Chapter 40
Tilly turns September’s book over in her hands: Wild Camping: Exploring and Sleeping in the Wilds of the UK and Ireland, by Stephen Neale. She’s been using Joe’s letter as a bookmark.
Dear Tilly,
I said before that I’m trying hard not to have any regrets. But maybe there is one more. I regret that I never managed to persuade you to enjoy camping.
OK, hear me out … Campfires. Toasted marshmallows. Waking with the sun and stepping straight out into nature. If we’d had more time, I hope I might have been able to convince you that these are some of life’s greatest pleasures.
I know you never wanted to come camping with me, but I wonder if you were put off by campsites.
Mouldy shower blocks, the sound of other people’s music or snoring …
I’ve always thought that to really experience the best of camping you have to go wild camping.
Just you and the outdoors. Pitching your tent somewhere remote beneath the stars.
I wish we’d had time to go together, because some of the places in this book look incredible. I am quite tempted to pack a tent and go right now but I think my wild camping days might be behind me.
I hope this book inspires you. And never forget, you are so much braver than you think you are. You are the bravest person I know.
I love you.
Joe x
P.S. If you’re carrying all your supplies on your back you’ll probably want to limit yourself to just one book.
‘Hello. How can I help you lasses?’ says the grey-haired man behind the counter as Tilly pushes open the door to the bike hire shop on Islay, Rachel following behind.
They just about make it through the door with all of their bags.
Outside is an expansive view of the small village of Port Ellen, white fishing cottages hugging the coastline and boats bobbing in the bay.
Rachel is dressed in outdoor gear that looks just as new as Tilly’s.
Tilly isn’t sure she’s ever worn an outfit with quite so many pockets before.
But if their outfits look as though the tags could very well still be attached, the man behind the shop counter’s olive-green layers look so weathered and fused to him that Tilly suspects he came out of the womb in Gore-Tex.
‘We’d like to hire some bikes.’
‘E-bikes,’ Rachel adds quickly.
‘Sorry, e-bikes.’ Tilly is pretty certain she will need the assistance of a battery motor if she’s to make it through this weekend.
When they planned the trip they debated hiring a car but both reluctantly agreed that it wouldn’t make it exactly wild camping if there was always the option of sleeping in a car overnight.
‘Well, you’re in the right place. Where are you heading?’
Tilly explains that they’re about to catch the ferry to Jura.
It was hard to decide where to go. There were lots of places in the guidebook that looked undeniably beautiful, despite Tilly’s hesitation about camping.
But a note in the description of Jura mentioned it was where George Orwell wrote 1984.
That decided things for her. A literary connection at least makes this whole trip feel a little more … Tilly.
‘Ach, Jura’s gorgeous. Very wild. More deer than people. My kind of place. You’ll probably be wanting an e-mountain bike, then. It gets a bit wild out there.’
He selects two bikes for them, handing them matching helmets and a puncture repair kit.
Alfie showed her how to fix a flat tyre before leaving and she thinks she remembers but, hopefully, it won’t come to that.
Just like she seriously hopes she will make it through the next two days without needing to use the shovel in her backpack.
They strap the panniers to the bikes until they look like lean packhorses.
‘So, where are you staying on Jura, then?’ asks the shop owner as they wheel the bikes outside. ‘The hotel in Craighouse? Molly’s B&B?’
Tilly and Rachel glance at each other again. ‘We’re not quite sure yet,’ says Rachel. ‘We’re wild camping. We have a few pitch sites in mind, but the idea is to be spontaneous!’
The man clears his throat. ‘Done that before, have you, eh, wild camping?’
‘Um, no …’ Tilly replies.
‘We’ve got a book, though!’ says Rachel cheerily. A book which is currently digging into Tilly’s shoulder blades alongside her copy of 1984 – because, of course, she failed to follow Joe’s advice.
‘Right … well, I’m sure you’ll be fine … Just make sure you contact the landowners first if you’re planning on camping on the hills or mountains.’
‘Why? We thought wild camping was legal in Scotland?’
It was one of the things that drew Tilly north despite the distance. The book suggested other places closer to home but recommended discretion, and Tilly didn’t fancy being woken in the middle of the night by an angry farmer.
‘It is. But it’s deer stalking season. Humans look uncannily like deer from afar. It’s an easy mistake to make. You could hardly blame a hunter if they made a wrong shot.’
Rachel’s eyebrows shoot up and she glances warily at Tilly.
‘Maybe we’ll just steer clear of the mountains.’
‘Maybe best.’
The shop owner watches them ride away, Rachel setting off first and pedalling slowly to wait for Tilly to catch up.
She pushes tentatively off but immediately the weight of the bike makes her wobble, swerving towards a lamp post. At the last minute she manages to steady herself and steer out of the way.
A few moments later she has caught up with Rachel, the two of them cycling side by side. The brisk wind blows against her face.
‘Good luck!’ calls the bike shop owner behind them.
Tilly can’t bring herself to look back, fearing his expression might not inspire the confidence she knows she needs to muster if she’s going to make it through the next two days.
Within minutes of arriving on Jura they encounter a herd of red deer grazing on the side of the road.
