Don’t Mention Blair Witch

 Carenza and I were going for a mother-daughter camping weekend. 

I had pictured us tramping the South Downs Way, traversing a bright carpet of chalk-hill flowers and remarking the ancient tumuli and hillforts.

However, due to the pandemic, it was incredibly tricky to book.

So when I finally spotted a pitch, I grabbed it without too many questions.

I’d never tried woodland camping before, but it was sure to be lovely.

Early on Friday evening we reached the tiny village and drove up a narrow lane to the farm where an improvised sign sent us up a track, and another arrow directed us along a grassy bridleway, until finally we were at the wood, deserted except for one other couple, also newly arrived and equally apprehensive.

There were, in fact, only two pitches, maybe forty metres apart, each in its own clearing.  The ‘facilities’ consisted of one broken portaloo.  Worst of all, there was no phone signal.

‘I’m really glad that other couple is there,’ I said to Carenza, half wondering to myself, whether it was possible visually to distinguish axe murderers from ordinary folks.  But by the second night they had moved on and we were alone.  Wordlessly, I placed my hiking pole next to my sleeping bag.

In the event, it would be wrong to say that we were not disturbed, but all the disturbances were good ones - a family of frolicking badgers, a small herd of fallow deer including one pure white animal like something from a myth, some very talkative tawny owls and the local larks who could not keep from singing the moment the sun showed its face.

On Sunday, once we had packed the tent away, I said to Carenza, ‘It’s okay – you can mention The Blair Witch Project now.’