My partner is very, very English. He enjoys putting things in sandwiches that shouldn’t be there (bananas, crisps, chips). He despises queue-jumpers beyond measure. He can trace his family back nine generations to locations in Devon; he once introduced me to a relative who I am fairly certain said his name was Peter Pumpleton, or Martin Botherbottom.
It was my partner who insisted we start doing more outdoor activities. I’d done a bit, roped in by posh pals from university for whom countryside capers and coastal holiday homes were a part of life. But I was on shaky, inexperienced ground.
Having grown up in a family too broke to take a break, I’d barely left the Big Smoke until my adult years. In the multicultural London of my youth, the only horses I knew were the ones with coppers on top, and camping – even with a festival ticket – sounded unappealing. All of that, we’d joke, was “white people stuff”. Years later, I’d come to find that, like all good jokes, there was some truth to the stereotype. According to Theresa May’s 2017 race disparity audit, white people were the most “likely to visit the natural environment”, and Asians the least likely.
Which is a shame because, having now visited craggy hilltops, quaint fishing villages and vast grasslands where wild deer roam, I can see the appeal. Put the cold, rain and Brexit voters to one side, and the great outdoors are a beautiful gift: epic, eternal, bigger than any one of us.
Already, I’ve begun to convince the more easily impressionable that I know what I’m talking about. The clothes certainly help: I now own a pair of hiking boots and a waterproof jacket, and aside from the fear in my eyes any time a cow approaches, I look the part.
I am determined to ensure that, from now on, the rest of my family gets to experience these wonders, too. After all, adulthood is about selflessness and sharing the things you’ve learned. I manage to get my Auntie B, who has lived in England for 35 years, to venture up a hill. “Come on,” I convinced her. “You can wear this polar explorer jacket! It should be OK for a September morning. It’ll be worth it!”
It was glorious as we reached the summit – Auntie B held her face to the wind, eyes squinting in the sunlight. I left her there for a moment or two to feel the rays on her skin and let it all sink in. Deep breaths, in and out: the cleanest air that had ever filled her lungs.
She turned to look at me with tears in her eyes. Had I done something very special for Auntie B? “I’m so cold, I might be blind,” she whimpered.
“You’re welcome, Auntie, you’re welcome.”
