Camping in a wheelchair isn’t easy, but it’s a fantastic escape

A signed picture of Clint Eastwood with the inscribed words – ‘Best to James, A man’s got to know his limitations’, stares down at me from my kitchen wall. The words taken from Magnum Force, the second of the Dirty Harry films, have real meaning. Confined to a wheelchair, I sometimes need assistance and excursions from home – my comfort zone, require careful planning, and the heeding of Harry Callaghan’s advice.

 

However every August for the last 16 years, I’ve thrown caution to the wind and gone on a camping holiday with close friends and family. We always return to the same field in Devon. It is not accessible, there are no disabled toilets – at times it is hell on earth, but it is always the highlight of the year.

 

Maybe it’s the call back to the hunter-gatherer way but nothing quite beats a camp fire and living life on the edge. As a child, sleeping out in the open was about adventure and freedom – and later hedonistic trips to Glastonbury and North Devon, I noticed things hadn’t changed. I was determined that the onset of Primary Progressive Multiple Sclerosis, would not be its death knell, especially as I was now a single dad and keen to share the pleasures of the great outdoors with my son, Connor.

 

We took our first sortee to Scotland. Buying a cheap train ticket and hiring a car, we set out to explore the highlands with little more than a tent and camping stove. My symptoms were not to bad then and I could hobble around, as we were accosted by midges in Skye and stood like warriors in Glencoe. We both loved the experience and returning to London, eagerly discussed our next adventure, even though silent reservations about my disease weighed heavy.

 

It was Louis, my best mate who provided the safety net. He was Connor’s godfather and with two children of his own, he was only too happy to join us on our next trip to Northern Spain. Again with little equipment and a frisbee doubling as a chopping board, we all jammed into my car and set off with high hopes.

 

The holiday was a learning curve. I fell over in a butchers – everybody thought I was drunk and the searing heat made driving uncomfortable. However cooking stew with the setting sun glinting of the Cantabrian Mountains, telling the kids stories was magical. Louis and I knew we were onto a good thing but equally aware of the pitfalls. We decided to find a safer haven – Devon was the obvious answer.

 

Having met at Exeter College, we knew the county well and both sets of parents lived in Topsham. It was the perfect bolt hole, offering endless hours of crabbing in the estuary or trips to the nearby moors or beaches but the call of the wild and a night under the stars was never far away. The following year we stayed near East Prawle – camping on a cliff face. This was a little extreme but by chance an advertisement for a cream tea led us to our future base.

 

South Allington House, a magnificent Georgian structure set in spacious grounds,  provided B&B and self catering accommodation. It offered the perfect rural getaway, with Lannacombe beach close by, but its hidden gem was its campsite. Set in a picturesque secluded valley, surrounded by rolling hills its set up was basic, quite raw even, but the feel of the place was enchanting – it was perfect.

 

Over the years my mobility would continue to deteriorate, but we adapted accordingly. More mates got wind of our find and joined us with their kids and It wasn’t long before we were calling ourselves the OS tribe – A name drawn from Talos the bronze giant in Jason and the Argonauts, speaking our own rudimentary language and sacrificing the sacred Punuaka (pineapple) every night on a roaring fire. After howls of laughter, we’d all fall to the floor, too gaze at the night sky and the Perseids meteor shower, we tried to coincide our visits with.

 

Obviously things have not always been so ideal. The English weather pretty much guarantees equal doses of sunshine and rain and a storm coming in off the Atlantic is never far away, often resulting in carnage throughout the camp. There are then the nightly excursions which can be dangerous in a wheelchair often resulting in crashes and transfers to my camp bed can be hilarious, always failing health and safety guidelines. There’s no time however to worry about minor flesh wounds, bee stings, burns or any other ailment – THIS IS OS TRIBE!

 

Out of all of this though, there is method to the madness as I watch Connor, now a strapping lad forging a career in the RAF, load the car for this year’s jollies. All of us have grown from our experiences. I could never hope to attend the gathering now without the support of my friends but everyone has their part to play.

 

It’s now the new generation, who started out singing Father Abraham, on one leg, doing the work – preparing swamp lamb and whiskey bananas, as the tribal elders wile away the hours staring down the verdant valley with a glass of Rioja to boot.

 

Camping isn’t for everyone with a disability, some of the UK’s 3000 sites are accessible, but it is hit and miss and never a bed of roses. However given the chance to break out of one’s comfort zone with the necessary support, it offers escapism that is hard to beat.

I’ll always return home, bedraggled and vowing never to return. Clint will glare at me, questioning my sanity and Julie, my long suffering wife, will utter ‘Never again’, loading the washing machine with my smoke impregnated clothes.

 

However, old habits always die hard and by the following spring, the tribal grapevine awash with chatter, will plan for the summer. I know what to expect – that’s the draw of the ‘OS’, which is why come August, I’ll be back in that field in Devon, with everything I’ve got.