Experience the latest trend in travel: wild camping in Dartmoor National Park. Amidst rising prices and European turmoil, why not escape the chaos and turn the M5 into your personal gateway to nature? Unlike other areas in England, Dartmoor allows you to pitch a tent without landowner permission, embracing the true essence of wild camping. With no facilities provided, you rely solely on nature’s gifts. Drink from a crystal-clear stream, relieve yourself in a carefully dug hole, and cleanse yourself under a refreshing waterfall. This back-to-basics camping experience requires you to carry all essentials in your trusty rucksack, limit your stay to a night or two in one location, and leave no trace behind. Be mindful of the rules, such as no large groups or tents, and remember to dispose of your rubbish responsibly.
Despite the freedom that wild camping offers, there have been attempts to ban it. A hedge fund manager and his wife, who own a massive 4,000-acre estate, fought to remove this privilege by arguing that it does not fall under the category of “open-air recreation” which is allowed in the national park. However, a High Court ruling initially favored the campers, although this decision was later challenged. Therefore, the right to wild camp in Dartmoor is even more precious, and passionate campaigners are striving for legislation that would extend this right to other areas of the country.
Curiosity sparks within me as I decide to embark on a two-night wild camping adventure with my husband, son, and furry companion, Virgil Dog. Camping is not my forte, as past experiences have left me leery of the outdoors. From waking up to a stranger urinating on my tent at Glastonbury to having my mouth filled with sand during a beachside campsite stay in the Isles of Scilly, I’ve had my fair share of misadventures. However, my husband is an experienced camper who emphasizes the importance of preparation. Balancing the weight of your essentials with your ability to carry them becomes crucial. With a whistle and a pack full of pricey specialized camping food, our camping trip begins – a feast fit for survivalists preparing for a nuclear winter. Duck-down pillows are a definite no-no, according to my husband.
Our first stop is the visitor center in Princetown, a town dominated by the imposing Dartmoor prison. The friendly face behind the counter helps me plan our camping location. I express my desire to stay near the renowned Wistman’s Wood, an ancient woodland I’ve always dreamed of visiting. Lathering my face with clear spring water offers a refreshing start to our journey. However, the woman’s kind skepticism becomes evident when she asks about the weight of our packs. Admitting that they are quite heavy, she shares suitable camping spots on a vast map. I notice a rather alarming section marked “danger area” – the Army’s firing range occupies a part of Dartmoor. Camping is not permitted everywhere; designated areas must be respected. She recommends two potential spots, one at the base of a granite-capped hill beyond a wood, and another at the top of a valley. She warns me of the challenge of walking from Wistman’s Wood to a permitted area. It seems they would rather not deploy search and rescue due to my clumsiness. Starting near the car park would be wise until I become more proficient in the art of camping. Once I have mastered the necessary skills, she believes I will be able to purify water from the streams. Currently, we carry four liters of bottled water and a translucent nine-liter camel-like container, though ultimately I decide to leave the bulkier one behind to travel light.
Backpack camping, as she clarifies, should not be mistaken for “wild camping.” The word “wild” tends to encourage people to leave their waste on the ground instead of burying it. It is a skill that requires practice and mastery. We journey to Wistman’s Wood through breathtaking landscapes, the eerie setting reminiscent of “The Hound of the Baskervilles,” a book I’ve brought along as my literary companion. Sheep, cows, and adorable ponies grace the roads, claiming their time in this magical place. Carefully parking our vehicle, we begin our trek towards the wood. Although we are unable to enter due to the delicate ecosystem and previous incidents of moss theft during lockdown, the sight from outside is mesmerizing. Granite boulders serve as nurturing foundations for ancient oak trees covered in lush moss. This small surviving part of England’s ancient forest exceeds my expectations. I stand there, captivated by its beauty, grateful that I made this journey.
Continuing our adventure, we head southeast to Burrator Reservoir. My husband insists on navigating using an Ordnance Survey map, banishing all mobile phones for the weekend. I find the map engrossing yet confusing, with every possible landmark, from churches to post boxes, meticulously charted. Amazingly, I manage to guide us to the car park without Google Maps’ assistance. Laden with tents, water bottles, sleeping bags, and pans, I feel like a donkey burdened by its load. My husband copes better, thanks to his Scouting background hailing from a family with a passion for the outdoors. The woods we traverse are enchanting, with thoughtfully crafted shelters made of branches, sticks, and moss, likely handiwork of the Scouts. My ten-year-old son eagerly explores these huts, filled with wonder and delight. As we reach a wall and a stile, we find ourselves beneath a captivating tor. Its beauty overwhelms me, though I yearn for a place to rest. Surprisingly, the ground proves to be soft and inviting, thus becoming our chosen campsite. My husband and son effortlessly set up the tents while I arrange the gas camping stove on a rock for our pouch dinner. Starting fires is strictly prohibited in backpack camping.
At 2 am, I wake up for the inevitable middle-of-the-night bathroom break – a camping ritual that cannot be avoided. Despite my initial grumpiness, I am immediately captivated by the sight of the twinkling stars overhead. Returning to the tent, I prepare a supposedly delicious chicken tikka meal that proves disappointingly unappetizing. The boys seem to enjoy it, though. For my own dinner, I resort to an emergency Toblerone, an unusual survivalist substitute. I’ve attended a survivalist course in the past that educated us on shooting deer with bows and arrows and setting traps for passing pigs using sharp stakes. The instructor recommended eating invertebrates, such as insects and worms, in a wilderness scenario. Unfortunately, this implies that I failed the course. Struggling with pouch food, the sheep grazing nearby start to seem more and more tempting. Surprisingly, consuming the sheep is also prohibited, possibly providing another reason why we should refrain from using the term “wild” in backpack camping.
With no activities to keep us entertained after dinner, we retire to our tents. While my son had initially brought along pajamas (unfortunately becoming soaked as soon as he sat on the ground), we all ended up sleeping in our clothes. At midnight, my son wakes up, whimpering with fear after reading the synopsis on the back of “The Hound of the Baskervilles.” He asks to sleep in our tent, and my husband graciously switches to his coffin-sized tent. I swiftly fall back asleep but wake up again at 2 am to face the obligatory dead-of-night bathroom break.
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