Will's Low-Key Weekender Summer 2021

A beginner's experience of camping and cycling

Posted on Fri 9 September 2022

I'd turned up to the two-day Low Key Weekender event woefully underprepared. I had borrowed a sleeping bag and packed the heaviest chunkiest layers I could find (anticipating a blizzard in September), forgetting any kind of base or mid-layer. Likewise, I'd remembered an assortment of books, but forgotten both a toothbrush and cutlery - both of which would have served far more useful than Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. My snacks were dismal, and I hadn't considered coffee at all, which is both surprising and problematic when you are used to 4 cups just to wake you up.

I hadn't realised any of this upon arriving to Will's partner's parents' house in the middle of nowhere near Carlisle. I'd got there late afternoon, a few hours later than the stipulated starting time despite having been awake and ready to leave since about 4 am. It was balmy but a bit blowy, and I sat in the car for a few minutes with my heart in my throat. I sent a quick text to a friend, telling her I was too anxious to go in, and she suggested I try staying for one hour. I agreed, and feeling very sick, walked around the back of the house.

I reached a wooden gate. Beyond lay a chocolate-box garden littered with multicolour tents, upside-down bikes, and bits of equipment. There's a summer house with people congregating on its porch; I could hear laughing. At that very moment, I decide I'm going to leave. I'll drive home, switch my phone off and disappear for a few days. No one will notice, and no one will care. I can't do it, and I don't want to do it.

I'm not quick enough though, and someone walks across the garden and sees me. It's Will. He waves, hugs me and tells me to come in. The anxiety subsides slightly. Will introduces me to a whirlwind of people as we cross the lawn and enter the summer house. Faces I semi recognise swam in and out in a blur of half-remembered Instagram handles and nicknames, so we look at the collection of bikes he has stored in there. I'm most interested in seeing the 90s Rockhopper he'd recently restored for his partner, and that helps distract me from the pulsing panic I can feel in my chest.

There was a huge map on the wall of the summer house, with pins and tiny handwritten notes in it. Will handed me a pink laminated menu and explained that the checkpoints on the menu correlated to the pins on the map - we were to plan our route, taking in as many, or as few checkpoints along the way. There was one mandatory checkpoint - in an old mine somewhere up a steep hill - and the rest listed a selection of voluntary checkpoints, varying from stone circles to tarns to pencil museums. The aim was to just plan a route. That was it.

Will left me alone, and I began examining the tiny, coloured pins. I was struck with a sudden kick of fear as I realised, I couldn't actually read the map in front of me. I hadn't thought much about this before arriving, half assuming map-reading was an intrinsic human quality we're all born with - like breathing or knowing all the words to Lion King songs. But standing there, with the long string of numbers (or 'coordinates' as I'm told) on the menu and the little coloured pins, I internally admitted the gross overestimation of my ability to spontaneously acquire skills. I stared at the map for a moment, rifling anxiously through the roller deck of my brain to find something - anything- remotely useful. There was, unfortunately, nothing.

So, I went outside, where small groups of people were pouring over their maps together, excitedly plotting out routes with far more zeal than I could muster. I watched them, dipping in and out of their conversations. Most of them wanted to tick off as many checkpoints as possible and had designed lovely elaborate ways of getting to them. My heart sank a little - I knew I didn't have the fitness to do the distances they were intending to tackle, and if I couldn't make it, I wouldn't know how to get back. They were encouraging and supportive, but I remained completely unconvinced.

The rest of the afternoon was spent sitting with different people and trying to learn, quickly, how to read a map. Asking for help is a bit of a social lubricant, and I found it easier to begin conversations this way. I was treated to several different explanations of map reading, and consequently, treated to several different stories of people's adventures and life experiences. It was glorious to listen to. By the time Will had whipped up dinner (a delicious spicy lentil tomato dish that I've never managed to subsequently recreate), I'd plotted a route identical to the one Will had drawn as an example. It was a 50km loop edging a mountain, with a mix of quiet country lanes and gravel paths. I'd presumed that if I just kept the big mountain to my right, it'd be impossible to get lost.

