Solo Camp In The Wild Hills: A Sleep Story

Relax, unwind, and drift off with this wholesome bedtime story for adults, where we hike in the far north of England, then find a beautiful coastal view and set up camp on a headland. Narrated by Fran in slow, sleepy tones. If you're struggling with insomnia and you can't fall asleep or stay asleep easily, this calm sleep story may help your mind wander onto other things.

If you're still awake at the end, you can try out other bedtime stories in my collection. Sweet dreams!

Transcript

Hello and welcome to another sleep story with me,

Fran.

Thank you so much for joining me today.

Today we'll be venturing out into the far north of England,

Into the wilderness,

Where we'll be taking a solo hike and then a lovely relaxing camp at the end of it.

Before we start,

Let's just take a moment to slow down so you can get ready to relax.

And maybe fall asleep.

Settle yourself wherever you are,

Tucked under the duvet maybe,

Or wrapped in a blanket on the sofa,

Propped up against your pillows.

Let your body sink down and get nice and heavy.

Take a deep breath in through your nose,

Feel your ribs expand,

And let it out slowly through your mouth.

Do that again,

In and out.

And with each breath out,

Imagine a bit of the day is just sliding off your shoulders.

Your muscles loosen,

Your jaw unclenches.

Stop frowning,

Let your forehead muscles go slack.

And one more in and out.

And now just let your breathing do its own thing.

Now we're about to head out into the wilderness in the far north of England,

Where the fog rolls over steep hills and down into the valleys.

So let's set off.

It's late morning when you set off along the footpath.

Your rucksack sitting snug against your back,

And your boots making soft thuds on the damp,

Slightly gravelly ground.

The air's cool enough that every breath comes out in a little cloud,

And everything feels hushed.

You haven't seen a soul since setting out,

And the weather's quite chilly,

So you might be the only person for miles.

It's comforting though,

As you don't have any obligations,

Nobody to answer to.

It's just you and the rolling countryside.

Fog sits low across the hills,

Drifting and shifting,

Thinning out in patches where the sun's trying to get through.

The path curves uphill,

Between old stone walls covered in moss.

You marvel at how they've clearly been there for decades,

Maybe even hundreds of years,

And they're still standing,

Though they look nothing more than stacked flat rocks.

Bracken and tall weeds lean in from both sides,

Brown and curling,

And every now and then a drop of water falls from one of the fronds,

And lands with a quiet tap on your sleeve.

It smells like soil and wet,

Decaying leaves.

That slightly sweet,

Smoky autumn smell that makes you want to take a nice,

Big,

Deep breath in.

You can hear sheep somewhere up ahead,

Though you can't see them yet through the fog.

The sound is strangely comforting,

A reminder that even in all this mist and quiet,

There's life out here going about its business after all.

You keep walking,

Your back bent forward a bit to combat the steepness of the hill,

And your pack creaking gently with the movement of your shoulders.

It's a steady rhythm,

The crunch of your boots on the path,

The soft give underfoot,

The occasional clink of a loose stone.

You're not in any hurry,

You've got everything you need with you.

Tent,

Camping stove,

Sleeping bag,

And enough food for tonight.

You're looking forward to a nice warm meal already,

The cold air knows how to work up an appetite.

For now,

You can rely on your trusty flask filled with your favourite hot drink to keep you going as you make your way up and down the hills.

After a while,

The path dips down into a little hollow,

Where some trees grow close together,

Their branches dripping with dew.

You stop to adjust your scarf,

And as you do,

A robin darts across the path in front of you,

A quick flash of orange-red in all that grey,

Before disappearing into the brambles.

You smile to yourself,

Watching the last bit of movement vanish into the undergrowth.

They say that seeing a robin means someone you loved is watching over you,

I wonder who yours is?

The ground here is soft,

Covered in layers of leaves.

Some are whole and golden,

Others half-rotted,

Sticking together in damp clumps.

You catch the smell of mushrooms nearby,

An earthy,

Slightly fungal scent,

And sure enough,

When you look to your right,

There's a little cluster growing at the base of a fallen birch.

