But like all great empires, this too fell,
Yet still I will cherish the day
When so serene was my soul,
That I sat and stared
Over fields and trees,
Thinking that how, shrouded only
By a minute veil of muted white,
The half-open golden eye
Looked like beauty itself.
Ozymandius, his head was found,
Buried in the sand,
This is now the grave
My soul posesses,
Leaving me to walk the ruins of this adoration imperious,
With only a void to remind me of you.
Cover image © Shutterstock. It’s been nearly two years that I’ve been talking about my desire to go wild camping. So far I’ve bored my parents intermittently and failed to convince any friends to join me. I chanced on an article on the Guardian’s website by Phoebe Smith and realised that wild camping was an actual thing that people actually did. In my own inimitable style, I set about obsessively researching experts, equipment, locations and guides – a process that is still continuing at the time of writing. With this in mind, I looked up Smith’s book Wild Nights: Camping Britain's Extremes . In the book, one of a few that she has penned on the subject of wild camping, she documents her own personal challenge to sleep in a number of extreme places: furthest points of the compass on the UK mainland, the highest/lowest places above/below sea level and the remotest in terms of distance from any roads. Her story begins in Glencoul, Scotland with what should be a bea