A national newspaper this weekend revealed that the story behind The Salt Path is built on lies. A day later, the Winns (formerly Walkers) responded in another paper — but it was clear they were shifting focus away from the reasons behind their journey, and towards the experience itself.

But here’s the thing: when I watched the film (I haven’t read the book), the journey itself was also unconvincing and made me want to question the bigger premise. Of course, it’s a dramatisation — and we’re expected to suspend our disbelief to some extent. Still, any decent documentary filmmaker asked to explore the same narrative might have run into a few problems once they started digging.

Let’s be honest: it would be a much less amusing or watchable odyssey if the protagonists were competent.

With the Instagram-fuelled rise in wild camping, there are already endless stories of people heading into the outdoors unprepared — behaving badly, or treating the environment poorly. In most of these tales, the culprits tend to be either young, unfamiliar with the countryside, or both. And if drugs are involved, they’re probably not statins.

But I’ve yet to hear of a wild camping cock-up involving a middle-aged couple living in a Welsh farmhouse, complete with walking guidebooks close to hand. And yet the Winns are clearly hopeless — camping directly on the South West Coast Path, getting caught out below tide level, and making all manner of rookie errors.

Why Authenticity Matters

The thing is, we want to believe their story. It is full of hope, resilience and love. It's a lovely story, and to read that it is probably mostly untrue is depressing. This isn't turning into a "Here at the LMFF we only share authentic stories..." piece, although of course that's our aim.

The truth is that we can never really be 100% sure of the authenticity of our films. We rely on trust — in the filmmakers, in the subjects, and in the emotional honesty of the storytelling. But that trust matters. Because without it, we risk commoditising the outdoors into a kind of scenic backdrop for personal reinvention, rather than a complex, shared, and fragile space that demands our respect.

Authenticity in storytelling is not about nitpicking facts — it’s about intention. Are we telling stories that honour the land, the people, and the truth of the experience? Or are we shaping narratives to sell books, fill theatres, or shift products?

Outdoor culture has always had a tension at its heart. On the one hand, we celebrate wildness — escape, solitude, challenge. On the other, the moment a story becomes successful, it risks becoming commercial. Brands step in. Sponsorships appear. The gear gets glossier. The story gets smoother.

Is that bad?

Not necessarily. Commercialisation can amplify great stories, fund important work, and make the outdoors feel more accessible. It can bring previously unheard voices into the mainstream. It can help protect wild places — when used with care.

But when it’s not handled with care, the result can be damaging. Wild spaces can be overwhelmed by people drawn in by romanticised, oversimplified narratives. Think of “bucket list” peaks reduced to Instagram backdrops. And don't get me started on infinity pools.

At its worst, inauthentic storytelling can turn the outdoors into a lie. A lifestyle accessory, rather than a real, living world.

Outdoor brands have a big role to play here. If they’re going to associate themselves with stories of healing, transformation, and personal challenge, then they need to ask hard questions about representation and reality.

Is this story being told responsibly?

Who benefits from this narrative?

Is it helping people understand the outdoors — or just selling them a fantasy?

There’s nothing wrong with inspiration. But inspiration should come with some truth — and some humility. Because the mountains, the trails, the sea — they aren’t here for us. They’re not plot devices. They’re places.

The Salt Path, and What We Want to Believe

So back to The Salt Path. Do the recent revelations undermine the power of the story? Maybe. Maybe not. Because what it reminds us is this: we want stories like this to be true. We want to believe that nature can heal, that walking into the wild can save you. We want to believe in second chances and shared journeys.

That’s not wrong. But we have to hold that belief with care.

When films and books and branded shorts sell us transformation through nature, they tap into something powerful. But that power comes with responsibility — to the people watching, and to the wild places themselves.

Because if the stories we tell about the outdoors aren’t rooted in truth, care and context, then we risk turning something sacred into just another product.

And wild places deserve better than that.

#WildPlaces #TheSaltPath #AuthenticStorytelling