I appear to have been kidnapped by the Sussex Liberation Front. After a twisty, blindfolded drive, which has deprived me of any sense of direction or distance, I’ve been dumped in a remote field. I’ve absolutely no idea where I am or how to reach civilisation.

All right, the hostage claims are a tad dramatic. But I’m definitely lost. I’m on the world’s first “natural navigation” course, and my mission, having been released into the wilds, is to use nature’s bounty - sky, earth, trees and plants - to track down a chilled Guinness in the George Inn, at Eartham.

It won’t be easy. Satnavs have turned most of us into navigational dyslexics. I even struggle with an A-Z - my inability to locate addresses has earned me the nickname Index Man. Today, I’ve no map, compass or GPS. My only clue is that the George lies four miles to the southwest.

At one time, that information would have left me none the wiser, but yesterday I met Tristan Gooley, a leading natural navigator who has honed his sense of direction on solo crossings of the Atlantic by boat and plane. He gave me a crash course in the no-tech skills of ancient explorers. “Satnavs aren’t the enemy,” he stressed, “but technology can narrow your focus. Natural navigation is a complementary skill that enriches a journey. It throws off the blinkers - and it might just help you in a bind.”

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Your first navigational tool is the sun: sticking a twig in the ground produces reams of information. Its shortest shadow, at midday, is a perfect north-south line, while marking the end of the shadow as it moves, then joining the dots, produces a crude east-west signpost.

I’ll be looking up after dark, too. The best bet in the northern hemisphere is to find Polaris, the North Star - something most of us claim we can do, but can’t really. So, pay attention at the back: find the Plough; imagine a line between the two pointer stars on its outer edge; continue up until you hit an intense sparkle. Easy.

Tristan covers dozens more direction-finding tricks, but theory’s one thing, practice quite another. So, 24 hours later, I remove my blindfold and tramp through deepest Sussex. Tristan joins me as an observer, sometimes nudging me towards navigational clues.

It’s extraordinary how soon his tuition kicks in. A wild cherry tree with foliage like Boris Johnson’s hair is useless, but two firs sport a definite hunch, evidence of Britain’s prevailing southwesterly winds. There’s also a lovely country pile whose roof has green moss to the front and dry ochre lichen to the rear. Is this a south-facing garden I see before me? Splurge on a country pad like this and you’d have every right to expect one.

I’ve gleaned enough to push off in a south, slightly westerly direction, but it’s much harder unearthing clues in a dense, chaotic forest. “Look for the biggest tree, the king of the jungle,” Tristan says. After 30 minutes, I find a huge beech, near branchless in one direction but with verdant growths spiking from the opposite side of the trunk towards a southerly sun. It’s as if the cartoon forest is coming alive to reveal my route.

Everything is looking up. Opaque skies disintegrate, revealing a muscular sun - an opportunity to create a shadow stick. It works. Blimey. It’s just like Scouts, except you end up with alcohol rather than a silver arrow.

Admittedly, it helps to hear Tristan telling the pony-club owner which path we’re taking, but wind-bent trees on a high South Downs ridge, along with scudding clouds, provide more southwesterly smoke signals. As my route turns due west, I spot regular puddles to one side of the path. Then, by working out the angle of the sun, I establish that the water lies on the south side of the track, where drying rays can’t reach it – more evidence. I’m detecting clues like a rambling Columbo.

Naturally, there’s the odd tricky moment. A wall of forest forces a tiresome detour, while the bent stalks of thousands of nettles suggest that I’m hiking in totally the wrong direction. “Nettles? Absolute bastards,” Tristan says. “They’ll point anywhere to find light. Never trust a nettle.”

Nettles: signpost vandals. You heard it here first. But it’s a minor irritant. The course has proved instantly effective, adding a fascinating dimension to a glorious yomp.

Shortly afterwards, my newly honed nostrils detect a whiff of Guinness on the breeze. The George is shining like Polaris in the dusk. GPS? Pah! Make mine a pint.

Need to know

A beginner’s course costs £105pp, with practical field days from £150; 07775 521693, www.naturalnavigator.com

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