On Camping Wednesday September 20, 2006
The first time was with the cub scouts and my Dad transported me to the field early, gaining me a place in the far end of the tent. He congratulated me at securing the advantage, though the credit was entirely his. As it transpired I was indeed spared the tramp of overhead or amusedly malicious feet, but then I myself had to weave my way across sardine-like bodies when I needed to pee, or retire, or do anything concerning retreat and advance from the canvas.
It was not a happy weekend. In addition to the forenamed pros and cons, my tent end position made me the first tasty snack for the whining creatures on nocturnal missions from the tent end river. I counted twenty-six mosquito bites, each of them substantial and irritating, and the other boys had far less in their entire sum total. And, what clinched it as a dismal experience, we were compelled to pool our weekend rations into a collective resource to be shared equally. I don’t know what dumb Baden-Powell nonsense that was, what socialist sharing it was supposed to be, maybe to iron out and hide the inequities of less affluent backgrounds, but I needed my Fruitcake Shorties. They weren’t the tastiest goodies; one boy in particular was provided with chocolate biscuits that prompted resentful envy but grudging respect. In theory I would benefit from his loss, but that was not the point. Divested of my cherished biscuits – I recall, they were actually one of my favourites – I felt bereft of the one symbol I had of motherly protection against the brutes beside me in the dormitory tent, and the bewildering outdoor experience. In retrospect, I realise it was probably the first time I’d had an independent night away from home. It felt solitary, nasty, brutish, and turned out to be short. The tent was tyrannised by the usual suspects, and I needed home. Thus it was, that the wee fella that was me kept crying inconsolably and had to be rescued by my parents. Reader, I never completed the weekend and never returned to cub scouts either, too embarrassed and humiliated to face them all again.
The second time was with a girlfriend in Crete, and after a few nights of hot and claustrophobic intimacy we found a room in the town and recounted the tent experience with horror. She was nicely organised, I wasn’t. She hated the ants, I wasn’t bothered. We’d elected for one huge sleeping bag which was inadvisable in a Greek summer, further disadvantaged by its placement: a hollow we’d barely noticed meant we rolled together inexorably, which was uncomfortable rather than romantic. Our dream holiday was spoilt by clashes of disposition, with personal space replaced by forced, hot proximity.
The third time was a group trip from Brighton, arriving at Langdale after midnight, finding I had no idea how to erect a tent and feeling distraught that everyone was understandably intent on setting up theirs and immediately retiring to sleep, and that I needed help. Fortunately I got it, and don’t recall much of the ensuing night except its sleeplessness, but the following night was memorably horrendous. After a tired but early start, a twelve hour traverse of the Langdale Horseshoe and a decision to forgo the pub in favour of early sleep, that following night was also solitary, nastily noisy, constantly interrupted by drunken brutes, and short on desperately needed sleep. I think I managed an hour or two; the rest of the time was like having loud and inebriated oafs stumbling through my bedroom at home: a millimetre of canvas made no difference to my privacy or peace.
The fourth time was in a quiet field above Keswick, blighted by the irritation of loud snoring, prompting me to both shout into the darkness together with another sufferer, and start my car and shine the lamps onto the offending canvas. Nothing worked; he was enjoying blissful and recuperative sleep to prepare for the next day’s fun while I was gnashing my teeth with frustration and despair, knowing the next day was being ruined.
There is of course, a comic effect to all of this when it inhabits nostalgia but it really is grim when you experience it and not be dismissed when you invest time, money and energy to visit the countryside for relaxation and delight, not an obnoxious invasion into your peace from loud or chav-like behaviour. I’ve since heard even worse tales of drunken partying, late night fights and police intervention, in one of the prettiest areas in England: a camp site at the Borrowdale Valley in the Lakes. Sadly, British camping seems partly an extension of drunken Saturday night culture, characterised by the inevitable incivility of groups + alcohol + freedom from normal city constraints. Reader, I’d almost entirely dismissed the charms of camping.
And yet, several times, I noted almost empty fields near Ullswater, in Eskdale, and over at Buttermere, filled with just a sprinkling of tents and happy folk enjoying peaceful summer evenings. Surely, that would last through the night, followed with a fresh open-air morning, offering a delightful and peaceful experience? Camping haunted me, like the forgotten place in Alain Fournier’s novel Le Grande Meaulnes: something of possibilities, of fun, of perfect respite from normal living. One evening in particular, with dark blue skies still glowing with warmth at 10.30, I felt I really didn’t want to retire to my B & B. I would be happy sleeping under a bush, below a tree, or beside a prettily bubbling stream: I was here for the Lakeland outdoors, not domestic and expensive comforts I didn’t need in such a settled and warm summer.
It was thus, suitably armed with some cheap Argos gear, that I retired to the Cae Du campsite in Wales. I’d done a reconnaissance a few weeks earlier, and all seemed well. With narrowed eyes and sharp learned questions, I put it to the owners like a policeman interrogating a suspect: what about noise? Is there any, what do you do about it? I was reassured, but still apprehensive.
Anyway, the worst it got was some distant post-pub laughter barely noticeable at about a hundred yards away, for just one night. Apart from that I enjoyed blissful peace on my solitary perch, elevated slightly above large fields barely occupied. I felt a thrill setting up tent, with a vague memory of the cubs but not the later experiences: boyish thrill, and that, maybe, this time it would work out OK. I had no Fruitcake Shorties, but nor was I suffering the riotous nonsense of chav boys. Just me, in a near empty field, with large amounts of silence and unending fresh air. I retired early, slept soundly, and slept long – about ten hours – which is itself a kind of pleasure. I was cold the first night, but then toasty warm the next when I pulled out the duvet from my car. I was woken by the silken patter of rain but enjoyed it, and welcomed the experience in the day: because here I was, immersed in nature, with sufficient protection from it to enjoy whatever it might throw at me from wet, grey Wales. I was protected in my little tent and discovered that camping is actually pleasurable, not just a utilitarian convenience for an economic walking trip. In fact, what finally prompted me to this was discovering that a stay in Beddgelert was both expensive and unpleasant: it’s an attractive but narrow little town, with houses and B & B situated right on the road, which suffers lorries, tourists, and even loud chav cars playing loud chav music.
It’s delightful, waking gently and wondering how the day looks, behind the zipped up entrance. Blissfully relaxed, to assemble a few bits and pieces of breakfast at whatever time you like, free from the pressures of routine and B & B chat with strangers – very pleasant folk, in my experience, but early morning is not my best time even with people I know. I don’t mind padding across wet grass to reach shower, conveniences, or washing up sink. It doesn’t matter if it’s gently raining, because that’s just part of a seamless Outdoor Experience. And it’s blissfully cheap, which is important for me, for both practical reasons and because I get annoyed with rip-off UK and rip-off B & B prices. I eat out of tins, which is more outdoor fun, has minimal cost, and not much different from the expensive vegetarian fare typically found in Welsh or Lakeland locales: it’s not gourmet food.
There’s a wonderful sense of independence in camping, which I’m just beginning to discover. I remain alert, hawk-like, to the rude intrusions of rowdy barbarians, but with prudent anticipation and careful planning, maybe this will work out.