#47 Calm Our Nerves
Jul 10th, 2008 by doing better
The week before last I spent three nights camping alone, which is not something I have done very often. I told myself that if I got scared, I should just think about an acquaintance who recently served in the Israeli army. If he could survive eighteen months in the Golan Heights with Hezbollah shooting at him, I could probably last a few days in a campground in the New Forest.
On the train platform, as I was waiting for the train to Brockenhurst, a businessman walked past me, glanced at my bicycle, my backpack, and my camping clothes, and dismissed me with a disdainful look. Observing his petulant expression and excess belly fat, I probably did the same to him. He was most likely a lot richer than I will ever be, but I was glad to be the one heading for the forest. I doubt if you could have paid either one of us a million dollars to trade places with the other.
Oddly enough, I saw his double the next day. When I visited Palace House in Beaulieu, I saw a portrait of Charles II that showed exactly the same petulant lips, the same ugly expression, the look of too much indulgence that has not brought happiness. Some things don’t change.
On my first evening of camping I went for a walk, got lost, wandered through a field with sharp things that stuck in my socks, and didn’t see another living soul, which was rather eerie. I returned to the campground to reorient myself and went to bed while it was still light so I wouldn’t be scared. All was quiet until a herd of ponies came through at 3 a.m., brushed past my tent, and spent an eternity grazing on a holly tree beside me. It got light around 4 a.m., and I slept better after that.
The next day I walked on a heath, got lost more times than I care to admit, and saw no more than three people, whom I regarded with suspicion. (What were they doing out in the middle of nowhere? Riding a horse, running, and walking a dog – or so they pretended.) I found it very hard to orient myself in the wide-open moor, in the absence of any landmarks. It was strange how empty the place was.
When I got back to my bike, I found that someone had stolen my bungee cords for the second time in a week. I use them to hold bags on the rack at the back. This double theft was very odd, as they have never been stolen in the years that I have been cycling around with them. Somebody must have finished work and come to the parking lot to have a few beers. They said to themselves, “What I really need right now are some bungee cords. Oh look, there are some brand new ones.” Perhaps they thought of dragging ponies behind the car; there does not seem to be much else for delinquents to do in the forest. I was glad they had left the bike, or it would have been a long walk back to the campground.
That night was not quite so peaceful, as I woke at 2 a.m. feeling sick and had to run out of my tent to throw up. The next morning I was awakened by a similar urgent bodily crisis of an opposite nature. As soon as I had recovered, I moved my tent to the other end of the campground, away from that place of pollution and death. I hoped the next residents of that campsite would not look behind the holly tree. I felt very weak, but I was determined to go for a hike anyway. I tried to buy Gatorade for its all-American magical properties, but the shop sold only an inferior sugary English equivalent called Lucozade which did not restore my strength.
I ended up walking at least fifteen miles because I got lost a few more times on the moor, in spite of (or perhaps because of) asking people the way. I may have misdirected a few lost children myself. “Over the hill, turn right, take your next left, can’t miss it.” Oh, but you can. The map makes it look so easy, showing one fork in the trail when in fact there may be five forks, or the trail may vanish altogether.
I did make it to Anderwood, my favorite place in the New Forest, a grove of ancient pollarded beaches that reminds me of a temple. Then I hurried back to my bicycle in the fading light, getting lost only a few times along the way. After searching for a footbridge, I took off my shoes and waded across a stream, only to look up on the other side and see the footbridge thirty feet away. The ponies looked bemused.
On the last night I finally slept well. Maybe I was getting used to being so exposed and vulnerable, or maybe I was just exhausted. I was proud of myself for surviving the three days alone, in spite of being fairly nervous and jumpy and getting lost all the time. When I got home, I wasn’t nervous anymore about sleeping with the window open. That is real progress!
