Instructions from a Colder, Hungrier Version of Me

Some people return from a weekend on the Isle of Arran with photographs and a renewed appreciation for nature. I returned with a note called “Camping lessons”.

It is not beautifully written. It contains instructions such as “test tent week before”, “pack gear 2 days before” and “pack warmth as if colder next season”. There are reminders about food, clothing and getting in line for the Caledonian ferry canteen. It reads less like a reflection on the outdoors and more like an operating manual written by someone who had recently discovered several ways to be uncomfortable.

That someone was me.

One of the best moments of the trip was cooking pasta bolognese on a camping stove. There was something satisfying about making a proper meal outside with a small burner and stainless-steel containers. The setup was basic, but it worked. For a while, I felt unusually capable: a man providing hot food in the wild, albeit a version of the wild that involved pasta and a ferry home.

Then I rolled up my sleeves.

This seemed sensible because I was cooking. It also gave the midges clear and uninterrupted access to my arms. I had apparently prepared dinner for more creatures than intended. While the pasta cooked, I was being eaten alive by insects small enough to look harmless individually and organised enough to prove otherwise.

The lesson was not especially philosophical: keep the long sleeves, trousers and socks on. But it is exactly the kind of rule I trust because I remember how I earned it. “Wear suitable clothing” is generic advice. “Do not roll up your sleeves while cooking because the midges will treat you as another course” is much harder to dismiss.

The cold produced another set of instructions. It had rained, and the night became surprisingly cold as the wet conditions turned frosty. My girlfriend was cold despite having a three-season mat and sleeping bag. The phrase “three-season” had sounded reassuring before the trip. That night, it felt more like a product making a confident estimate about which season we were actually in.

My note now says to pack as though it will be colder than expected: winter for autumn, autumn for summer. It may be excessive advice most of the time. The problem is that “most of the time” is not especially comforting when you are in a tent and have already brought all the warmth you are going to have.

Camping makes ordinary needs unusually noticeable. At home, warmth, shelter and food are mostly background conditions. On a campsite, they become a series of decisions. Did we test the tent early enough? Did we pack before the final evening? Did we bring enough layers? Should we eat now or assume another chance will appear later?

The answer to that final question, according to my note, is to eat now.

This lesson followed us onto the Caledonian ferry. The canteen queue became very long, very quickly. We learned that boarding the ferry is not the time to wander around admiring the view and deciding what to do first. It is the time to head straight to the canteen, because everyone else will soon reach the same conclusion and several of them will walk faster than you.

None of these lessons is profound on its own. Test the tent. Pack earlier. Bring warmer clothes. Protect your arms from midges. Join the food queue immediately. They are small and oddly specific, which is probably why I like them. Each one contains a compressed memory of something that went slightly wrong—or, in the case of the pasta bolognese, something that went well while I was simultaneously making another mistake.

A practical note can be a message from a previous version of myself. Past me does not explain his reasoning particularly well, but he has evidence. He was there. He was cold, hungry or scratching his arms. The least I can do is take his advice before the next trip.

Of course, following the list will not make the next camping weekend perfect. It will only prevent me from repeating these particular mistakes. I will probably discover a completely new way to be underprepared and add another terse instruction afterwards.

That may be part of the appeal. Every trip makes the operating manual slightly better, even if the person operating it remains a work in progress.