Miriam Lancewood has been living off grid, in the wild, for seven years now and she can still pinpoint the exact moment she knew she had truly broken with social norms. “It was when the idea was born to wash my hair with urine,” she recalls.

She had just started living wild, in the New Zealand Alps, when she developed a persistent dandruff problem. Luckily, she remembered reading about an ancient remedy. “I sat in the sun for a horrible, stinky half-hour to let it soak in.”

I’d expected Miriam to look bedraggled, maybe with a couple of teeth missing, but she’s immaculate and smiling broadly, her teeth shiny white (she usually cleans them with ash); no dandruff, legs shaven, she smells of campfire. She is powerfully built; almost the double of Sarah Connor from The Terminator. A Dutch Sarah Connor – she was born in Holland. Her husband, Peter, proudly tells me she could beat most men in a fight: “Miriam is the hunter and I’m the cook. She’s much stronger than me. Women are better shots,” he says. “And they’re more careful,” adds Miriam. “They are less driven by trophy hunting. They have less of a need to prove themselves.”

I sat in the sun for a horrible, stinky half-hour to let the urine soak into my hair

Five years into their nomadic life in New Zealand, Miriam decided to write a book about her experiences. The couple have since relocated to Europe, where they’re spending the year walking to Turkey; part two of their life’s dream of never returning to “civilisation”. So here we are in Bulgaria – three hours west of Sofia, upstream from a river where the couple can bathe, sitting around a campfire in a wood (the photographer met up with them earlier in their journey, in Bavaria). I’ve been invited for dinner and Peter is standing over a cast iron pot containing a bubbling bean stew. There are foraged wrinkly plums to start. It’s an exciting occasion for them: they haven’t seen another human being for 11 days. It’s 5pm. What have they been doing all day? “Nothing much. Waiting for you.” In the first few months of their primitive life, Miriam thought she’d go mad with boredom but she soon fell in sync with nature. Half of any given day is spent collecting firewood. They sleep as long as it’s dark. They’ve never had more energy.

It’s a stark contrast to when Miriam was still working as a special needs teacher in New Zealand. Those were grim days: “I was always stressed. And so bored. And depressed about thinking I’m going to do this forever and ever.” She’s learned so much since she’s been out here but one question remains unanswered: “Where are all the women?”

The hunt is on: Miriam, striding through the backwoods, wondering what’s for dinner. Photograph: Murdo Macleod/Observer

When they do bump into another person in the wild it’s usually a hunter, and always a man. She thinks that perhaps women have lost their connection with nature, “even more than men. And also,” she adds, passionately, “why do women behave so weakly, physically? As in, ‘I can’t lift that,’ ‘I can’t shit outside,’ ‘I can’t have my period in the bush.’” She thinks it’s a shame women are missing out.

It seems Miriam is not the only woman to think that women are missing out. Her book is coming out in Britain this month but is already published in Holland, where it’s become a small sensation. “Women write to me and say, ‘You inspired me,’” she tells me. “They’re amazed that it’s possible to live this primitive life; but they’re afraid: ‘What’s out there?’”

She says women worry about being eaten by wild animals or being murdered by a mentally unstable predator, like they’ve seen in Nordic noir. Interestingly, the women at her readings in Holland are usually aged between 40 and 50; maybe they are drawn to Miriam’s story because they see hers as the alternative life they could have led if only they’d been bolder and conformed less. Younger women still have the big decisions – and regrets – ahead of them. What do the women who write to her tell her the book inspired them to do? “One woman said: ‘You inspired me to get a divorce.’ If you want to be more content, sometimes you have to change your life completely.”

The seed of their idea was planted in India where they met 12 years ago; Peter, then 52, was a former sheep farmer, arborist and university lecturer, and Miriam, then 22, wanted to see the world.

Most men my age are fat and can’t walk for long. They’re envious. Mostly of her

Together they travelled for a few years before moving to Peter’s homeland, New Zealand. In 2010, they sold or gave away most of their possessions and struck out on their bold off-grid experiment, roaming and camping in the vast, remote countryside. It was Miriam who carried the big hunting knife and knew how to use their Steyr Mannlicher .308 rifle. Without electricity, digital technology or a watch, the experiment was supposed to last a year.

“In Europe it’s tricky because you can never get far enough away from people,” grumbles Peter. Fortunately, “We’re absolute masters of disappearing into forests.” Miriam’s gripe is that you can’t use or carry a gun in Bulgaria without a licence – otherwise she would have shot, skinned and butchered a hare for dinner. They give me the tour. Their home is a khaki-green tubular three-person tent with two sleeping bags in it, sleeping pads and two rucksacks neatly packed with rudimentary supplies. Food and utensils are arranged on the grass: enamel mugs, a black prospector’s plate which has become partly redundant since they realised that “panning gold is the most miserable experience you can have”. Miriam shows me her bow and arrow – it is beautifully polished and colossal.

