Sleeping rough...

I’d imagine that being homeless is horrible. I’ve seen many a documentary about those who live on the streets, but I wouldn’t begin to make out that I have any kind of view on the subject other than it must be a nightmarish existence. The most frightening thing in my opinion, is that it can happen to anybody. How many times have I heard a homeless person state that his or her marriage broke up and they found themselves without a place to live? It’s quite incredible how we all walk on a tightrope and could fall off at any second.

I often wonder what it would be like to be on the streets and how I would cope with the minute-by-minute pressures of having to look out for myself, find food and, most importantly, shelter. What always baffles me, however, is why homeless people stay in the city. I’m sure there are reasons that I simply don’t know about because I’ve never been in that position, but if it was me, the first thing I’d do is get out of the city. I would buy myself a tent (somehow), just a small one-man affair, plus a sleeping bag and a rucksack and head for the countryside.

Most weekends I cycle out into the countryside with a pal, purely to keep fit, chew the fat and add a somewhat spiritual dimension to my life. As I ride through the country lanes of northern Kent in the United Kingdom, I’m always looking at the fields and the woods on either side of me and wondering whether they would be good places to set up camp for the night. Exactly why I think about this, I don’t know, but perhaps I’m harbouring a secret desire to live rough for a few days and see how I can cope. Or there might be a fiscal element to it; perhaps I’m thinking that if I slept rough for a year and let somebody rent my house I could give up work and live the life of a nomad for a while. Wherever I lay my hat, that’s my home would be the way I lived my life and, I figure, I could hold down a job as well as long as I washed daily (more than likely in a municipal baths) and had somewhere I could hang up a pair of trousers and a place to iron a shirt. Yeah, I know, it’s starting to get complicated. I can’t carry an ironing board around with me or a small wardrobe and I can’t set up a tent somewhere permanently, not if I was ‘wild camping’ as people would get to know my routine and eventually I’d be hounded out of wherever I was staying. I’d be told to move on, I’d be evicted.

Suddenly, there are two avenues open to me: be a proper homeless person, wash once a week in some hostel, smell a bit and collect benefits money from the government, while living in a one-man tent in the woods; OR see if I can hold down a job, pitch up at campsites, have a support network of some sort, like I can leave a few clothes round at mum’s, she might press my shirts, and all would be relatively fine. I could pay for a sports club membership and take a daily shower (assuming I’d stay in the area, which I’d have to because of the job).

Over the weekend, I found myself in Sheffield Park, a National Trust property, wandering the extensive grounds with my wife and daughter (actually, there’s a point, what would they be doing while I was off living the life of a hobo?). It suddenly struck me that a good place to bed down for the night would be the grounds of a stately home and in some way, of course, it would be making a statement (the juxtaposition of rich and poor, something like that). How simple would it be? It goes without saying that I’d have National Trust membership for a year, meaning I don’t have to pay whatever it costs to enter the place on a daily basis, and then all I’d have to do is turn up late in the afternoon, find somewhere secluded spot to set up camp and hey presto! A safe place to spend the night with only the squirrels and badgers for company. In the morning I’d wait until wherever I’m staying officially opens to the public and then slide into the café for a late breakfast. My daughter came up with the idea of sleeping in IKEA in one of their many show bedrooms, but I figure I’d be discovered by the staff and forcibly ejected from the premises. I’d probably make the local paper too, so that’s a no-no.

The whole idea behind being one of the rural homeless is purely to avoid the aggravation of the city and those who engage in unspeakable acts, such as setting light to vagrants or attacking them for no reason other than they’re ‘tramps’ or ‘of no fixed abode’. I couldn’t sleep in a shop doorway knowing that at any moment some nutters might turn up and get unnecessarily physical. It’s not exactly conducive to a good night’s sleep, is it? 

The subject of sleeping rough never fails to intrigue me. As I cycle along the lanes of northern Kent or walk through the grounds of a National Trust property, I’m always looking for a spot, a hypothetical spot, where I might pitch tent and settle down for the night, but I know only too well that once the daylight hours fade and the darkness creeps in, it would take me more than just one night of sleeping alone ‘under the stars’ to acclimatise to the situation. I’d certainly be happier out in the wilds than in the city, but, in all honesty, I hope it’s something that remains a kind of fantasy and that my reality continues to be a warm house in the burbs, doors locked, curtains drawn, or a hotel room. Anything but being out on the streets and vulnerable.