a field where it was relatively protected from the worst of the weather. In gale force winds we tried – and failed – to pitch the tent several times. We had to use the car beams as our only source of light in the pitch black fields of rural Wales, which meant that every task had to be done in front of the blinding, retina-searing headlights. Add to this the maelstrom of noise from shouting survival instructions at one another and the storm itself, drenched clothing and freezing hands and you have an episode of Ray Mears ‘Extreme Survival’ right there.
Finally, we made a camp.Soaked and utterly exhausted after our saga we crashed with the tent billowing wildly around us. But it didn’t matter. We had somewhere relatively warm and out of the rain that was big enough for all four of us to sleep in. The question of where we were faded to the back of our minds as sleep enveloped us in a cosy embrace.
We awoke to the sound of clicking.
But, at least that meant that the storm had blown out. For a while we listened, wondering what it could be. Wildlife perhaps, a woodpecker? Before we could get any real grasp of it it stopped, and countryside became silent once again.
That was.. Odd.
Fairly quickly the previous night’s ordeal came back to us. Storm. Rain. Lost. Tent… where were we?
Our trail of thought was shattered by the impact of something hard and round to the side of the tent – BOING! – it rolled off back into the field.
We jumped up, confused and alarmed. Rushing to pull some boots on we were targeted again – BLAM!
We signalled at one another to, one by one, get out of the tent entrance and investigate. SatNav Brian Cox calmly chimed in the back of our thoughts ‘probably fucking dog soldiers’.
Patrick darted out first, with Pete close on his heels. Kim and I paused, listening to what was happening. To our alarm we heard nothing. What had they seen? Why hadn’t they shouted back that it was something ordinary? Was SatNav Brian Cox right?
Then we heard a whistle. The pounding of many feet on the sodden ground. The noise of something… coming.
We looked at one another and raced out of the tent entrance after Patrick and Pete…
… and found them stood motionless several metres in front of the tent… where they began laughing.
It turned out that we were in fact mostly correct about our location. The collection of outhouses and buildings were indeed part of the campsite where the information cabin was located. It also transpired that the reason we couldn’t actually see any other evidence of the other campers was because the allocated fields, you know where people actually fucking camp, were on the other side of the buildings and clearly marked by a fuck-off-large sign that said ‘CAMPING THIS WAY’. So where on earth did we manage to camp, then?
We had instead managed to pitch our tent slap bang in the middle of a goddamn football pitch.
A football pitch in which there were various groups of youths running around and pelting footballs at one another as part of an adventure weekend for teenagers.
We sheepishly looked around at one another observing a muddy remake of the ‘Battle of Britain: Football Edition’ unfold around us. After one of the ricochet balls set off the car alarm we decided that we didn’t have the troops to hold position and so we rapidly packed up camp and stopped by the information cabin to apologise. When we entered we found an elderly Welsh chap with a rue smile, who winked at us and said ‘Nice spot you found there, I hope you slept well’. Being British we immediately apologised profusely and offered to pay him extra for causing disruption to the youths planned activities. He chuckled, and said “Don’t worry ‘bout it, I’ve gotten my payment in another way!”
We stared back at him, puzzled.
He showed us the series of pictures he had click-click-clicked of our tent in the middle of the pitch, surrounded by excited and energetic youths hurling footballs at one another, with our half-damp and utterly confused selves pondering how on earth we had gotten there.
“Don’t you youngun’s worry, I’ll print this out and put it right on the wall here, so any camper can look at you lot and learn a valuable lesson”.
And so in this mis-adventure we learnt that camping in Wales has many layers. You must be hardy, seasoned to damp weather, and have back up map-reading resources once it becomes obvious that SatNa Brian Cox is a fucking liar even if he does sound politely and genuinely concerned about your welfare. In Wales the least of your problems is the weather, the biggest? Well, that would be yourselves.
*Honestly, as soon as we saw the advert for this place we knew we were willing to brave any and all weather to go there, like the giant adult children we are.
** While this prepollent approach appealed to the punk brothers, level-head Kim reminded them of the last time they tried to ‘harness nature’ and were left wrapped around a tree in several inches of mud after underestimating a mountain-bike route.
***Topped off by the adventure where we went to the British equivalent of the Blue Lagoon – a place on the coast where an ancient mine shaft had collapsed and so the sea had filled it, protecting it from the tides and creating a serene pool. Pete dived into this with his GoPro and lost it at the bottom of the lagoon. So, if you ever want a free GoPro feel free to try and dive to the bottom: there is a buttload of stuff down there.
****In fairness, SatNav Brian Cox was right. But, a good rule of thumb is only ever to trust it to an accuracy of about 1 square mile, lest ye repeat the infamous stuck-in-the-marsh incident of 2014.