Over the past few days, I have been digitally scouting potential camping spots. I’ve used a mix of OS maps for contours and footpaths, Google satellite view, and Gemini to bounce ideas off of. Gemini helped me scour Reddit for field reports and check what local woodlands are actually used for—avoiding active Scout camps or busy events at nearby pubs.
Eventually, I found a promising spot: well off the road, flanked by open fields, good tree cover, a flat patch in the middle, and no official footpaths passing through.
On Saturday morning, I woke up early to go find it. A classic clash of motivation ensued when I pulled back the curtains and found it pouring rain. I didn’t want to go, and looking at the weather, the dog didn’t want to go either.
I have a very supportive partner. I brought her tea in bed, and she could see me toiling with the decision. It’s a funny thing having a dog; if I go for a walk in one of his favorite places without him, I feel immense guilt. As I was pacing around making excuses, she took my hand and told me to leave the dog and just go. She promised I’d feel better once I got moving. She was right. I packed my tarp, wet weather gear, and some water, and set off.
It wasn’t cold, but the rain was steady. Armed with a wicking t-shirt, a fleece, and a raincoat, I hit a slight incline and immediately started overheating. Airflow is key, I remember reading. I undid my pit zips and carried on. Because I was sticking to the tree canopy and wasn’t actually getting that wet, I eventually shed the jacket and just wore the fleece. It’s fast-drying, so it didn’t matter if it caught a light spray.
I am overthinking this…
Then, walking through the overgrown trails, my trousers absorbed every single raindrop from the tall grass. They were soaked through. Should I put my waterproof trousers on? The wetness is traveling up my legs. I have cotton boxers on. Am I going to freeze?
Definitely overthinking this…
I forced myself to relax and check in with my senses to stop my brain from spinning. The rain made the air smell incredibly fresh. I could feel the dampness on my skin. Looking closely at the grass soaking my shins, I noticed the individual droplets clinging to the blades and the tiny white flowers beneath them. It was completely quiet—no people, no traffic, just the patter of rain in the canopy. The weather was keeping everyone indoors, and it was beautiful.
My route took me past a local scout camp hosting a family weekend event. I watched them milling around their massive breakfast marquees and sprawling tents, mentally confirming that this was the exact style of noisy camping I was trying to avoid.
Once clear of the camp, I crossed a field and saw my target woods in the distance. To my right sat a private complex of houses and stables. The main footpath bent left, but my route lay down a trail to the right. The boundary was lined with a pristine, brand-new wire fence. I kept walking, hoping for a weak spot, but it was perfectly maintained. Then I hit a gate secured with two heavy padlocks. Looking over it, I could see horses loose in the next field. This wasn’t “private-public” woodland; this was deeply private land.
I bailed, retraced my steps to the main footpath, and checked the map. The shiny, mocking fence continued along my right, but to my left sat a patch of public woodland bordered by a rusty, collapsing, completely neglected fence. This is more like it.
On the fly, I decided to go left. Stepping off the comfortable footpath and tackling the tangled undergrowth felt like a massive psychological barrier. I knew exactly what it meant crossing that broken boundary and going off-piste. It brought a sudden flutter of excitement. I was off the trail. I was in the “wild.”
I followed a thick line of trees separating two open fields, tracing a faint animal path along the flattest part of a steep slope—the path of least resistance. Within a few minutes, I was 200 meters away from any official trail, right on the border of the public woods. It felt perfect. I found two trees spaced well apart for a ridgeline, stopped, and just listened. Nothing but rain and leaves.
As I reached for my tarp, a familiar pang of doubt hit me. What’s the point? Why am I getting my gear soaked in the rain just to test a shelter? I nearly turned back. I was terrified someone would stumble upon me, question what I was doing, and judge me—the “man in the woods” all over again.
But I pushed through. I put my pack down, pulled out the tarp, and built a stealth configuration. It felt entirely different than practicing in my back garden; every movement felt incredibly loud, and the tarp sounded massive and rustly.
When it was done, I slid under the tarp on my back. The fabric was close to my face, but rolling onto my side gave me a spectacular view of the woods sloping away below me. I just lay there in the dry, letting it sink in. I had done it. I had walked into the rain, found a spot, set up a configuration, and no one was any the wiser.
Satisfied, I packed down and headed home.
On reflection, I’m glad I didn’t try to force my way past the shiny fence; there’s a distinct moral line between private-public land and someone’s private property. My chosen spot sat right at the top of a small ridge, meaning the tarp entrance was slightly exposed to anyone looking up from below. The animal path I followed also led deeper into the woods, and on my way out, I spotted a few badger setts.
Naturally, I found myself googling “are badgers dangerous?” when I got home.
But I overthink things.
There is a Man in the Woods 
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