Was ‘fly camping’ the big problem it seemed? I hiked 530km to find out

A boom in illegal camping this summer blighted the Lake District with discarded tents, human waste and piles of litter. Record-breaking hiker James Forrest reflects on this camping conundrum

Could I still enjoy the tranquillity of the Lakeland fells unperturbed by the unruly mob? (www.inov-8.com/Dave MacFarlane)

Empty cans of Carling and stained toilet tissues were strewn across the grass. This quiet patch of Lake District countryside, next to Yew Tree Tarn and nestled below the rugged hump of Holme Fell, looked like the aftermath of a hedonistic rave. A humongous family-sized tent, two deckchairs and varied camping accessories were seemingly abandoned, as if dumped without a moment’s thought for the consequences. The ground was blackened, scorched by last night’s fire, and discarded disposable barbecues glistened with the grease of burger fat. No dancing daffodils, though, as Wordsworth famously witnessed – instead it was crisp packets and chocolate bar wrappers that fluttered gently in the breeze.

It was a sad sight – and something I’d been expecting. Recent media reports told of hordes of illegal and irresponsible campers wrecking Britain’s beauty spots with a tsunami of human waste, litter, campfires and discarded equipment. So-called “fly camping”, or “dirty camping”, was apparently out of control, fuelled by a lethal cocktail of factors: sunny weather, campsite closures, foreign holiday cancellations, the easing of lockdown restrictions and – in the absence of pubs and nightclubs – a pent-up desire to let loose. But were these ecological vandals and narcissistic litter louts really running rampage across our green and pleasant land, or was it all media hype?

I was in the Lake District on my own post-lockdown splurge of energy, in a bid to quench my wanderlust after months of cabin fever and cancelled adventures. My self-chosen mission was to climb all 214 Wainwrights – the peaks listed in Alfred Wainwright’s iconic series of pictorial guidebooks – in the fastest ever self-supported round. To make it, I’d have to walk 530 kilometres, ascend 36,000 metres (the equivalent of four Everests) and wild camp in the fells for 14 consecutive nights. But I had a subsidiary purpose too, a spot of unscientific but nonetheless intriguing research. Would the fly camping chaos ruin my adventure, or could I still enjoy the tranquillity of the Lakeland fells unperturbed by the unruly mob?