Skip to main contentSkip to navigationSkip to navigation
James Coke takes an annual camping trip with his son, Connor, (left) and friend Gideon
James Coke takes an annual camping trip with his son, Connor, (left) and friend Gideon Photograph: James Coke
James Coke takes an annual camping trip with his son, Connor, (left) and friend Gideon Photograph: James Coke

Camping in a wheelchair isn’t easy, but it’s a fantastic escape

This article is more than 7 years old
Despite my multiple sclerosis, I was determined to share the joy of sleeping outdoors with my son, and as my mobility has deteriorated friends have joined in to make these magical adventures possible

Camping in a wheelchair is never a bed of roses. A signed picture of Clint Eastwood inscribed with the words, “Best to James, A man’s got to know his limitations” stares down at me from my kitchen wall. The words taken from Magnum Force, the second of the Dirty Harry films, have real meaning. Confined to a wheelchair, I sometimes need assistance and excursions from home - my comfort zone - require careful planning, and the heeding of Harry Callahan’s advice. However every August for the last 16 years, I’ve thrown caution to the wind and gone on a camping holiday with close friends and family. We always return to the same field in Devon. It is not accessible, there are no disabled toilets – at times it is hell on earth, but it is always the highlight of the year.

Maybe it’s the call back to the hunter-gatherer way but nothing quite beats a camp fire and living life on the edge. As a child, sleeping out in the open was about adventure and freedom – and later, on hedonistic trips to Glastonbury, and north Devon I noticed things hadn’t changed. I was determined that the onset of primary progressive multiple sclerosis, 30 years ago, would not be its death knell, especially as I was now a single dad and keen to share the pleasures of the great outdoors with my son, Connor.

Our first sortie was to Scotland. Buying a cheap train ticket and hiring a car, we set out to explore the highlands with little more than a tent and camping stove. My symptoms were not too bad then and I could hobble around, as we were accosted by midges on Skye and stood like warriors in Glencoe. We both loved the experience and returning to London eagerly discussed our next adventure, even though silent reservations about my condition weighed heavy.

It was Louis, my best mate, who provided the safety net. He was Connor’s godfather and with two children of his own, he was only too happy to join us on our next trip to northern Spain. Again with little equipment and a frisbee doubling as a chopping board, we jammed into my car and set off with high hopes.

The holiday was a learning curve. I fell over in a butcher’s – everybody thought I was drunk. However cooking stew with the setting sun glinting off the Cantabrian mountains, and telling the kids stories was magical. Louis and I knew we were on to a good thing but were equally aware of the pitfalls. We decided to find a safer haven – Devon was the obvious answer.

The following year we camped on a cliff face. This was a little extreme but by chance an advertisement for a cream tea led us to our future base. South Allington House, a magnificent Georgian structure set in spacious grounds, provided B&B and self-catering accommodation. It offered the perfect rural getaway with Lannacombe beach close by, but its hidden gem was its campsite. Set in a picturesque secluded valley, surrounded by rolling hills, its set up was basic, quite raw even, but the feel of the place was enchanting – it was perfect.

Over the years my mobility has deteriorated, but we have adapted. More mates got wind of our find and joined us with their children and it wasn’t long before we were calling ourselves the OS tribe – a name drawn from Talos, the bronze giant in Jason and the Argonauts – and sacrificing a pineapple every night on a roaring fire. After howls of laughter, we’d all fall to the floor, to gaze at the night sky and the Perseids meteor shower we tried to coincide our visits with.

A storm coming in off the Atlantic is never far away, often resulting in carnage throughout the camp. Then there are the nightly excursions, which can be dangerous in a wheelchair, often resulting in crashes, and transfers to my camp bed can be hilarious, always failing health and safety guidelines. There’s no time however to worry about minor flesh wounds, bee stings, or burns.

There is method to the madness, though, as I watch Connor, now a strapping lad, load the car for this year’s jollies. All of us have grown from our experiences. I could never hope to attend the gathering now without the support of my friends but everyone has their part to play.

Camping isn’t for everyone with a disability. Some of the UK’s 3,000 sites are accessible, but it is hit and miss. However given the chance to break out of one’s comfort zone with the necessary support, it offers escapism that is hard to beat.

I will always return home, bedraggled and vowing never to return. However, come August, I’m back in that field in Devon, with everything I’ve got.

James Coke blogs at thedisabledchef.com

More on this story

More on this story

  • Why life is not a beach for wheelchair users

  • Cooking hasn’t cured me, but it’s helped me live with MS

  • ‘My biggest act of rebellion as a disabled person is living as I wish’

Most viewed

Most viewed