Radical mum? Well, sort of ...

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2013/dec/21/radical-mum-well-sort-of-fracking

Version 0 of 1.

My first attempt at activism did not get off to a promising start. "I don't mean to be funny, but … are you a cop?" The woman in the tie-dye headscarf shot me a piercing look.

"Er, no." It was a squally weekend in August and I had come to Balcombe in Sussex to join the demonstrations against fracking. I was slightly surprised at myself. I have never been much of a radical. Protests are not my thing. I even managed to miss the anti-Iraq war march.

But something odd had happened to me since my two sons had been born – the first, three years ago and the other 18 months before. My previously rather vague worries about the future of the planet had become increasingly frightening and real. I cared about the environment before – I have always recycled my jam jars and reused my plastic bags, but there is a difference between caring in a general way, and really, personally, passionately caring.

The warnings about "catastrophic climate breakdown" in a matter of decades suddenly seemed more than theoretical. I will have had a good innings by then, but my children will not be much older than I am now. They may well have children of their own.

As I threw myself into the challenges of new parenthood – balancing the needs of babies and career; reading stories and giving cuddles; spending large chunks of disposable income on organic vegetables and sugar-free snacks – I was increasingly aware of my own inconsistencies. On the one hand, I would break my back to give my children the best of the best; on the other, I would stand passively by while their future was trashed.

The problem was that I didn't have time for changing the world. It was hard enough to get my shoes on the right feet in the morning. But deep in my fuggy, sleep-deprived brain, the question nagged away at me: how could I consider myself a half-decent mother if I didn't at least try? 

So that Saturday afternoon I packed my tent and rucksack and set off for Reclaim the Power, a protest camp organised by the anti-fracking group No Dash For Gas. I was alone for the first time in more than a year. The baby and I were going to have to cope without each other for two whole days.

The scene on arrival in Balcombe did not allay my nerves. I had been expecting to camp in a nice green field somewhere, but the protest appeared to be right outside the gates of the fracking rig, next to a fairly major road. Tents were packed in higgledy-piggledy, some of them almost toppling into the roadside ditch. Cars, trucks and articulated lorries roared heedlessly past.

Even more disconcerting was the tangible tension between the protesters and the police. A few minutes after I arrived, a lorry tried to turn in through the gates of the rig to make a delivery. There was much jostling and shouting as protesters tried to block its progress, and the police tried to block the protesters.

I had never been on the "wrong" side of the police. I had always found them pretty cheery and helpful when I needed directions, and they were very efficient when my bike was nicked. I was not quite ready to engage them in verbal or physical combat, as some of these protesters clearly were.

Feeling dubious, I wandered over to the kitchen tent. My tummy was growling. There was a wholesome smell, but no obvious food. That's when the woman in the headscarf spotted me and started up with her interrogation. Clearly, I was not muddy enough or wearing enough tie-dye clothing to pass muster. "Sometimes they dress as normal people, you know. There's a book about it," she said.

"I know. But I'm still not a cop."

As I walked away, homesickness hit me in a crippling wave. What was I doing here? I sat down outside the Druids against Fracking teepee and dialled home.  

"Hi babe!" Jonny sounded distracted. I could hear the baby squealing in the background. Of course – it was bathtime. Not a good moment to talk. "Are you there yet?"

"Um. Yeah." My voice had gone small.

"How is it?"

"It's a bit … weird. Anyway. I just wanted to see how you all were."

"Fine. We're fine. Listen, can I call you back?"

"Sure. Of course. Love you. Bye."

The line went dead. I stared at the phone for a few seconds, as a shipwrecked mariner might stare at a disappearing boat. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to turn around and go straight back home. Perhaps fracking wasn't so bad, after all. Hadn't they scientifically proved that it caused only minor earthquakes?

Back at the kitchen, a crowd had gathered. I chatted to a nice aromatherapist from Brighton in the queue, and we ate our chickpea curry together. It was really tasty. There was even a fragrantly spiced rice pudding for dessert. I began to feel a little cheerier.

"So have you been to the camp down the road yet?" asked the aromatherapist.

"Which camp down the road?"

"It's lovely down there. Really well organised. I think later tonight there's going to be a ceilidh."

Eureka! I had come to the wrong camp. I was eating rice pudding on what was effectively the militant frontline. Reclaim the Power was in full swing just a couple of miles away. I sped off. Over the brow of the hill, I found it: the great green field I had dreamed of. Smiling, friendly young people ushered me in, gave me leaflets, told me where to get a cup of tea and pitch my tent.

That evening, as the ceilidh band played, I wandered around the site taking in the eye-popping logistics of the operation. There was a central marquee, two kitchens, composting toilets, sinks with running water. There was a welcome tent and a wellbeing marquee. If I had wanted to, I could have spent the whole weekend having massages (I did consider it).

There were security people with radios. There was a family area with a paddling pool and climbing frame. Best of all, there was a huge range of people: young, old, able-bodied and disabled, fat and thin, black and white, muddy and – relatively – clean.

Plenty of parents had brought their children and babies. The air buzzed with proper, open-minded discussions about what was right and wrong with the world. After years of fretting in the privacy of my own head, it all felt enormously liberating.

There was a new question to consider, however: how far was I prepared to go? At my "village" meeting the following morning (the camp was organised into several large groups for ease of communication), we were told that we would be divided into smaller "affinity" groups for the actions on Monday. Affinity groups brought together people with similar interests and abilities. We were asked to fill in a form; if we were willing to face arrest, we had to tick a box marked "up for it".

My pencil hovered over the box. I thought with awe about the mothers who have endured long periods of separation from their children for a political cause: Aung San Suu Kyi, and Nadezhda Tolokonnikova and Maria Alyokhina of Pussy Riot. I had begun to understand how they got to that point, but even one night in a Brighton police cell would have been too much for me. I did not tick the box.

I did, however, attend an excellent, thoughtful training session on taking direct action, and went on the march down to Balcombe, where we joined the activists from the other camp and many local people. In the weekend's most magical moment, hundreds of us encircled the perimeter fence around the rig and joined hands. You don't get that feeling from signing an internet petition.

I clattered home on Monday morning, exhilarated and triumphant, and scooped up the baby for a much needed cuddle.

"Hi, Mum," said the three-year-old matter-of-factly, as if I had done nothing more significant than popping out to the shops.

"You didn't get arrested then?" said Jonny, looking slightly disappointed.

Maybe next time.

Our editors' picks for the day's top news and commentary delivered to your inbox each morning.