This story is an excerpt from Going East: Scott and Becky’s Adventure Around the World Without Airplanes. Five months into our journey, Scott and I find ourselves in Southern Italy. Riding heavily loaded recumbent bikes, we have ridden across Eastern Canada and cross the Atlantic on a container ship.

On this particular leg, we are pedalling from Matera to Brindisi in Italy, hoping for an affordable place to sleep, only to find ourselves facing unexpected obstacles. With limited options, we must decide whether to press on into the night or embrace the uncertainty of wild camping.

Wild Camping

November 3-4, 2008 

We finish our lunch break and climb back onto our bikes. I tuck in close behind Scott, drafting off him to make the pedalling easier. My mind is restless.

I worry.

I worry about where we’ll sleep tonight. I worry about our budget. We had planned to camp more in Italy, but most campgrounds are closed for the season. Aside from one night in Nicotera Marina, when a generous Couchsurfing host let us stay in his beach house, we’ve relied on hotels and bed-and-breakfasts. It’s been safe, but it’s also been expensive. We’d expected to cook more meals on our camp stove, to spend nights in our tent. Instead, each day ends with the same uncertainty—where will we sleep?

Scott never seems bothered by this. While I stress over it constantly, he just pedals forward, untroubled. And then I realize: 

I need to make him responsible for figuring it out. Even if he doesn’t actually worry about it, I need at least the sense that he will be responsible for figuring things out. And maybe, just maybe, that will give me some peace.

There are no cars on the rural road as we ride along, so I pull up beside Scott and say, “How about I let you worry about where we’ll sleep tonight?”

He shrugs. “But I’m not worried about it. We’ll figure something out.”

That does nothing to ease my anxiety. I need to phrase this differently.

I try again. “How about you take responsibility for figuring it out? Even if you don’t actually worry, just knowing it’s your job will help me let go of it.”

Scott gives me a puzzled look. I have no idea what’s going through his head. “Okay,” he says, “but I’m still not worried about it.”

The funny thing is, it doesn’t matter to me whether he actually worries or not. Just knowing I’m not the one responsible for it allows me to relax—at least a little. It gives me permission to let things unfold without carrying the weight of the unknown.

Originally, we had planned to stay at a small inn in Masseria, halfway between Matera and Brindisi. But when we arrive, we find the front door locked—the inn is closed for the season. Our Lonely Planet guidebook doesn’t list any other accommodations nearby that fit our budget.

With November now upon us, the days are getting shorter. Darkness starts creeping in around 4:30 pm, with the sun setting at 5 pm. We have less than an hour before we’ll be riding in the dark.

Scott glances at me and says, “Why don’t we stop at a grocery store, grab a cold dinner, maybe a good sandwich and some fruit, then get back on the bikes and look for a place to wild camp for the night?”

Wild camping means setting up camp in a spot that isn’t a designated campsite, often on unused or abandoned land. The idea is to arrive after dark, pitch the tent discreetly, sleep, and leave at first light without a trace. It’s a common practice among cycle tourists looking to stretch their budget and extend their trips. Though we haven’t done much of it, we’re hoping to get more comfortable with the idea.

There are unspoken rules to wild camping: respect private property, avoid “No Trespassing” signs, and always leave the place as you found it. Doing this in a foreign country makes it even more challenging, but as we ride, we constantly spot what seem like perfect camping spots—abandoned buildings just off the road, hidden patches of land. Finding them in broad daylight is one thing. Finding them after dark? That’s a whole different challenge.

I’m scared and anxious, but I don’t see many other options. We have good lights and reflectors, so riding in the dark is possible. And if all else fails, we can push through the night and reach Brindisi by morning.

We stop at a grocery store, grab food, eat quickly, and get back on our bikes just as the last light fades. After about 20 minutes, Scott spots a potential camping spot. We turn into the driveway of a small, abandoned, single-storey cement building—some kind of former industrial site.

We get off our bikes and cautiously walk around, making sure it’s truly deserted. There are no signs of life. No locked doors. No windows glowing from within. The main entrance—some sort of large garage-style opening—stands wide open. Inside, we find remnants of the business that once operated here: a biochemical company that had been growing algae. My stomach tightens. Is this place safe? Could the air or ground still be contaminated with chemicals?

We explore the rest of the property, looking for a suitable place to sleep. The front room seems like the best option. It is partially open to the outside but covered overhead. Scott suggests we just unroll our sleeping bags and sleep on the floor.

The thought makes my skin crawl. I picture mice, rats, and insects scurrying around us in the dark. I need some kind of barrier, even if it’s just psychological. “Let’s set up the tent,” I say. “Without the fly. Just for a bit of protection.”

We don’t need the fly since we’re inside, but having the tent around us makes me feel safer. I feel like we’re creating a small bubble of security in this eerie, abandoned place.

By 8 p.m., it’s pitch dark. We avoid using our lights inside the tent. If we do, we’ll glow like a giant lantern, making us far too visible. I sit outside the tent and read for a few minutes, but exhaustion quickly takes over. It’s been a long day.

I crawl into the tent, slip in my earplugs, pull on my eye mask, and settle in. Once I’m snug in my sleeping bag, the tent becomes home. That’s all I need to fall asleep.

Sometime around 3 a.m., I awake.

There’s a sound outside the tent. Footsteps. Slow and deliberate, circling us. My heart pounds. Someone is out there.

I nudge Scott awake. We both lie still, listening. Five minutes stretch into what feels like an eternity.

Then, realization dawns. It’s just the wind. The tarp covering our bikes has come loose, flapping noisily in the gusts. The wind has shifted direction while we slept, now funnelling straight through the open entrance of the building.

Relieved but still alert, I slip out of my sleeping bag, crawl outside, and place a rock on the tarp to silence it. While I’m up, I take the opportunity to step into the yard to pee, looking up at the stars in the sky. It doesn’t feel real that I’m here, sleeping in an abandoned building in a foreign country. 

Moments later, I’m back inside, cocooned once again in warmth and safety. The wind may be howling outside, but inside the tent, we are warm and dry.  And, again, I fall into sleep.

I wake again at 5 am. The sky is still dark. Sunrise isn’t until 6:30 am, but we need to be gone before then.

Scott is still fast asleep. I watch him for a while, but impatience builds until I can’t stand it any longer. At 5:45 am, I nudge him awake. I feel a sense of urgency. We need to pack up and go.

Overnight, a thick fog has rolled in, leaving everything damp. There’s no time to wait for our gear to dry. We have to pack up as it is and slip away before the world wakes up. 

As we pack up, Scott tells me about his dream from the night before.

“Last night, I dreamt that a security guard found us and woke us up. He yelled at us for trespassing, and we had to pack up and leave in the middle of the night.”

His words make me pause. Maybe he was worrying about where we’d sleep, just not in the same way I was. While I had carried that anxiety consciously, perhaps he had tucked it away, only for it to surface in his dreams. Or maybe, without realizing it, I had offloaded my own worry onto him, shifting it from my waking thoughts into his subconscious.

In the end, this turned out to be a good wild camping experience. No one disturbed us during the night, we slept reasonably well, and we left without a trace. But what stands out most is how much letting Scott take responsibility for the worrying helped me relax. It allowed me to experience the moment rather than stress over every unknown.

I’m proud of myself for pushing through something that scared me. This was a stretch, a challenge, but I did it. And as a bonus, it helped our budget too.