Inspire

William Collins

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

WilliamCollinsBooks.com

This eBook first published in Great Britain by William Collins in 2020

Copyright © Ben Fogle 2020

Ben Fogle asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover image © Jack Watson

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008374037

Ebook Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008374051

Version: 2020-09-19

Dedication

To you

I hope that this book will help you find confidence,

hope and happiness

Contents

1  Title Page

2  Copyright

3  Dedication

4  CONTENTS

5  PRELUDE

6 INTRODUCTION

7  CHAPTER ONE: THE SEA

8 CHAPTER TWO: THE ICE CAP

9  CHAPTER THREE: RIVERS

10  CHAPTER FOUR: ISLANDS

11  CHAPTER FIVE: THE JUNGLE

12  CHAPTER SIX: THE DESERT

13  CHAPTER SEVEN: WILD FOLK

14  CHAPTER EIGHT: WILDLIFE

15  CHAPTER NINE: THE MOUNTAINS

16  RE-WILDER

17  EPILOGUE

18  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

19  INDEX

20  Also by Ben Fogle

21  About the Author

22  About the Publisher

LandmarksCoverFrontmatterStart of ContentBackmatter

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PRELUDE

Spring 2020

A treehouse in Oxfordshire

Dear Reader,

I always had a plan.

In the event of a global crisis, I would retreat to the wilderness, an island in Scotland perhaps, where I would cultivate my own produce and home-school my children from our idyllic little croft far away from the crisis.

And now, the unimaginable has happened and I find myself in lockdown, isolated from the isolation of the Western Isles. Instead I am sitting in my new office, the children’s treehouse at home, which has been requisitioned for the duration.

Like so many people, I have fought my own mental and physical battles in isolation. Keeping the dark clouds away before they have a chance to form into a storm. And also taking this time to become more introspective. Away from the bombardment of ever-changing information, lockdown has given me the opportunity to reflect and scrutinise what I have done, what I am doing and where I’m going.

All my life I have been running from an inner voice of doubt, the loud voice of failure and disaster that goads me and taunts me with its negativity and hopelessness. I have spent a lifetime trying to silence the pessimism by taking myself out of my comfort zone and out into nature, where I get perspective and direction.

Sometimes it takes a jolt like a world crisis to shock us from the slumber of complacency and remind us what is really important in life.

Many of us spend our lives searching for something that is often right under our noses all along … a sense of belonging. This sense of belonging brings contentment, inclusion and happiness that eludes many for their entire lives. They say home is where the heart is. The wilderness and nature is all our ‘home’ – a place where we can all belong.

For me, one of the most powerful forms of escape has been to think about the people, the places and landscapes of my life. I find myself disappearing from the chaos of the kitchen table, back to the mountains and forests, the jungles and islands, the open seas and polar ice caps, to rediscover the wilderness within.

There is so much we can learn about ourselves in the wilderness.

The wilderness forces us to rise to the challenge. To take responsibility for ourselves and adapt. We become more creative, less wasteful and more empathetic. In short, it makes us less selfish and more selfless.

Lockdown has given us all a period of retrospective reflection. What have we been doing? Where have we come from and where are we going? Without the background noise it has given us all an opportunity for contemplation. And I have been contemplating all the lessons I have learned from the wilderness, and the way my experiences in nature have shaped me.

This book was born from of the experiences of re-wilding myself. Written on my lap in the children’s treehouse during the extraordinary period of lockdown isolation, here are lessons to inspire your own journey … and a sense of destination.

Ben

INTRODUCTION

‘The wilderness holds answers to questions we have not yet learned to ask.’

Nancy Newhall

This much I know.

It’s easier to break something than it is to repair it. A falling china vase will smash into a thousand pieces in milliseconds. Of course it can be repaired, but those repairs require patience, skill and perseverance. It might take months or even years to carefully piece it back together, and even then you are left with a damaged vase, forever marked by the scars of repair.

Beauty of course is in the eye of the beholder. While some see only the scarring, others see beauty. It was the Japanese who invented the art of kintsugi, whereby porcelain repaired with gold becomes an art form and the finished product becomes even more valuable and covetable, each vein, line and repair representing hours of dedication and artistic craft. By embracing its flaws and imperfections, the item, a vase, for example, has appreciated in worth because of the trials and tribulations in repairing it.

Life is full of ups and downs, light and shade, peaks and troughs. In essence, we are all damaged vases, and the repairs build character and strength and spirit. We all seek healing in different places. Nothing is truly ever broken.

