stupid cows, mood rings, parental sacrifices
When I was a kid, we could only ever afford to go camping for holidays, and we were outdoorsy types, so it made sense.
It was a ritual: every year just before my birthday, my parents would have a sizzling row whilst trying to fit a tent, cooking equipment, sleeping bags, toys, a portable black-and-white television, a Portapotty, three children, and a dog into our Ford Fiesta. (My parents never argued much but something about this scenario brought out the worst in both of them.) Then we’d head off, to Cornwall or Somerset or Devon, listening to the radio, intermittently interrupted by a conversation a bit like this one:
Mum: ‘There’s a lorry coming up. There’s a lorry. John.’
Dad: (humming under his breath)
Mum: ‘JOHN! A lorry! There’s a lorry! On the left!’
Dad: ‘I can see there’s a lorry!’
Mum: ‘WATCH OUT FOR IT THEN!’
Dad: ‘I AM watching out! Will you stop it!’
Mum: ‘Oh my God, it’s indicating, John.’
And then we’d arrive and have the best time. We’d buy Pokemon cards at the market, necklaces and mood rings from little gift shops. We’d swim in the sea at sunset and run, squealing, through torrential rain back to the tent after the holiday park disco. We watched The Simpsons on the tiny little telly while we ate our tea.
I loved it. I was super excited to repeat this experience with my kids (minus the dog and also the arguing).
Imagine my surprise when I discovered that camping, as an adult, is a bit crap.
I mean don’t get me wrong, it was exciting and fun and to have a week away just the four of us was brilliant. But on that first night, we got into bed, having put the kids to sleep, and stared up at the dark canvas ceiling, shivering, and I said to Chris:
‘Do you know what’s nice? Our actual house.’
I mean what kind of fool wants to sleep in a tent when they could sleep in a bed? (A fool that can’t afford to spend £1000 on a week in a caravan, that’s what.)
Got a few hours sleep, broken up by the kids needing wees at random intervals. Had a brief moment of wonder looking up at the stars without light pollution, which actually took my breath away momentarily. Then back to the tent. To the freezing cold. Clinging onto each other for warmth whilst growing steadily more exhausted, laughing at nonsense, and becoming delirious.
At dawn, a cow started mooing. Quite loudly. I am used to being woken up at unreasonable times but it felt particularly annoying to be drifting off to sleep only to be startled out of it by a loud ‘MOOOO.’
‘Is it just me,’ said Chris, ‘or is that cow getting louder?’
‘It’s getting closer,’ I said. ‘It teleports a foot nearer to us with each moo.’
‘You’ve gone mad, haven’t you.’
‘Yes.’
The morning eventually arrived, and we became used to the cold, and we had a lot of fun and laughter (before the wind arrived. If you’ve ever tried to sleep in a tent during 35+ mph wind gusts, you’ll know that it is terrifying).
But hey. We went on days out, we went to the beach, we let the kids buy things from a gift shop. We listened to music and went for beautiful drives (thanks Chris). We watched Space Jam. We ate a lot of nice food.
We are lucky to be able to go away this year, really.
Anyway, I recounted the story of camping to my niece today. She is fifteen, and very much a fan of being indoors, preferably at all times. Got to the part about being woken up by a cow and she looked at me with one eyebrow raised and said: ‘Why would you do that to yourselves?’
It’s a fair point.
We’ll probably go again next year though.
