The campsite is at the end of a winding woodland path, necessitating a twenty minute trek pushing your kit in a wheelbarrow. I have no wheelbarrow skills, never having worked on a building site, and it was only last weekend when I barrowed my kit across the entire length of Glastonbury that I discovered the trick of tying all your gear together and then securing the heaped bundle to the barrow with an X of rope. So I made more of a meal of this task at Dernwood than was necessary.

The allure of wild camping is freedom. Freedom to have a campfire, freedom to arrange your camp as you see fit. And there is plenty of freedom at Dernwood. Our party consisted of a dozen adults and a dozen children, so the pitch-where-you-like system meant we could circle our wagons as we pleased.

My campfire skills are basic. I set bricks around a shallow fire pit, and sparked up the logs. The job of building and maintaining this fire was quickly taken up by two more experienced firebugs, and soon they were prepping wood, and erecting an ad-hoc cooking tripod from cast-iron lantern stands. The sight of iron and fire made my heart leap, and the boys crowded around the men, fascinated by this primal display.

Wild camping demands responsibility, especially when it comes to waste. At Dernwood Farm, I barrowed everyone’s rubbish back to the recycling bins at the entrance. When you spend the best part of an hour “putting the bins out” you are confronted with the fact of your own consumption. All that thoughtlessly acquired packaging at the supermarket comes back to haunt you. Most wild camping sites make no provision for rubbish. You are expected to take it away with you, and this is something to consider when you are loading up.

The facilities at Dernwood Farm stretch to a single WC toilet and water pipe. Check in at the farm on your way in to pay for your pitch and firewood. They also have freezers of their meat for sale.

For our annual “iPodival”, a gathering of a dozen adults and an ever-increasing haul of children, we returned to Dernwood Farm in Heathfield. After wheelbarrowing our gear through the woods, we pitched at the entrance to a glade. The first task was to prepare the fire site.

I dug out a rectangle of turf about one and half feet by two feet and set it aside. Then I foraged stones to act as a fireproof ring. A hanging bag of water was on hand in case things went awry. Modern tents made of polyester are exceptionally flammable. I once saw a tent catch fire and become engulfed in seconds. I set the fire a good distance from any tent in case it threw out flaming sparks.

The scouts can light a fire in under two minutes without the use of a match. You can even generate a spark with a twisted coil of wire wool and the contacts on a mobile phone battery. I prefer the trusty Swan Vestas dropped into a pile of tinder in the centre of a pyramid of thin dry kindling. The pyramid or tipi fire provides a directional heat that is good for cooking, although it is liable to tip over when you add new fuel. So dig the vertical lengths of kindling into the ground.

Dared one another to get close to the thrill of iron and flame

My fussing over this small fire proved unbearable to the experienced firebugs in our party. Tim had a pair of sharp axes he had picked up at the Woodfair last autumn. He quickly trimmed logs down to the desired length and set them burning. Then he assembled a tripod from which he suspended a kettle on chain links. My modest conflagration leapt and bounded. I counseled Tim to keep it small, as a small fire will give out a good amount of steady heat. The buzz of masculine interest attracted the boys,
who gawped and dared one another to get close to the thrill of iron and flame.

Fire is a technology, a tool to be used with care and precision

Over at the next encampment, a circle of drunk men whooped as their large fire burnt hot and brief, gobbling up plywood and paper, all spectacle and no practicality.

Fire is a technology, a tool to be used with care and precision. Over the weekend, we cooked on it, warmed ourselves around it, and burnt our leftover food upon it. I took care to extinguish it at night, and when I awoke, Tim coaxed the ashes back to life.

A camping trip should have a purpose, writes Thomas H Holding in the Campers Handbook of 1908. That aim could be archeology, boating, geology, angling, whatever. For our “iPodival” the aim was the sharing of new music, in which each camper took their turn showcasing a playlist of their favourite songs on the stereo. But over the course of the weekend, the music waned and it became apparent that the object of our camping trip had become the fire, with man and boy alike slipping into the rhythms of the element.

When the weekend was over, the fire was put out, the ashes dispersed in the woods, the turf replaced and patted down. The camping ethos of Leave No Trace was there in Holding’s century-old Handbook and it is essential at a site like Dernwood Farm, where you must wheelbarrow your rubbish back to the entrance for recycling. Next time I will bring nothing that cannot be disposed of by fire.

To discover more campsites that allow campfires, go to Cath’s UK camping map

Amy Winehouse tribute performance at Lovewood

This is the first Lovewood festival, a collaboration between the Love Is All You Need charity and Little Dernwood Farm. The plan is to raise money for the charity and its work in South Africa, including an education centre in Mdumbi, caring for children orphaned by HIV and AIDS in communities where 170 adults die every week.

A handmade, friends-of-friends type of event, Lovewood is not so much a festival as an expression of goodwill and support for this charity.

I don’t dance for the same reason I don’t walk around in a pair of speedos – out of consideration for others

Little Dernwood can be found along the narrow country lanes around East Hoathly, and the campsite has a growing reputation for providing an experience closer to wild camping than the manicured order of the nearby Caravan Club site. There is no shower block. There is a composting toilet somewhere but I can’t find it. As it is late Spring, the bluebells turn down their bonnets in the dappled glade. On stage, a collection of children called Jazz Code come on. The adults hide behind the barbecue stall, smoking the cigarettes they promised their children they had quit.

A silver heart in the trees of Lovewood

A Streets-style trio called Twisted Link perform an impressive collection of raps over beats taken from the 8-bit and 16-bit videogames of yesteryear. I look around for their parents. No sign. Perhaps the boyfriend of the daughter of someone. Their set coaxes a few more bodies into the big empty rectangle at the front of the stage. Now the Mum and Dad dancing begins in earnest. Mum grooving her baby’s arms in time to the beat, Dad gallumphing around in front of the stage with his son on his shoulders. The baby is in a papousse, and its arms and legs flail around as Mum dances.

Dirty Ugly Punk Monkeys play a set that turns a variety of beloved classic songs into shouty musical mince

Needless to say, I don’t dance. Not anymore. I can’t lose myself in the beat. These days, my mind wanders off and starts thinking about bills and art and things and before I know it, I am just standing in the middle of the dancefloor as if startled from a dream. Nor do I encourage my children to dance. I don’t dance for the same reason I don’t walk around in a pair of speedos – out of consideration for others. Emo offspring skulk around, discover their parents having a cheeky fag in the woods, and roll kohl-rimmed eyes. I’m with them.

The land cools quickly. The pylons with their rigging are ship masts sailing off into the sunset. My brood returns to its tent. It takes longer than ever to load the children into bed. Elsewhere, the party is just starting. Soon the bonfire will be lit, and Dirty Ugly Punk Monkeys will play a set that turns a variety of beloved classic songs into shouty musical mince. And somewhere in the woods, a grey-haired old badger will put its paws over its ears and suffer for a good cause.