Throughout my life, the wilderness has been my healer. She is my friend and my mentor. I am not a religious person but, if I was, nature would be my church. My place of worship.

Nature has taught me respect and compassion. The wild teaches you the importance of valuing and rationing your resources, of caring for your environment, and of respecting nature. She has reminded me to be thankful for what I have rather than sorrowful for what I don’t.

Throughout my life, through a series of adventures and misadventures, I have learned a great deal about myself through the theatre of nature. The wilderness has taught me how to deal with love and loss, with criticism and failure, with happiness and sorrow, with resilience and risk, aspiration and hope.

What goes up must come down. It’s the reality of life. Summiting Everest marked a high point in my life on many different levels, but the reality was that I eventually had to come back down. I couldn’t stay up there forever. Like a drug-induced high, there has to be a comedown.

In reality, my whole life has been a series of highs and lows. As a positive person I often skirt over the low points, but the year since climbing the highest mountain in the world has taught me a lesson about myself, about life and the importance of learning from our own failings and our weaknesses.

My childhood was dominated by failure: not always in obvious ways, but failings of one kind or another seemed to follow me like a bad smell. I failed my exams. I failed at friendships. I failed at sport. Deep down, this has scared me and it still scares me. I became failure and failure became me. It defined me as a person. I stopped trying because I knew I’d fail. There was no point. The last 45 years have been quite a rollercoaster. I don’t want to sound too clichéd, but if I’m honest, my life has been defined by the pain of failure. The inevitability of this failure stripped me of confidence and self-esteem and crushed my spirit. And so, as a child, I found myself retreating to the trees and to the river bank and seashore as a form of therapy to try to rebuild that shattered confidence. As I grew older, the scale and scope of my relationship with nature and the wilderness would continue to grow and develop.

Growing up in the 1970s, my childhood failings were largely restricted to my own head. But ‘failure’ today is very different. In this social media-obsessed world of sharing, gloating, commenting, swiping and liking, failings are highlighted on a daily basis. Never have our lives been under such scrutiny while on display, held on a pedestal for all to see.

We are living in polarised times in which it is easier to find fault than to celebrate success. We are living the age of ‘more’, not just in terms of material consumption but in achievement, and even then we will pick holes and highlight the shortcomings. I don’t know why we do it. Perhaps it is our unshakeable instinct towards jealousy? Maybe it’s tall poppy syndrome. As the saying goes, ‘Every time a friend succeeds, I die a little.’

So many people spend their lives worrying about what others are up to rather than enjoying their own lives; worrying more about comparing, contrasting and criticising than enjoying, fulfilling and respecting. But comparison kills happiness. It has always been the case, but rarely has it been so easy as it is in the age of the internet. Compare and contrast. Often we don’t even realise that we are showing off. The human instinct seems to be to criticise and find failure.

And it is very easy to find fault. Throughout my life, however hard I’ve tried, people have always picked holes. When I was first chosen as a volunteer for the BBC social experiment Castaway 2000, in which I was marooned for a year on a remote island in the Outer Hebrides, ‘it was only because I had a famous mother’; when I published my first book, ‘it was only because I was a celebrity’; when I started presenting television, ‘it was only because I was public school and posh’; when I presented the rural affairs programme Countryfile, I was dismissed as a townie who knew nothing of the countryside; when I presented the dog show Crufts, I was dismissed as knowing nothing about dogs; when I successfully rowed the Atlantic, ‘it was only because we had the ocean currents to help us’; when I walked to the South Pole, ‘it was only because we were supported’; when I climbed Everest it was dismissed by some because ‘it was no longer a challenge’; and when I raise concerns about the environment, I am accused of gross hypocrisy because I fly.

I could go on and on … It seems black and white, and yet it isn’t because you can make anything fit your own narrative with clever editing of the truth. Sometimes called ‘fake news’, it is more about using creative licence with the facts, or, as we used to call it, ‘poetic licence’.

Never have our lives been more on show for all the world to see and criticise, presented not just to our family and friends but, depending on your use of social media, to millions of people, all with a voice and opinion of their own. The impact can be overwhelming and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t affect me. Thin-skinned, I have always been stung by criticism. As much as I try to toughen my resolve to take it on the chin, I find myself recoiling from critique.

Throughout my life, through the criticism and the failure, I have had one consistent companion: the wilderness. Of course my family, my parents, my sisters, my wife, my children and my friends have always been there supporting me too, but the wilderness has always been my safe place.

