Nature is our default setting, so when the concrete seems especially hard underfoot, the buildings lean inwards and the arrow storm of stress casts a shadow overhead, I tend to head for the grassy places, cowpats and birdsong; if that also involves setting up camp among the bluebells by the side of a glistening stream, so much the better.
I generally split camping and picnicking into two distinct categories: hardcore minimalism and efficient packing, or an extravagant, and perhaps exhaustive, venture reminiscent of one of those ill-fated Victorian expeditions into uncharted territories, with even chairs and soft furnishings taken to a wildly beautiful but totally inconvenient place, where likely no one factored in the midges. Such adventures often lead to inevitable sogginess or clamminess, but I enjoy both for the rare chance to go feral, with the smell of smoke clinging to my damp jeans and my hair volumised with bacon fat. With charcoal under my fingernails and thistles embedded in briefly freed feet, I always return home feeling scratched yet positive.
