I’m not an outdoors girl. The only foraging I do is for coffee
I grew up in a house beside my grandparents’ farm. It was a nice place to be reared: Ladybird-hunting on dry summer days; trawling through the fields to pick blackberries in autumn; hoping that you might get to bottle feed a calf in the spring.
Saying that, I wouldn’t exactly describe myself as an outdoorsy gal. I can take it in small doses. But I’ve got my limits.
I first came to understand my limits when I was taken camping as a child, in a field less than 500m from my house.
The campfire was great: Sausages sizzling away, past my bedtime. I was loving it.
Until about 11pm, when I realised I was actually expected to sleep in a sleeping bag, inside a tent that was, somehow, both cold and sweaty. I had seen enough. Pulling a sickie was my only option.
So, I faked a headache until I was brought back to the comfort of my own home. My parents didn’t raise David Attenborough.
Though I do seriously appreciate his documentaries, I can watch from my sofa without having to brave the elements outside.
Recently, I realised that it had been a while since I’d been in touch with the natural world. I’ve spent too long on my college campus, listening to people talking about the increasing price of almond croissants on Dawson St.
Look, I love an almond croissant as much as the next girl, but when I find myself invested in the 10-cent price increase in the bakery closest to campus, I know I’ve got to touch grass.
Being honest, a seagull attacking me for my flat white in St Stephen’s Green a few weeks ago was the closest I’d been to mother nature in a long time.
And I just don’t feel like a seagull messing with my morning brew really counts.
So, what is a girl with limited tolerance for nature supposed to do, when she needs some grounding?
Obviously, anything too intense was off the table for me. I’m just not that hardcore. Certain comforts are a non-negotiable: A mattress, running water, a shower, a real bathroom; some of the things I’m just not willing to compromise on.
Luckily, it’s 2024. We have the technology to overcome any adversity, including the great outdoors. The answer? Glamping: Glamorous camping.
It’s nearly like the real thing, except you’ve got central heating. And no one is going to tell you the closest bathroom is actually the closest ditch: You’ve got a bed, a roof, a lamp.
The glamping pod even came equipped with a kettle and Barry’s tea bags: True decadence. It felt a bit more one-with-nature than my seagull attack.
But it wasn’t exactly remote, either. Only a 20-minute drive from the M50, and there was a café on site. The perfect balance.
I went with my older sister: Just two technology addicted girls looking for some time away from Instagram.
Our phones never actually lost 5G, but we did manage to turn them off for a few hours, just long enough for our eyes to adjust to natural light.
That’s about as disconnected as we could manage, unfortunately.
The following morning, we decided to go for a ramble through a forest. This really tested my limits. Neither of us had thought to bring any sort of walking attire.
Our jeans and Doc Martens were a poorly calculated choice. When the heavens decided to open, our lack of raincoats sealed the deal in giving us away as the fake naturalists we are.
Our treacherous walk earned us a café trip, where some caffeine brought us back to life.
You may be thinking I’m a failed wilderness explorer. But it’s about baby steps.
Once I find out how to forage for flat whites, I’ll be invincible. Until then, pretending to camp is the best I can do.
