The last time I camped
Cycling holiday in France
I was trying to work out the other day when I last slept in my trailer tent and what happened to end that pastime?
My memory had been assaulted by a bright, tangerine coloured sleeping bag, dumped on the hall floor, before it magically vanished again a day later.
All our kids loved the summer camping holidays, especially the ones in Brittany, where success was determined by the size of the pool and the number of slides which finally wound there way in there. It seems that the allure of canvas for most of our children, is restricted to music festivals and then under sufferance, having grown attached to Egyptian cotton, late breakfasts and a swimming pool to sleep beside. I blame the parents.
Trailer tent
For those less familiar with the delights of camping, a trailer tent is a canvas home on wheels. It unfolds into bedrooms, a kitchen and lounge/diner, where meals are consumed, card games played and films downloads to watch, because Wi-Fi is poor and 5G non-existent.
It’s camping for softies minus the expense or luxury of a caravan or motorhome, a good investment for cheap, family holidays. Divorced and trying to run a start-up company, made it even more indispensable.
Bristol nights
Friday evenings in Bristol were either spent driving the kids back to Wokingham for movie night, pizza and the weekend or we’d bunk down in Bristol, back to Mum’s on Saturday morning after a hearty breakfast. The heartiness depended upon the season.
As soon as the clocks sprang forward and the kids were talking about how many Easter eggs they’d got, I knew it was time to get the tent out. On Friday afternoons I’d be waiting outside Elm Park Junior School, hitched up and ready to go.
I’d found a farm near Keynsham, a few miles from school, where I was charged £5 a night. It had a toilet block, but no electric hook-up, so I’d light a gas lamp for the tent and torches for nightly strolls to the toilets. The girls didn’t like the daddy longlegs (crane flies) in the loo and always went as a pair.
It was rare to ever have more than three neighbours most Fridays. A motorhome would occasionally be there. Usually, a one night stopover, taking it easy before heading for the brighter lights of Devon or Cornwall. They were always early risers, retired couples, long gone before we surfaced. Then there was the man in the corner of the field. In fact he was so far into the corner, he really wasn’t part of the camp site at all. He existed in a static caravan, because you could hardly call it living. He always arrived at dusk in his pick-up truck; flipped his diesel generator on so he could watch TV with a beer, ate his takeaway and went to bed early. We never saw him in the morning either.
And then there was Paul and his family. He had a 2-bedroom flat in Bristol which they’d chosen to rent out. His wife Janet worked in a local pub most evenings. Paul preferred looking after their two children who were pre-school age.
Living with gypsies
One summer, we were there every other Friday night. Paul was always outside with the children, often cooking their tea. Having watched me unfold and assemble the tent, an exercise which I’d got down to a respectable 15 minutes, there was an awkward wave before distant hellos were exchanged. It was a big field.
As the summer progressed, we got to know each other better, especially after he invited us to spend a day with him on his horse-drawn cart. By then, he’d already explained why he always cooked outside and that gypsy caravans are for sleeping in not preparing food. It meant we all got to sit around his campfire in the stone pit he’d built, the kids all sipping hot chocolate and toasting marshmallows.
Time to go
The first sign that summer was over was when Paul told me of their plans to move to Portugal. They’d long gone when we finally called time one Saturday in October, waking to a cold wet start. No one was interested in moving from their sleeping bag, until I lit the gas burners on the small hob, one for the kettle, the other to warm the tent.
The biggest issue with late camping is keeping the canvas dry more than the cold. On more than one occasion, I’d get home and be forced to open the trailer up again, to give everything a chance to dry out properly.
October half-term was the latest we ever used it, returning to the Eden Project by popular demand. We’d been in the summer, when we’d visited on two days rather than the one I’d been expecting. Maybe it was the pasties, the homemade scones or being able to go high up into the canopy of the tropical dome. The ticket was annual, so we were really getting our money’s worth to return for even more.
Success and competition
Once the tent was finally packed away, we used to stay in a Premier Inn family room. It came with tea in the Beefeater off their early bird menu and the following morning, an adult breakfast meant children ate for free. Everyone was happy.
The camping finally stopped when I changed my car to a rental, which didn’t come with a tow bar. I’d had a gas guzzling VW before, the first material sign that the business had finally turned a corner. By the time the new rental turned up the children weren’t kids anymore, their time was more precious and any camping mystique had gone. We continued to stay in the hotel, until they left me one by one, busy with their own friendship groups, more fun to be had elsewhere.
The dimly lit nights playing cards, the tuna pasta tea and an occasional film for the umpteenth time remain some of our fondest memories together.