Camping It Up
The Husband is trying to get me to go on a camping holiday. I fear he doesn’t know me very well.This ain’t any old camping holiday, but a week in a Tipi in deepest darkest Cornwall. I have to admit there is a part of me that’s slightly tempted. I could take my aromatherapy oils and dream catcher, and be at one with nature while cooking baked beans over a small camping stove. It’s all very Legends of the Fall.
I’ve only camped twice before, neither trips being what I would describe as successful. The first time I discovered the delights of the outdoors was the summer of 1986. Sarah Ferguson had just married Prince Andrew and I was on a camping tour of Wales with my father and brother, visiting various closed coal mines along the way. The dirt and the smell of smoke fumes didn’t mix well with my reversible Mickey Mouse jumper.
The second was in a car park in Wiveliscombe in 1992, in a vein attempt to secure a Duke of Edinburgh Gold medal. As I patiently waited the 27 minutes it took to heat water for my cup-a-soup I managed to devour the entirety of my Kendal Mint Cake. Let me tell you, it wasn’t a happy combination. I emerged from my tent the next morning following what I can only describe as a re-birthing experience, the walls of the tent contracting angrily in the wind in the hope to expel me with gusto. Needless to say I vowed then and there that I would never camp again.
So am I prepared to give it a go 2008 stylie with Husband, Munchkin and dream catcher in tow ? I figure enough water has travelled under the bridge for me to extend the hand of friendship again to the great outdoors. If it happens however, they’ll be one hell of a rider.