Pale beige caps,

Edges curled up,

Droplets of moisture caught on their surfaces like tiny beads.

You take out the little notebook from your coat pocket,

Removing the stubby pencil from the spiral binding,

And kneel down to roughly sketch it.

Maybe you'll add it into your journal,

Or just keep it in there,

Just like that.

With that thought,

You pick up a dried leaf too,

The best one you can find,

And wedge it between the pages to keep it flat and safe.

The air feels colder now,

And when you stand up again,

Your breath comes out in thicker clouds.

You pull your hat down over your ears and carry on walking,

Following the path as it leads uphill again,

Winding between rocks and patches of heather.

By midday,

You're higher up.

The trees have thinned out to patches of scrub and gorse,

And the fog lifts a little as you reach the ridge.

A faint light breaks through,

Silvery and weak,

But still nice to see.

You stop for a rest,

Slipping your pack from your shoulders,

And sitting on a low stone wall that runs along the side of the path.

When you unscrew the lid of your flask and pour some out,

The heat spreads into your hands at once and the first sip warms you from the inside.

It's quiet enough that you can hear the faint rustle of dry grass and the distant caw of a crow somewhere down in the valley.

Then,

High above,

Another sound catches your attention.

A series of sharp cries,

Moving fast.

You look up,

And through the pale fog you spot them.

A flock of birds in formation,

Heading south.

Geese,

It looks like.

They move like one thing,

Wings flashing silver-grey as they pass overhead.

For a few seconds you just stand there watching them,

Your drink forgotten in your hand,

Your face turned up to the sky.

You love seeing their little ceremony to mark the end of the warmer months and the beginning of the cold,

And you've been lucky enough to witness it.

When they've gone,

The silence settles even deeper than before.

But it's a pleasant silence.

You shoulder your pack again and keep walking.

The day moves on quietly,

Up and down gentle slopes,

Through fields dotted with dry thistles and the occasional hawthorn bush bright with red berries.

A hare even darts out from the edge of the path and bounds across the hillside,

Its white tail flashing before it disappears again into the long grass.

You stop and watch the spot where it vanished,

Half hoping it'll reappear,

But it doesn't.

By early afternoon,

The ground begins to rise more steeply.

You can feel the pull in your thighs as you climb,

Your breathing coming a bit heavier in the cold air.

The wind has picked up too,

Bringing with it a smell of salt,

Faint but unmistakable.

You're not far from the coast now,

You can almost taste it.

You keep going until the land starts to level out again.

And that's when you see it.

A clearing tucked in among the hills,

Shielded on three sides by trees and bushes,

Open to the view on the fourth.

The ground is flat and dry,

The grass short and springy underfoot.

And just beyond the edge,

The land drops gently away to reveal the distant coast.

You can see the faint shapes of cottages scattered across the landscape,

Their rooftops small and pale against the patchwork of fields and moorlands.

You take off your pack,

And stand for a moment,

Just breathing it all in.

The stillness,

The smell of the air,

The wide openness of it all.

This is perfect.

Setting up the tent doesn't take long,

Your hands know what they're doing.

Pegs into the ground,

Fabric clipped onto the poles,

The tent standing upright with a satisfying ripple as the breeze catches it.

You crawl inside for a quick check.

Sleeping mat unrolled,

Sleeping bag fluffed out and ready,

Torch clipped to the little loop hanging from the roof.

It's already starting to feel like home,

That small sheltered space against all the vastness outside.

You sit for just a moment,

And it hits you how tired your body feels from hiking all day.

You're so grateful to have found this little idyllic clearing on the headland,

And at just the right time.

When you crawl back out,

You notice the light has changed from the weak silvery glow,

To softer and warmer,

More golden around the edges of the fog.

You set up your folding chair just outside the tent,

Facing the view,

And pull out your little camping stove.

The faint metallic clink of the ignition sounds loud in the quiet,

Followed by the gentle hiss as the flame catches and settles into a steady blue ring.

You open a tin of soup with your Swiss army knife.