“It can be quite unpleasant, sometimes it’s awful,” Peter reminds me. Miriam’s earliest awful experience was slaughtering her first animal: a possum. “I was vegetarian since birth but getting weaker and weaker. We were waking up with pains in our stomachs from trying to keep warm.” She set a trap but badly botched killing the possum. While it was happening she felt sick, and yet the fried possum tasted delicious: “Later, I felt very proud of myself.” She used her bow and arrow to hunt goats; the couple also ate dead deer left behind by hunters. Peter tells me how when English peasants settled in New Zealand they brought hedgehogs with them. Miriam frowns: “But in Britain there are no wild places left, no?”

Many rivers to cross: Miriam and Peter on their way. Her one regret is that she is not allowed to use her Steyr Mannlicher .308 rifle in Europe. Photograph: Murdo Macleod/Observer

If you’re going off grid, prepping is key. Miriam and Peter spent months training for that first winter in South Marlborough, New Zealand: long, demanding treks, first-aid courses; reading survival and foraging books – working out by the spoonful exactly how much flour, pulses, tea bags they’d need. They practised seeing in the dark with night walks. Miriam isn’t a conspiracy theorist but she’s proud she has now learned survival skills, in case of Armageddon.

They do sometimes return to “civilisation” to send an email or top up supplies or (in Miriam’s case) to write a book. Isn’t that cheating? Peter disagrees. “Because we’re living outside society, there are no rules. We can move from the stone age to the big city and back. It’s a unique combination of primitive living and modernity.” What happens if they split up? Miriam says she’d try to find another off-grid partner; Peter phlegmatically says he’ll be dead anyway. Certainly neither of them wants to return to a life of All Mod Cons: artificial light is too bright, the noise is too noisy, sleep is fitful, the food makes them constipated.

The question Miriam often gets asked by her readers is how they can afford to live as they do. “We have savings, we live very cheaply: on about $5,000 NZD (£2,600) a year – food basically.” But she wanted to write her book for other reasons – “to show that in the 21st century a different way of living is possible,” one in which long-term relationships can work. “A lot of people write: ‘I am so happy to read that at least someone is living harmoniously. A married couple spending 24 hours together!’” “I’ve been married twice before,” says Peter cynically, although Miriam likes Peter’s worldliness. Her only other serious boyfriend wanted the big house and kids: she doesn’t.

She thinks the key to a good relationship is a desire for self-knowledge: “If he says something and I see it as an insult, then I think, ‘Ah, why do I see that as an insult?’ I use it as a reflective method to find out about myself.” “We refuse to fight,” adds Peter. When he annoys her, says Miriam, “I pretend not to listen.” Doesn’t living in these physical circumstances force dependence? “We call it independent inter-dependence,” explains Peter. “Sometimes under extreme stress we do get a bit snappy…” (for example, when they both nearly drowned in some New Zealand rapids). Miriam completes the thought: “… so you become more aware of how external factors affect your mood.” The book hints that theirs is an open relationship but I’m not sure how that can make much difference given they never meet anyone.

They’d like to meet some Roma in Bulgaria, to exchange nomad experiences. Don’t the poor feel patronised by their experiment? “No, it’s the middle classes who don’t like us,” says Peter – especially men. “A lot of my old friendships are breaking down because of it. Most men my age are already buggered. They can’t sleep on the ground, they’re fat, they can’t walk for long. They’re envious. Mostly they’re envious of her,” he says, looking at his wife. “They want to know how to do it.” As in, how to marry a woman 30 years younger? The age gap can be difficult to ignore; Miriam mentions it several times in her book, mainly because other people keep bringing it up. For them it isn’t an issue, although would Peter really be here with a woman his own age? “I have never met a woman in her 60s who wants to live as I do,” he says.

Pot luck: preparing a nourishing evening meal. Photograph: Murdo Macleod/Observer

Miriam and Peter often use the word “trapped” to describe how other people live. They never intend to have children and rely on another modern innovation – Miriam’s IUD – to make sure they don’t. They say it would be impossible to live in the wild with kids. So are kids a trap? “For us it would be a trap,” says Miriam. “You have to have a regular income. You have to settle down.” She laughs: “It scares me just thinking about it.” Miriam describes how men they do meet on their travels will often suddenly open up about their personal lives: “They say they wish their wives would come out hunting with them or if they had a choice again, they would never have children. That was the end of their freedom, they say.”

