Camping in the New Forest

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Last weekend, I swapped digital screens and design briefs for something much simpler—and far more memorable: a camping trip with my two sons in the heart of the New Forest.

The weather was perfect. We arrived under clear skies and set up camp in the afternoon sun. Our tent, a rugged and rather handsome Cloud Peak 4 by Naturehike, became our home base. I’d be lying if I said I did it all myself—my sons were fully hands-on, helping raise the frame, peg out the corners, and generally throwing themselves into the spirit of it. There’s something incredibly satisfying about building your own base camp with your children.

Once settled, we cooked and ate together—simple food, shared outdoors with the smell of trees and grass all around. They played football while I wrestled with a tarp, trying to rig a makeshift awning over the tent’s entrance. It didn’t rain, thankfully, but there’s something comforting about being prepared—even if it does look like you’ve built a slightly off-kilter sail.

Later that day, we ventured deep into the forest to explore it further. I decided to hand over the reins to my boys and tasked them with finding our way back. Watching them navigate through trees, jumping over fallen logs, clutching a compass with a mix of confidence and guesswork—it was brilliant. Watching your children lead the way is awesome. I wanted them to rise to the challenge, and they did. Seeing that made me proud.

On day two, we ventured further afield, trading the trees of the New Forest for the rugged drama of the Jurassic Coast. Our destination: Chapman’s Pool, a tucked-away cove that feels like it’s kept a few million years of secrets to itself. We traced fossil marks along the beach, marvelled at the layers of stone, and felt very small—in the best possible way.

I’d brought along some basic fishing gear, determined to teach my sons the joy of casting a line. This trip wasn’t going to be a productive fishing trip—and that wasn’t the point. The act of showing them how to cast, watching them find the rhythm, and laughing together when lines tangled or fell short of the water’s edge was worth more than a bucket full of mackerel.

They loved it. The water, the wind, the sense of doing something new. And I loved watching them lean into it, without distraction or complaint. It reminded me that experiences don’t have to be complex to be meaningful—they just have to be shared. On our drive back to camp we stopped for some delicious fish and chips in Christchurch, Bournemouth.

As the sun dipped on our final evening, I looked at our little setup and felt a quiet sense of achievement—not just for the logistics of a successful camping trip, but for the memories we’d made. No Wi-Fi, no gadgets, no plans beyond the next meal and the next moment.

These are the days that anchor a childhood. And as a father, they’re the kind of days I hope we never outgrow.