It may seem a strange term to use, ‘safe place’, when the wilderness can be unpredictable and often hostile, but for me it has, in all of its many forms, from ocean to desert, jungle to forest, savannah to mountain, been a place of great comfort. It still surprises me how it is so often seen as a battle between man and wild, but for me, there has never really been a battle; it has always been a symbiotic relationship.

I love how the Swedes and the Norwegians refer to it as ‘the nature’, not just ‘nature’. It’s as if they are adding a reverence to the word to indicate its importance. For me, the wild, the nature, the wilderness, call it what you will, has been my medicine, a place to retreat from the pressures of daily life and a place to rebuild my confidence.

For the last eight years I have travelled the world meeting people who have dropped off the grid for my TV series New Lives in the Wild. Individuals who have suffered their own existential crisis and have decided to begin again with a simpler life in the wild. Each time I return from my ten-day immersion, I suffer my own mini crisis and ask questions about my own life. It’s the old clichés, ‘What’s it all about?’ and ‘Why are we here?’ They really are big questions with an infinite number of answers that wax and wane throughout life.

For many years I tried to confront my fear of failure. Rowing the Atlantic and climbing Mount Everest were just two examples in which I risked failure to overcome my own fear of it. If someone asks you to describe your life, chances are you will list your achievements and accomplishments and edit out the failings and shortcomings, but aren’t they part of who we are? After all, failure is a part of everyday life. Without failure you can’t really have success. It’s all relative. In the same way that the millionaire wants to become a billionaire or the mayor wants to become the president, we will always aspire to more, and in doing so, we will have to face the inevitability of failures along the way. The problem is that most of us try to forget the failings. It’s like we have amnesia.

Society treats failure like a taboo. But surely we are all a sum of our parts. Those experiences mould and shape us. If we learn from our mistakes then we become better people, don’t we? If we only ever succeed without a struggle, then is it really success?

When you combine the self-doubt with the criticism levelled at any achievement by the pessimists and the naysayers, you get the perfect storm of doubt. I call them my ‘downs’. I have always had them but they seemed to gather more often after my Everest trip. The small dark cloud that follows you even in sunny weather. I would be overcome with an often baseless anxiety, I began to worry more and overanalysed things.

In this picture-perfect Instagram world of Hollywood perfection, it is easy to edit our frailties and our fallibilities, but the reality is that we all have them, it’s just that we don’t often choose to share them. We all want to project the image of perfection, but the mask will eventually slip. I have always struggled with self-doubt. I think it might even be clinically described as having imposter syndrome. I lack self-worth. I feel like I have somehow cheated the system – after all, as a failure, I should have been destined to a life of failure. Success is not a part of who I am.

I wonder whether it is a symptom of the highly interconnected world in which we now live, where some people will be contrary for the sake of being contrary. Whatever the root cause, the result is that we have rarely lived under such intense scrutiny.

It is perhaps the reason that the wilderness has become increasingly precious as an antidote to the hate, pessimism and negativity that pervades modern life. Because in contrast the wilderness and nature offer a simple and honest world. The wilderness is free of complications. The term ‘wild’ may imply that it is dangerous and hostile, but it is arguably far safer than the urban world in which most of us choose to live.

Where the civilisation of humanity is often full of complication, nuance and confusion, the wilderness is an organic, simple place where black is black and green is green. There is no hate, or jealousy. There is no anger. Of course it can be dangerous and sometimes brutal. It can also be unpredictable, but we can learn a great deal from nature. I was certainly at my happiest in that environment.

Consider the happiness index. Is it really possible to be happy 100 per cent of the time? Think about it. We all aspire to it, but is it really possible? Surely happiness is created by fluctuating emotions? You need a small dip to recreate the emotion. I compare it to the weather. I don’t know about you, but I have a smile on my face and experience an elevated mood whenever I wake to the morning sun streaming through the window. It feels like a treat, a rarefied moment on our cloudy isle.

I call it the ‘California’ syndrome. If you have ever been to California then you might recognise the reference. Each time I visit the west coast of America, I am seduced by its perfect weather. Clear blue skies and a perfect temperature seemingly every day. Every day the weather is guaranteed to be sunny. Can you imagine? It’s the dream. The thing is, eventually it becomes boring. The sameness is repetitive and it loses its magic. We need the rainy days to really appreciate the sunny days.

A little like the weather, we need texture within our lives. We need to experience lows to really appreciate the highs. In short, without our failings we can never really taste the sweet smell of success. Our senses would become dulled and immune to it.

