Dumped, Actually(32)

Trying to recreate Wolf Moresby’s off-the-grid trip to the remote Cairngorms as much as possible, I elect to ignore all of the formal campsites dotted around, and take myself off somewhere nice, quiet and remote.

I get as far as about a quarter of a mile off the road, before deciding that remote is a relative term, and as long as I can’t hear a motorway, then that should be fine. The woodland glade I stumble upon seems perfectly acceptable to me, as the ground is nice and level, and the grass is quite short. It’s pretty much the ideal spot to make a pitch.

You’re not going to read a hilarious account of one man’s bungled attempts to put up a tent at this point. These modern tents are dead easy to erect (more’s the pity for anyone looking for some comedy value here), and within half an hour I have a nice little campsite all set up and ready to go.

There’s the tent, a fold-out chair, a portable heater and a small stove – all laid out in the small clearing I found in the middle of a group of ancient-looking conifers. I am ready to rock and roll.

And by rock and roll, I mean sit quietly and wait for the boredom to render me unconscious.

Camping – as Wimsy pointed out – is boring.

There’s no Wi-Fi, for starters.

And crapping in a bush may sound like a way to be at one with nature, but give me porcelain and a double-flush any day of the week.

Besides, there’s probably poison ivy out there somewhere, and my poor bottom has only just recovered from being red-raw and itchy. I don’t need a repeat performance.

But I will put up with it for a couple of days, because there are probably worse ways to spend a weekend – given that the weather is quite nice, the forest is very pretty and I have about three or four books I’ve been wanting to read for weeks now.

I have entertainment, a nice peaceful environment and several cans of gin and tonic to get through. All should be well.

And indeed, the first evening goes fine. Okay, I burn the sausage casserole on the stove a little bit, and the first book I’ve brought with me – a right old potboiler of a thriller from a first-time author – ends up being crap, but other than that, it is an extremely relaxing way to spend your time.

I can almost see what Wolf Moresby was on about. Being here in nature is a very therapeutic way to spend your time. It is when it’s summer and the weather is on your side, anyway. Sitting on a chair long into the evening with a small heater keeping you warm as you make your way through the latest Neil Gaiman is a very soothing experience.

I even feel quite comfortable as I turn in for the night. Instead of sleeping on the floor, I have a rather nifty inflatable mattress, which isn’t far off the same comfort level as my bed at home. I drift off in no time, and actually get the best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks.

That’s the first evening.

By the time the second rolls around, I’m so bored I can hear my neatly manicured toenails growing.

I haven’t looked at Twitter or YouTube in twenty-four hours now. I’ve already finished the Neil Gaiman book, and the remaining two – another couple of potboilers by authors I don’t know – don’t seem appealing in the slightest.

You can only spend so long cooking on a small camping stove before it becomes tedious, and the complete lack of human interaction is really starting to get to me.

At six thirty that evening, I am slouched in my camping chair, staring at a squirrel who is mucking about in the tree opposite without an apparent care in the world.

It’s not that I’m particularly enamoured with the squirrel’s doings, it’s just that there’s quite literally nothing else to look at that is in any way interesting.

Enjoying your natural surroundings is good for a couple of hours, but there’s only so much stimulation you can get from a bunch of conifers and a few sparrows before you start to yearn for a bit of Sky News.

The squirrel gives me a look that seems to suggest that I am an ungrateful bastard, before scrabbling his way up the tree and out of my sight.

Sigh.

What the hell do I do now?

Sigh.

Go for an evening walk? Nah. I might get lost.

Sigh.

Get an early night? Doubtful. I haven’t gone to sleep at seven thirty since I was five.

Sigh.

Get the laptop out and do some writing? Ugh. I don’t think so. Besides, the battery life is terrible on the damn thing these days. I’d probably get into a nice little flow, and the bloody thing would conk out.

Sigh.

. . .

. . . . . .

How about I send Samantha a text message to see how she’s doing?

My heart rate immediately speeds up at the prospect of doing such a thing. My phone has no Wi-Fi signal, but I can still send a text . . . or even make a call, should I wish to.

To Samantha.

Just to see how she is, you understand.

Nothing more than that. Nothing at all.

Would she answer? That’s the question.

I’ve hoped and longed for her to call me these past few weeks (as pretty much everyone does when they get dumped – we all just want them to come back, don’t we?) but it hasn’t happened, of course.

So, why would she answer a call from me, if she hasn’t tried to get in touch herself?

And even if she did pick up her phone, what would that mean?

I sit up in the camping chair, with suddenly sweaty palms.

This is the first time I’ve contemplated doing something like this. After the horror of Thorn Manor, the idea of getting in contact with Samantha again has made me feel physically sick. The embarrassment, humiliation and downright unfairness of it all is just too overwhelming.