That evening, Will lit some fires, and we split naturally into smaller groups to talk and relax. I distracted myself from my fresh wave of anxiety by talking animatedly to people I didn't know very well. I was unbearably anxious about sleeping. I haven't slept outside since I was young and tend to have awful night terrors. Will came and sat with me before I headed off to bed, and we talked a bit about feeling anxious. He reassured me, provided me with different options if I became overwhelmed, and then gave me some advice. It was comforting to have that support there.

I woke early the next morning, surprised to find that I had slept and that I didn't feel particularly tired. I unzipped the tent as quietly as I could and was greeted with a spectacular sunrise. The sky had exploded into a deep blood orange and blush pink. A thin vein of gold cracked across the horizon, gilding the purple-blue hills in the distance. In the field beyond the garden, a herd of softly glowing cows was lolling through the early morning haze. In the summer house, a small group of people were brewing coffee quietly, and I gladly accepted a cup of coffee from Nathan - who seemed to have packed for useless people like me. People woke slowly over the next half an hour, and lazily cooked breakfast on little camp stoves, or built bikes together.

We set off in cars at about 10 am. I'd found a group happy adopting me, and a convoy traveled to a car park. Once there, we built bikes and stood around admiring them for some time - the range of bikes was astounding, and it felt reassuring that there was no judgement - only admiration and interest - from others. A lot of people had lovingly thrown their bikes together and it made for interesting conversation between us before setting off.

Our first voluntary checkpoint was up a very steep hill to a picturesque crossroad, and I struggled to keep up with the group. I wheezed my way up it, watching the others slip out of sight, and felt frustrated at my lack of fitness. I was annoyed that I was - as is often the case of group rides - at the back again. A few people held back though, and I helped sort an issue on someone's bike. After that small break, it felt easier, and we re-convened at the top, taking pictures and figuring out our next checkpoint.

I'm not sure who decided where to go next, and I'm not entirely sure I even knew where we were headed. But we set off as a group, winding our way down sweeping country lanes, pulling blackberries from bushes, and looking out for birds. It'd rained heavily a few days before, and the foliage lining the stone walls was verdant in a thick lush carpet of vivid green, so we stopped occasionally to take pictures with the film cameras we'd bought. No one seemed to mind that I walked up the steeper sections of the hills. They waited for me at the top and shared snacks around. At an intersection, the map suggested there were two options (apparently - I didn't have a clue where we were), the first to take a longer but gentler loop around a steep pass, or to go up and directly over the spine of it. I chose the former, and a small group of us trundled along happily across quiet ribbons of tarmac through wide expanses of mossy green moorland. We waited for the others at the foot of a steep slope and took turns on each other's bikes down a short sandy bank.

Setting off again, we began an undulating crawl up the mandatory checkpoint. The tape of tarmac we'd been following had narrowed, becoming rougher, and harder going on the lungs and legs. We didn't talk much. To our right, we were edging a loud, crashing brook, and eventually, someone suggested stopping to take a dip in it. I didn't have anything in the way of wet gear, and knew, even if I had, I would struggle to warm up, but watched happily as people flung off their clothes and waded in. I sat on the bank watching them and felt - for absolutely the first time on that ride - completely at ease. There was no one about, and here I was with a group of strangers, with no way of knowing how to get home. I had mountains on my right and a winding green valley beneath me. I was happy.

A few miles up the hill we hit the mandatory checkpoint - an ancient mine -made coffee and ate lunch. I can't remember what we did next, I think we explored the area a little bit - escaping the midges that were tearing at the rim of our helmets - and discussed what to do next. My back had begun to ache, and I was starting to get cold, so I suggested retracing my steps back to the car. A few others agreed, and we began our winding way back to the cars, chatting and chasing each other down the hills.

I couldn't tell you how many miles we did that day. I hadn't bothered tracking them on my watch, and I was far too interested in the people, and just enjoying existing there. This was an event that, whether intentionally or not, had ended up being about collaboration and connection in pursuit of exploration. I'd worried about not knowing anyone, or getting lost, and neither occurred, because the whole event became about the experiences of the community, as one. I've never felt like I fit in at events, but this time I did.

When Will first invited me to his event, he asked me two things. The first was to put the date in my diary so I wouldn't 'be tempted to flake out', and the second was to tell him what he could do to make sure I was comfortable enough to actually turn up. I did the former, and without a doubt, he delivered on the latter.

Check out Will's brilliant website here to learn more about his incredible projects.