That is not to say that we need misery in order to attain happiness, but we need mixed emotions to feel real elation. Happiness must be the ultimate goal in life; no amount of money or success can ever really compete with happiness. So what is it that makes us unhappy? Most young children are happy. As I write this book, my children are laughing and squealing and giggling and smiling. It’s infectious, it makes me so happy to hear their happiness, I absorb it by osmosis.

If most young children are happy, then what is it that happens to us in life that makes us unhappy? If happiness is the default, then what happens to us to make us sad? There are plenty of people who have everything but feel like they have nothing. I am what I’d call an empath. I absorb the emotions around me. I feel other people’s pain and happiness. It can be exhausting.

I would like to think of myself as a happy person. That’s not to say I am always happy but I’d call myself a glass-half-full kind of guy. Physical things like sunshine, trees, water, mountains, grass, moss, flowers, rivers, lakes, ocean and boats all make me happy. And social things like family, walking, hiking, running, laughing, eating and chatting make me happy too. Combining the physical and the social would be my idyll.

When I was 13, my father took me and my best friend Toby on a summer camping trip to Algonquin Park in southeastern Ontario, Canada. We strapped the old cedar canoe that had been renovated by my grandfather to the roof of the Buick, packed our rucksacks with food and set off on our adventure.

The three of us slipped into the most remote wilderness I had ever encountered. During the daytime we paddled past elegantly grazing moose and wood-chipping beavers. At night, on pitching our tent we would hoist our bag of food high into the trees to keep it out of the reach of wild bears. I was terrified of bears. (Before we left the UK, Dad had taken Toby and me to Hyde Park in central London for a bear-attack class. This consisted of Dad pretending to be a bear, battering us with his imaginary paws, while we rolled up in the foetal position to protect ourselves!) We used our fishing rods to catch freshwater fish for our dinner which we would supplement with freshwater clams that we dived for and wild blueberries collected from the forest. I can still remember our first campsite; the tent was only large enough for Toby and me, so Dad had to sleep outside.

I loved home but London never made me happy like Canada. In fact, Canada has always been my ‘happy’ place. The son of a Canadian, I spent my long summer holidays in Canada on the shores of Lake Chemong, a freshwater lake, in the wooden cabin hand-built by my grandfather. Those summers were a highlight of my childhood but also a catalyst for my love and appreciation of nature. For eight long weeks every year, my sisters, cousins and I swam, fished, paddled and camped around our little lake. I never remember feeling bored, and despite the frequent rain and plentiful mosquitoes, I never remember feeling uncomfortable. I loved the simplicity of lake life. We never wore shoes and rarely wore a shirt. My memories are of perpetual movement. We were always busy.

My late grandfather, Morris, was a bear of a man. He was a doer. A grafter. One of those people who can do, fix, mend or make anything. He had a number of different workshops around the cabin filled with tools and equipment.

As a child I never really appreciated the fact that he had built that cabin himself. Now I marvel at the fact that he did it. He hauled the timber and made the doors and he fitted the piping and wired the electrics. It was a bit wonky but everything worked and we loved it.

Have you ever been hit by a smell that takes you back in time? Well, for me, it is a slightly musky, damp smell that sends me reeling back to those heady summers on Lake Chemong. Uninsulated and without heating, the cabin would be boarded up by my grandfather each winter when the lake froze solid, before opening it once again in the spring, lifting its sagging corners with a car jack. The winter ice would have moved the docks and the boathouse, which he would single-handedly haul back into place.

While the lake wasn’t exactly wilderness, it was our wild place where I could get lost in the flora and fauna. It was the antithesis of my London life. I spent hours in the canoe, paddling around the small islands that dotted the lake, watching the beavers. I wonder whether it is the reason I still feel such happiness and contentment when I am near water or in a forest; perhaps it is the subliminal memory of my childhood.

While I appreciate not everyone has a ‘happy’ childhood, over the years some of the happiest people I have met are those who have been able to recreate their childhood in later life; those carefree days without responsibility or the burden that comes with ‘growing up’.

What is that burden? Is it responsibility? I have often wondered why, on a day-to-day basis, most childhoods have a higher return of happiness. Does age and responsibility hinder happiness? We all end up taking responsibility of one kind or another in later life, whether it is responsibility through work, family responsibilities or financial responsibilities. All of them come with a commitment and a pressure to provide. For many that ‘pressure’ can be overwhelming.