Have you ever been camping?
When I was growing up, camping wasn’t just another holiday — it felt more like a rite of passage. Every year, we’d jam the car so full it practically groaned, then head off to the Forest of Dean.
More specifically, to Biblins — a proper old-school campsite, buried deep in the trees, with the River Wye burbling past and not a single plug socket in sight.
Adventure wasn’t optional there — it was expected.
But it wasn’t just a family thing. My dad helped run the Bicester youth group, and every year he organised a big camping trip to Biblins. We came along as part of the crew, which basically meant we got to run wild. We built dens, climbed trees, got hopelessly lost (and sometimes found), and yes — we chopped wood with full-sized axes like tiny, slightly dangerous lumberjacks.
Can’t imagine anyone handing a seven-year-old an axe these days without a full risk assessment and an ambulance on standby.
One of the standout features of Biblins was the rope bridge.
It stretched across the River Wye like something out of Indiana Jones, and while it was technically sturdy, it was also absolutely terrifying. Don’t get me wrong — it wasn’t wobbly in a dodgy DIY way — but it was high.
High enough that if you went over the edge, it wasn’t going to end with a sprained ankle and a plaster.
We treated crossing it like a badge of honour: sprinting across, bouncing it under each other’s feet, daring someone to stop in the middle and look down.
Every year, someone would freeze halfway across, clinging to the rope sides like a cat up a tree, needing a rescue mission involving equal parts encouragement and mockery.
But if you made it to the other side without crying or swearing, you felt like a proper hero.
Evenings at Biblins were all about the giant campfires. These weren’t polite little flickers — they roared up into the sky, crackling so loud you could feel it in your chest. We’d sit around them for hours, swapping ghost stories, burning marshmallows to charcoal, and chucking on damp sticks just to see the smoke behave badly. Everything we owned — tents, jumpers, hair — ended up smelling gloriously of woodsmoke for days afterwards.
Later in the year, we’d switch gears and head off on the family holiday to Weymouth — a completely different kind of adventure.
The sea was sharp and cold, the fishing was serious business (even if we only ever caught tiddlers), and the highlight was always a trip to Nothe Fort — a maze of tunnels, battered cannons, and hidden corners that felt like a secret waiting to be discovered.
Weymouth had its own magic — salty breezes, crabbing off the harbour walls, sunburnt noses, and that unbeatable moment when you tore into fish and chips straight from the paper.
Two completely different worlds — one wild and muddy, the other salty and windswept — but both packed full of the sort of memories you don’t realise are golden until years later.
Now, Helen and I are counting down the days until we can take Ollie on his first camping trip.
There’s something brilliant about handing a bit of that old-school chaos over — the muddy boots, the riverside rope bridges, the late nights under the stars.
And while I doubt we’ll be letting him loose with an axe (health and safety would have a field day), I’m hoping we can still find a slice of that wild, muddy, smoky magic waiting for us.
Bring it on.
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