That time in the Outer Hebrides when I took part in the BBC TV show, Castaway, had a seismic impact on my life. I grew. It emboldened me and gave me opportunities I could never have imagined. It gave me the confidence to be who I am. Most importantly it ‘re-wilded’ me. It reconnected me to nature and created an unshakeable relationship with the wilderness. And the wilderness became my mentor.
I am not a religious type, but if I had to choose someone or something to worship then it would be nature. The wilderness possesses the power to heal and nurture, and my year on that windswept island off the west coast of Scotland was like a self-esteem rehab. A detox from the complexities of modern life.
We have such a complex relationship with the wilderness. Man has made it his business to ‘tame’ the wilderness, but I think it’s the wilderness that must tame us.
It’s difficult to explain the feeling of freedom and liberty that comes from the wilderness. Of course, there are many different ways we engage with the wild, but for me, the most profound experiences are those in which I have suffered or endured. It isn’t the only way to benefit from nature, but it has always given me the biggest returns.
The Scandinavians have a powerful connection with the wilderness; it is written into their language. Where we refer to it as ‘nature’, they always refer to ‘the nature’, which I think adds reverence and power. It shows respect and humility.
I am often asked how I would describe myself. The answer is that I am a modern-day journeyman. The journeyman of old would set out on foot on a travelling apprenticeship. In many ways, that is how I would describe my own life. I am perpetually in motion on an apprenticeship of the wild. There is a spiritual calling to nature. It is profound but sometimes difficult to explain, partly because I have no idea where it will lead.
Mine is a strange life. In many ways, it’s that of a 20th-century nomad. I have a family that I love and a beautiful home, and yet I am constantly on the move. I never stop. I rarely have time to settle and dwell, but where does the journey end? Whereas a river empties into a lake or an ocean, I have no idea where my meandering life will lead.
Most jobs or vocations lead to an ultimate goal. Perhaps that of seniority in a company or of financial success or of professional recognition. Mine has no defined or measurable goal.
I am driven and determined, but I have always been guided by instinct and chance. Opportunity has played a big part in my life. It sounds like a cliché, but I have always lived to seize the moment. I am a ‘yes’ man.
It is this combination of travel and curiosity with adventure that has been my medicine.
What is adventure? How do you define it? For me, adventure is anything out of the ordinary. It is a break from normality. It is anything that tests you and takes you out of your comfort zone. While it is often synonymous with physical challenge, I think the description is more nuanced.
My own definition of adventure has changed over the years. A little like spicy food: the more of it you eat, the more spicy you want it. Over time your taste buds are desensitised, and you need ever stronger spice.
They also say that your taste buds change every seven years or so, which sounds about right. I used to hate seafood and curry and now they make up the substance of my diet. Fatherhood has unquestionably had an impact: my whole attitude to life has also changed. I find myself looking at life and the world with a new perspective. On one hand, it’s with a little more care and diligence in the knowledge that my children will have to live on this planet for the next hundred years or so, but also there is a renewed sense of wonder.
One of the problems of travelling so prolifically is that it essentially devalues the power of my experiences. The impact is lessened through their frequency.
The first big journey I ever took, was when I was 18. I had just finished my A levels and I set out for South America with nothing but a rucksack, a Lonely Planet guidebook and plenty of young hope.
I landed in Brazil and spent the next 12 months travelling this exciting new world, experiencing the richness of the food, the people, the cultures and the landscapes. I can still remember that spark of excitement that came with each border crossing and every new stamp in my passport.
That year in South America was a game changer. I came home a different person. I had left a little of me in Latin America. In the interim, I had somehow managed to secure a place at the University of Central England in Birmingham to read Politics. I lived in a little windowless room below Spaghetti Junction and spent my days in the travel section of the city’s Waterstones bookshop, leafing through travel guides and travel books.
Two months later, I quit university and set off for Mexico on a one-way ticket.
To be honest, I had no real plans to ever come home. Apart from my family, I had no reason to. I had flunked my exams, left my studies and was working as a barman. I was still living at home and I didn’t even have a girlfriend.
Latin America represented excitement, hope and adventure. It was like a shiny beacon at the end of a very dark tunnel.
Travel and adventure have always had the power to heal and transform. The more you put in, the more you get out. The return to Latin America reminded me that the thrill, excitement and challenges of the new and the unknown were intoxicating. It was like looking at the world through a magnifying glass. Everything seemed amplified: sounds, smells, colours. It made my own culture look monotone and bland. Here, everything felt richer, and so did I. I had found work on a turtle conservation project on the Mosquito Coast between Nicaragua and Honduras. I was earning enough to get by, and I had become fluent in Spanish. I had friends. It excited me and it made me feel alive. I was so happy there.
The emotional wealth that comes from travel cannot be underestimated. Each time I returned from somewhere new, I felt like I had been given a booster. But, of course, everything comes at a cost and I couldn’t backpack forever.
When I returned to reality and the comparative mundanity of life, the come-down was immense. When I think back now, I wonder why I ever came back at all. Apart from my family, I had nothing. A couple of terrible A level results and, well, that was it.
I suppose it was the expectations of society in general that drew me home. After all, I couldn’t just ‘bum around’ forever. My parents were heroically silent. They have always allowed me and my sisters to make our own decisions carefully and quietly, helping us navigate through the complexities of life.
In their shoes, I think I might have been a little disappointed in me. Both Mum and Dad came from hard-working blue-collar families: my late paternal grandfather was a florist and my late maternal grandfather was an estate agent in Brighton. Mum, the actress Julia Foster, and Dad, the vet, Bruce Fogle, both worked incredibly hard to pay for my school fees.
Underachieving and dyslexic from an early age, I was not a good student. My parents decided to send me to private school to improve my academic levels. Alas, it didn’t work so well. But Mum and Dad never said anything. They let me do my own thing.
At the time, the ‘right thing’ seemed to be to return to Britain and try to get a degree, a job, a career, and a mortgage. I don’t want to give the ending away, but it all turned out quite well. That being said, if I were to go back in time, I think I would tell my 19-year-old self to stay where I was.
I love my parents. I love my family and I love my country, but in hindsight there was so much more opportunity overseas. Back home, I was a tiny fish in a pond with 66 million other fish, all hungry for food and space.
But that was nearly 25 years ago. A lot can happen in a quarter of a century. And now, here I was on an airplane heading to Kathmandu for the journey of a lifetime. I was leaving my own family behind, as I set off once again on a journey to a faraway land.
As the plane pulled away from its stand, I could make out two little silhouettes in the window, waving frantically. I sat back in my seat, tears streaming down my cheeks, as