Thick vegetable,

The sort that's more like a stew really,

And pour it into your little pan.

The smell rises almost immediately,

Rich and savoury,

Mingling with the faint scent of heather and damp grass.

While it warms,

You tear off a chunk of bread from the loaf you packed this morning.

It's a bit squashed from being in your rucksack all day,

But somehow that makes it taste better.

Rustic,

Chewy,

And perfect for dipping.

You eat slowly,

Blowing on each spoonful before it goes in your mouth,

Watching the fog roll in low waves over the distant hills.

The warmth of the soup spreads through your chest and down into your stomach,

Giving you a bit of a second wind.

It's a deep satisfaction in knowing you carried it all here yourself,

Every bit of it,

On your own back,

And you worked up an appetite in the cold to enjoy it even more.

When the pan's empty,

You give it a quick rinse with water from your bottle,

Shaking the droplets off into the grass.

Then comes pudding,

Makeshift s'mores,

The sort of thing you'd never bother with at home,

But that feels exactly right out here.

You crumble a few digestive biscuits into the pan to make a sort of base,

Sprinkle a handful of chocolate chips over the top,

And drop a few marshmallows on.

They start to melt almost at once,

The chocolate going all glossy,

The marshmallows turning sticky and golden around the edges of the pan.

You stir it all together with your spoon until it forms a warm,

Sweet mess and eat it straight from the pan.

It tastes wonderful.

Getting pretty sleepy now.

Your belly is full and the lovely hearty food has you so content that you can't imagine feeling any happier than you are right now.

You let your eyes slide out of focus,

Your tongue running along the roof of your mouth to savour the last of the chocolatey goodness.

After you've rinsed it a second time,

You set the pan back on the stove with a little water in it to boil for tea.

As it heats,

You pull your blanket around your shoulders and sit back in the chair,

Your legs stretched out in front of you.

The day is fading fast now as the afternoons are short this time of year.

The fog is turning from white to blue-grey and the horizon glows faintly where the sun is sinking,

Hidden somewhere behind all that mist.

It never did come out all the way today,

But that's okay,

You warmed yourself with the long hike and the delicious hearty food.

When the water boils,

You pour it carefully into your mug,

Watching the steam curl upward and disappear into the cold air.

It warms your hands as you hold the mug between your palms.

You sip slowly,

Letting the quiet soak into you,

Not thinking about much at all.

Somewhere in the trees behind you,

A wood pigeon coos its soft,

Rhythmic call.

A breeze stirs the branches and sends a few last leaves drifting down,

Tumbling end over end before they land in the grass.

You can hear the rustle of dry stems,

The far-off sigh of wind moving across the hills,

And once or twice,

The faint bark of a fox calling out somewhere in the valley.

When the light has almost gone,

Just a faint glow left on the horizon,

You tidy away what's left.

The pan,

The mug,

The chair,

Everything gets stowed or wiped down or tucked away.

Then you crawl into your tent,

Zipping the door closed behind you.

You get ready for bed,

And then the sleeping bag welcomes you with its familiar rustle as you wriggle down into it,

Pulling it up until only your face is poking out.

The air against your cheeks is cool,

But the rest of you is warm and cocooned.

You click off your lantern and lie still,

Listening.

Outside,

The night creates its own sort of lullaby.

The trees creak a little as they settle for the night.

Somewhere nearby,

A small animal scurries through the undergrowth,

Its movements quick and light.

The wind threads itself through the branches,

Steady and low,

A constant backdrop to everything else.

You can feel the day's walk in your legs,

That pleasant heaviness that comes from real movement,

From fresh air and distance covered.

Your body feels properly moved in the best way,

Tired but content.

It makes sleep feel like a reward.

The warmth of your sleeping bag wraps around you,

And as you close your eyes,

You picture the fog outside thickening again,

Hiding the hills,

The coast,

The whole quiet world you've walked through today.

Everything becomes still,

Like the land itself has let out a long,

Slow breath.

You breathe out once more,

And the last of your thoughts drift away with it.

Tomorrow can wait,

For now,

You sleep.