Wild moorland stretches out in one direction and on the other is the sea, the coastline rocky in places and sandy in others.
They pass the occasional fishing boat, the odd Land Rover and a lot of deer.
The island’s one village is home to a hotel, two distilleries and a community shop, and as they cycle through, it looks like the kind of place you’d expect to see on the front of a shortbread tin.
They pause at the hotel for a bowl of chips in the garden overlooking the water, and to make use of the facilities, before continuing north to the wilder part of the island.
As Tilly steps back into the garden from the bathroom she spots Rachel scribbling in a small notebook.
‘Whose memoir are you working on now?’ she asks as she sits opposite on the picnic bench.
Rachel closes the book. ‘I’ve actually started writing a novel.’
‘Oh wow!’
‘It’s not really anything yet,’ Rachel replies quickly, fiddling with her pen and biting down on her bottom lip. ‘It might not go anywhere but …’ Her face breaks into an unfiltered smile. ‘I’m having fun. And you inspired me, actually. Made me think that maybe I could write something of my own.’
‘I think that’s amazing, Rachel! It’s about time people got to hear your voice.’
Rachel’s eyes flick up to Tilly’s.
‘It’s still terrifying to think of putting my own name to something.’
‘I can imagine that does feel scary. But I reckon you’ve been hiding for long enough. When you have something that you’re happy to share, I’d love to read it.’
‘Thanks, Tilly. That means so much, especially coming from you.’
Tilly can understand more than most the desire to hide.
It’s what she had been doing ever since Joe died, up until she received a phone call from her local bookshop that changed everything.
Looking out at the view in front of them, it hits Tilly that at the start of the year she never for a second imagined she would end up here.
‘Shall we keep moving?’
For the rest of the day’s ride the beauty is tempered by the ache in Tilly’s thighs and the stinging of her palms from gripping the handlebars so tightly, especially now the smooth tarmac road has become a rough dirt track, littered with rocks and dips.
Dust flies up as they clatter along, her ears ringing from the vibration.
‘I think we’re nearly there! Look!’
They shudder to a stop, dropping the heavily laden bikes down in the undergrowth with a clatter.
‘God, it feels good to be standing again. My butt hurts.’
‘Mine too. But look, there it is.’
Through a clearing in the trees is a lone white house that stands against a backdrop of green grass, mauve heather and golden bracken.
‘It’s beautiful but a bit bleak, isn’t it?’
‘That makes sense, though, doesn’t it? You wouldn’t exactly call George Orwell’s books comedies.’
‘No. Laughs is definitely where they’re lacking. I can’t believe he actually used to live right there.’
Rachel cups her mouth with her hands, the volume of her voice making Tilly jump as she cries, ‘Hi, George, thanks for everything!’ into the wind.
‘You’re mad!’
‘You should try it, it’s fun.’
So Tilly roars her own greeting to the lonely white house, glad suddenly that it’s Rachel here with her.
‘How come it seems heavier?’ Rachel says as they haul their bikes up from the ground.
‘It’s not too much further to the beach I have in mind for our pitch.’
‘Bye, George,’ they call as they cycle away from the house that might look much like any other on the island but seems to Tilly to shimmer with significance as she imagines Orwell bent over a typewriter in one of the rooms overlooking the sea.
The bay they reach a few minutes later is completely secluded, not a house or person in sight.
They push their bikes over the grassy moorland and down on to the rocky shore scattered with seaweed and driftwood.
Behind them is the view of the island, the three Paps of Jura rising in its centre, and stretching out in front of them is the wide-open sea.
Tilly is so relieved to be off the bike that she stretches her arms wide, a kind of euphoria that might be exhaustion buzzing through her.
‘Shall we put the tent up?’ asks Rachel.
‘Later. I need to cool off first.’
Tilly unzips her brand-new windproof jacket and sheds it on the ground, pulling her sweat-soaked T-shirt over her head.
There’s a seal dozing on a rock a little way along the beach but it completely ignores them as Tilly tugs at her trousers, Rachel getting the idea and beginning to ditch her own clothing.
When they’re both down to their underwear they run down the beach.
Water sprays around them as they launch themselves into the sea.
‘Shit! It’s cold!’
‘What were you expecting?’ says Rachel between gasping breaths, swimming a rapid chin-up breaststroke. ‘It’s the bloody Atlantic. Of course it’s freezing.’
Tilly swims out further, cold water lapping against her skin, salt getting into her mouth, and her heart pounding.
‘It’s fantastic!’
This time the euphoria may be the onset of hypothermia. But either way, it feels incredible. They float on their backs, turning back to look at the island and their bikes that look so small on the shore.
‘Oh shit. Look at those clouds …’
The sea darkens as the sun disappears behind a bank of clouds, choppy waves whipped up by a fierce and sudden wind.
‘We should get back to our things!’
Their clothes are scattered about on the beach and they both swim quickly back towards them, stumbling as they try to run out of the sea.
Getting out is somehow much harder than running in and far less graceful, both of them getting knocked backwards by the waves and holding on to each other for support, resembling two drunk women trying to walk across a bouncy castle.
And then it begins to rain.