I walked wearily to the campsite reception, sat down outside the site shop and checked for text messages on my mobile phone. There was one from my daughter, Meg who wrote ‘police are knocking’ and another from Hampshire Police, pestering me for an update of my whereabouts and safety. I called them first. I came to an agreement with the police woman on the other end of the line. I tell her roughly where I am and they leave me alone for twenty four hours. I told her that I had just reached a campsite and would be safe for the night before setting off early the next morning. She asked for the name of the campsite but I honestly wasn’t sure. I had known how to find it but hadn’t committed its name to memory. I offered vague information as to its location. I then reassured her that my daughter was safe and that Hampshire Police should leave her alone as they were likely scaring her. I promised the police woman that I would be available to talk the next day and to leave me alone in the meantime so that I could collect my thoughts and get some sleep. Next I turned my attention to my daughter and texted to let her know that I had spoken to the police and they wouldn’t be bothering her anymore.
Before checking in with the site reception I bought a couple of ice creams from the shop. I was ruing having not paced myself on the first leg from Weymouth. The South Coast guide had advised a seven and a half hour journey time but I had managed the walk from Weymouth in four. Now I was suffering from some tendon pain and had become dehydrated much quicker than expected. If I continued along the South Coast path the following morning as planned then I was likely to succumb to the combination of relentless sun and a salt laden wind. Would I collapse along the way? Did I want to die on that narrow path and have my body discovered by passersby, maybe by a family with small children? There were some families already here in the campsite. Why? It was term time and they should have been at school, surely? My plan was to find that tree deep in the middle of the New Forest and die well away from prying eyes. I needed to recalibrate my thirst and slow down dehydration
I checked in to reception, making enquiries about buses into Corfe. I was considering cutting off the next leg of my journey, namely the twenty four mile hike from Lulworth Cove to Swanage. I didn’t want to be discovered and I didn’t want to be rescued. I was trusting the word of the police officer who I had just spoken to and thought she would honour our agreement but I didn’t want Hampshire Police intercepting me at Swanage. A bus to Corfe followed by an easier walk along roads to Studland beach and the awaiting ferry to Poole and Bournemouth was my best option.
I pitched my tent in the Rookery section of the campsite under cawing corvids and collapsed inside, hot and tired. I had almost fallen asleep when I heard loud voices directly outside, which was annoying as I had pitched well away from anyone else. I looked outside and groaned with disappointment. There were two police officers standing over me. Within minutes they had detained me under Section 136 of the Mental Health Act.
‘If the police find you in a public place (anywhere that is not your home) and you appear to have a mental health disorder and are in need of immediate care or control, they can take you to a place of safety (usually a hospital or sometimes the police station) and detain you there under Section 136.
You'll then be assessed by an approved mental health professional and a doctor.
You can be kept there until the assessment is completed, for up to 24 hours. This can be extended to 36 hours, if it wasn't possible to assess you in that time.’ -
My rucksack and tent were stowed in the boot of the patrol car, tightly packed in whatever space was available in between traffic cones, high vis jackets and indistinguishable police detritus. The younger of the two policemen sat alongside me on the back seat. It was quite a long journey to Poole Hospital but they were friendly enough and conversation flowed easily. They regaled me with colourful anecdotes about their job as mile after mile of Dorset countryside flashed past until I became aware that we were retracing my journey and felt sadness at the loss of my liberty. I had been on the run, enjoying my freedom but now I was being returned to a virtual prison. By the time we pulled up at the hospital I was bowed and defeated.
The two police officers stayed with me throughout the remainder of the afternoon and long into the evening, making sure that I didn’t abscond. I felt like a criminal. Eventually they were dismissed by the hospital and left, reluctantly.
At 9.30pm my mental health was assessed by liaison psychiatry practitioner, Pilar McGill. I didn’t care much for her attitude as she settled on blaming me for violating boundaries during my art therapy sessions with Sally Mungall. I didn’t realise it at the time but she had already contacted the North Hants Crisis Team for ‘collateral information’. I was still several weeks away from accessing the shocking content held in my medical records and wasn’t aware that Pilar McGill had been grievously misled. She advised me to return to Basingstoke and arrange an appointment with my GP before discharging me from Poole A&E with nothing more than a list of nearby hotel contacts and the number of a local taxi company. Medical records confirm that she wrote to CMHT The Bridge Centre at 02.56 the next morning.
I found myself outside the hospital bewildered and lost. I had been safer back at the Lulworth campsite. It was gone 11.30pm and none of the hotels responded to my telephone enquiries. I considered walking back to the South Coast Path but I had no sense of direction. I booked a taxi to take me to Bournemouth Station instead. The last train to Basingstoke had already departed by the time I arrived and I was unceremoniously evicted from the platform by a short-tempered station manager. I was going to have to sit out a long cold night under the canopies of the bus station opposite. I parsed out the slow hours in text conversation with Meg, one eye on the homeless man with a hacking cough, curled up in a nest of newspaper and dirty blankets at one end of the station, the other on a rat pilfering the bins for scraps of discarded food. The night echoed with occasional cries that might have been foxes, or something more sinister.