Tiny Campsites

Over the last few years, and in no small part due to these times of austerity, camping has become fashionable. Helped on by the festival scene tents, sleeping bags and other paraphernalia have jumped out of the specialist shops and into supermarket aisles and even the shelves of trendy boutiques. For those of us who have been extolling the virtues of life under canvas, or at least nylon, for a while now this can be ever so slightly annoying, but the one big advantage is the influx of new guidebooks. Old camping guides were aimed firmly at the caravanner, whose needs and desires diverge greatly from those of us with tents. Now a new breed has arrived, with an emphasis on beautiful and isolated spots, rather than the size of the shower blocks and the availability of electric hook ups.

One such book is Tiny Campsites by Dixe Wills, in which the author lists 75 places to camp that are all under an acre in size. The idea appealed to me, so last week I packed up the family and decided to check out one of his (yes, his) recommendations.

A long haul round London and along the M4 into Wales brought us to Middle Ninfa Farm near Abergavenny, which Dixe lists as his third best site in Britain. It poured down the whole way, which was rather dispiriting. We even had to partake of that great British institution, the in-car picnic. Fortunately the sun came out as we crossed the Severn Bridge, but the still wet conditions meant that my overloaded Golf couldn’t make it up the driveway to the site – this is very definitely a Welsh hill farm. It also explains why, on a 23 acre farm, there is far less than an acre that is flat and available for camping.

No-one was around when we arrived, despite Radio 4 playing loudly from a nearby shed, but a kind note told us to make ourselves at home. The farm has a “main" campsite by the farmhouse, as well as three “remote” pitches. Having already lugged tent and bags up the driveway I opted for the main site, which in reality was a cosy little space in which we were the only occupants, and has stunning views back down the hill. The remote pitches, which we explored later, really live up to their name, and you wouldn’t want to have to carry too much stuff up to them.

The farm, now only home to a few ducks (avid Radio 4 listeners it seems) and two retired, and friendly, horses, is owned by Richard and Rohan. This well-travelled couple (mainly Africa) are enthusiastic and informal hosts, and can provide local information and maps, as well as home-grown veg. The facilities are basic, and rightly so. The one toilet is a long drop, and bottles of filtered water are available on the farm window sill. Apparently there is a cold shower somewhere, as well as, believe-it-or-not, a wood-fired sauna, but we didn’t bother with these.

In fact we didn’t bother with much of anything, apart from enjoying the views and some light exploring. Campfires, so unusual these days, are not only allowed but encouraged; so each night we settled in to watch the light fade and the stars come out. To top it all we were at the start of the Perseid meteor shower, so our evening drinks were accompanied by shooting stars.

Dixe reckons there are two better campsites than this. I can’t wait . . .

Flatland

The Taygetos, above Mystra

I like mountains – great big craggy ones that you can climb up if you have the energy, but can also just stare at in awe. Unlike most people it was the mountains in Greece that first attracted me to the country, specifically the Taygetos Mountains of the Peloponnese. These look as if they belong in Tolkien’s Middle Earth, and always stir something in me when I look at them.

I’m not alone in this. Nikos Kazanzakis, the author of Zorba the Greek, wrote that the Taygetos make you realise how utterly meaningless your own petty concerns are. You are humbled before them. I agree with this, and bobbing in the sea off the coast of the Mani and staring back into the mountains is as close as I get to a religious experience.

Which is why it’s puzzling that I seem to be living in possibly the flattest region of the UK. Even small hillocks can provide paroxysms of excitement in Suffolk, and village church spires stand out for miles around. Looking out of my window into the great metropolis of Ipswich I can see the county’s highest point, a new tower block that is the pride of the town’s waterfront development. Unfortunately it’s not much bigger than your average Croydon office block.

Water Tower, Southwold

I don’t want to be too down on Suffolk though, it's just that I miss my mountains. And I’m also learning to discover the county’s more subtle charms. Last weekend we went camping in Southwold, an attractive coastal town that is now getting known for hosting the Latitude Festival. We missed Latitude by a week (on purpose) and were there to have my daughter’s b’day party on the beach. The campsite is council run, and not particularly great, but what it lacks in character it more than makes up for in location (right on the beach) and views.

My favourite thing, however, was not the beach, or the gentle countryside, or even the pubs serving locally brewed Adnams beer. No, I liked the water tower.  I becoming a bit of a connoisseur of these structures, and in the flatlands of Suffolk there’s a lot of them about, but the one in Southwold is surely the most impressive.  Who knew that a water tank on legs could look so cool? My only guess is that the architect was a big fan of the BBC series The Tripods from the 80s. I’m still half expecting another one to come marching over the horizon to claim Ipswich for its alien masters.