Men we meet say if they had a choice again, they would never have children. That was the end of their freedom, they say

She looks at Peter: “We met one guy – do you remember him? He said, ‘I can’t wait for my children to be old enough to leave the house.’ And I said, ‘Oh, how old are they?’ And he said, ‘Three and five.’” There was a pilot who told her he had recurring fantasies of pushing his wife out of his helicopter. Peter’s theory is, “Modern civilisation, the suburban life just doesn’t suit men’s nature. It leaves men feeling constantly unchallenged. I’d say a third of the population are seriously unhappy.” He finds it startling that, with the advances in birth control, the majority of women still choose to have children. “I’ve met so many interesting women in their 20s, then along comes 30 and they succumb to the pressure. You think: ‘Why did you do nothing else with your life?’”

The real problem, thinks Peter, is that everyone’s too obsessed with security, to the point where it interferes with their ability to think logically, or find happiness: “People say to us we’re living their dream, and I say to them, ‘Do it.’ But they say, ‘Oh, I can’t,’ and I say, ‘What do you mean can’t? Of course you can.’ And they look a bit confused by that statement – because it’s true.” Maybe, I say, it’s because they’d prefer a more temporary break with society: once you’ve opted out of your career, sold all your stuff – there’s no return.

“And that,” he says, with satisfaction, “is exactly the point.” Miriam nods in agreement. “Because once you’ve cut with your boring, unhappy life, I can guarantee that you’ll never want to go back.”

Back to nature



An extract from Woman in the Wilderness by Miriam Lancewood

Peter turned round and put my arms over his shoulders. ‘Now it’s just us,’ he said, embracing me. I took a deep breath. ‘I feel like we have finally come home.’ Peter nodded. ‘This is the world we were all born into.’

I took his hand and looked out at the valley and forest all around us.

Peter had read all of the old newspapers and magazines in the hut from cover to cover

‘Amazing feeling, to be so alone in such an isolated place, isn’t it?’ I said. The nearest house was a good three days’ walk from here. At this time of year, in winter, most people left the mountains alone and stayed inside until the spring.

Back at the hut, I rekindled the fire and made tea, which I carried over to Peter, who was sitting on a rock near the river.

‘This is absolutely beautiful, isn’t it?’

I looked at the crystal clear water, which cascaded down from the mountains. Yet after my initial elation, an uncomfortable feeling was creeping to the surface, a kind of realisation that sent a flash of panic through my body. It was the one thought that clashed with all my fantasies of living peacefully in the wilderness: the ‘what now?’ thought. What was I going to do next?

I thought of things to do and remembered I hadn’t seen the toilet facilities. The long-drop was built 70 metres from the hut. It was a deep hole with a wooden structure on top; the only thing about it that resembled a modern toilet was the white seat. A soggy roll of paper sat in the corner. I lifted the lid and looked into the hole. The smell was so horrible that I quickly closed the lid.

If I sit on that toilet with the door closed, I’ll be suffocated, I thought.

It was worse than I expected, and I forced myself not to think of the months ahead. I jumped into action instead. I collected a bucket of water from the river, found an old towel and started washing the grimy walls, dirty windows and even the stains on the mattresses. Several times Peter offered to help me but, dreading the moment when all the chores were done, I preferred to do everything on my own. I needed to fill up the empty day. This was the one thing all our hiking trips and training had not prepared me for: boredom. I joined Peter, who was calmly reading an old newspaper in the sun.

‘I think it’ll be a bit of an adjustment in the beginning, don’t you?’ I sounded far more coherent than I felt.

‘Oh, yes, a major adjustment.’ Peter nodded. ‘The mind needs to calm down. It could take days to ease into the rhythm of this place. Maybe weeks.’

Those first days were indeed a major adjustment, on many levels. I no longer had a job, a project or stimulation like social contacts, email, music and all the rest. It felt as though I was going through withdrawal symptoms. My mind was running too fast, my thoughts were all over the place and endless memories flashed by. Even though Peter appeared tranquil compared to me, he said he knew exactly how I felt; he had not found a million chores to do, but he had read all of the old newspapers and magazines in the hut from cover to cover. His suggestion was that we just go through the boredom and restlessness, and do nothing for a while.

Nothing.

That was the last thing I wanted to do. Nothing meant boredom, the dreaded void, horrible emptiness. Nothing was the unknown and I had discovered I was afraid of it - this was the fear I would have to face in the many weeks to come.