All is wrong with the world. I think that is one of the main causes of stress. But people like ourselves, who practice arts such as bushcraft, have a distinct advantage over most other people we possess the means of escape. It does not matter whether we disappear into the woods for a whole month or just an afternoon, we can break away from the stresses of the modern world and return to our primitive past. And when we do this, we find that whatever may happen, whatever misfortunes may befall our society, even if the worst comes to the worst we can not merely survive, we can even prosper.
Speaking for myself, one of the major causes of stress in my life is a feeling of powerlessness; that the world is all wrong but that there is nothing that I can do to put it right, and that the people we employ to put it right are utterly incompetent to do so.
I cannot tell you why I go into the woods. Perhaps it is the lure of little voices, as Shackleton put it. Whatever the reason, I am drawn by some mysterious and irresistible magnetism.
When I set out, my mind is full of trivial clutter and I find myself conducting absurd subconscious arguments with people who do not exist, about things that have never happened.
But gradually my mind clears. Each step takes me farther from the world of the common day; farther from gas bills and microwave ovens; farther from technology and that illusion that is called progress. The din of civilisation fades, to be replaced by the song of Nature. Suddenly, the crunch of gravel underfoot becomes the sweetest music; the yaffle of the woodpecker the most eloquent poetry; the rustle of leaves the most stirring symphony.
The trail leads us between a tall stand of villainous pines, but we ignore them and fix our eye upon the point far ahead where the track vanishes into the great wild woods. We have not yet quite left the outside world, but the creak of pack straps and the clank of mess tins draw us ever farther away.
Then we enter the woods. The sun is obscured by the canopy and all is green thousands of different shades of green. But this is not an alien world to us. We have learned to live in this world. It has given up its secrets to us. See that tree over there? Time was when we should have marvelled at such a tree, and wondered what it was; and we would have been astounded by its colossal size, its bizarre shape, its extraordinary spiral bark. We marvel still, but now we can identify this tree. We can tell if it was planted or whether it grew here naturally. We can even make a reasonable estimation of its age.
The monologues in our mind have adapted to this change in environment. We are no longer discussing pay-as-you-go rates, but that browsing roe deer at the edge of the ride up ahead. We congratulate ourselves for having moved so softly over the earth that it is unaware of our presence.
It is time to eat now. We find a fallen tree that will serve as our dining table and we scrape away at the ground with our boot to make our oven. Soon, the kettle is singing merrily on the tiny fire. As we munch on our meal and sip our scalding tea, we may be drawn momentarily back to the real world, but this does not last. An hour has passed and there is work to do. It is time to be up and away.
The fire is out; the embers burnt away to cinders, the cinders soaked and crushed into a thin grey paste. The site of our fire is invisible beneath the leaf litter, and only a few flattened blades of grass betray the fact that any human being has ever set foot here.
We shoulder our load, and as we move on the world of the common day is long forgotten. We have a full belly, a comfortable load and a verdant trail stretching out before us. We belong here now, just as all the other animals and plants belong here. It is as if we have always been here. We know of no other world than this.
As the afternoon wears on we begin to search for a place to camp. We find a little patch of grass in the middle of a stand of oak saplings. Perhaps it is raining now, but in no time we are lounging in our hammock, the tarp above our head shedding little silver trails of water that drip-drip-drip onto the luxuriant grass beneath us.
In the evening the rain stops and the sun comes out. Smoke rising from the dying fire mingles with the vapours rising out of the wet earth and is bisected by the shafts of sunlight as it coils around the branches and twigs above our head.
The sky darkens. All around us are strange noises and grotesque shadows. To some people this would be a place of such utter abomination that they would prefer to spend a night in the most haunted of haunted houses. But we are not frightened by this other-worldliness. We are at home here. Sheltering beneath the green vault of our tarp we are more snug and secure than if we were stretched out on a four-poster bed beneath the domes and turrets of some splendid palace.
The first stars appear as we lounge in our hammock, staring dreamily up at the balsamic moon. The world of the common day is far away. The stress has gone. We have become part of the woods. As a glistening orb drips from a leaf and falls with a hiss into the embers of the dying fire, we close our eyes. All is well with the world.
Now I just take myself and my brew kit, make a brew and switch off for a while and whittle of do some leatherwork. 
