We have spent the past several days holed up in a tent, deep in the Forest of Dean to give the children a holiday, and to give ourselves a break from the usual mayhem that surrounds us. Of course “break” is a relative term; quite apart from packing and unpacking, we have also been cooking for, tidying up after, and entertaining the children pretty much 18 hours a day.
In short - we’re absolutely wiped out.
We arrived on Saturday morning, and had our tent up within a couple of hours. Ground rules were then drummed into the children before setting them loose. The camping ground had a childrens playpark about 200 yards from our tent, but that didn’t stop us watching the children to and from their destination. We probably worry too much, but try to do so at such distance that the children do not realise.
It was interesting - during the moments afforded - to watch the other children on the campsite - to see the interactions between them. During our first evening, I watched a mass ball game from a distance where half the children on the campsite were ruled over by a handsome teenager. I crossed paths with him the next morning as his older sister tore into him for not helping with washing up, and smiled to myself. Dickhead.
I spent quite a bit of time in the washing up room (a wonderful bonus, in my mind - having camped where washing up happens in a stream in the past). It quickly became apparent that washing up on campsites is like barbecues - it is invariably done by men - and more often than not by men who have not washed up before, or who’s other half gets lumbered with it for the rest of the year.
One particularly amusing group consisted of three guys who wandered in together, each holding a corner of their tub of washing up.
“Ok… no plug in the sink. Damn. How are we going to do this?”
“How about we plug the sink with something else?”
“Okay. Anybody got any washing up liquid?”
“Bugger… anybody got a dishcloth, or a teatowel?”
After a few minutes it appeared that one of them thought he was being particularly useful to the others by standing just behind them, not actually offering to help, or to do anything really.
I kid you not… it was like watching the three stooges try to wash up. I finished - single handed - before they had really started - and made my escape.
Although the children would have been quite happy to spend the entire holiday on the campsite, we dragged them off for several long walks in the woods, and were surprised at the lack of compaints (save for our eldest, who was not well, and decided she “hated” camping). Little Miss 6 displayed an uncanny knack for getting stones in her shoes, peaking at a rate of about 9 per half mile.
I thought myself particularly clever on one of our walks when I gave our eldest the GPS unit to carry. The change in her was remarkable - from pre-teen indifference and grumpiness to interest and enthusiasm… right until the moment she was looking at the GPS instead of the track in front of her, and fell flat on her face.
I was impressed though - she fell and cradled the GPS. You can’t teach that kind of thing…
In closing (because I’m sure a camping trip can’t be that interesting), something rather odd happened. On our second day in the woods, somebody pitched a tent just behind ours, and W commented that she recognised the husband from somewhere. Our children all ended up playing together, so the opportunity eventually presented itself to find out.It turned out he had been the guy who interviewed her for her first professional position after she left Thames Water about 9 years ago.
It really is a very small world.