I used to love camping.
It was wild and free and fun, and I didn’t have my normal bedtime. It was great. But I was under 18 and everything was much easier. I could spend three nights on a flat lilo and bounce out of the tent door each morning with the kind of energy I wish I could buy bottled.
Camping as an adult was less fun. Pop up tents are cheap and so easy to put up but any slack in the top panel will mean that the rain makes a lovely puddle that steadily drips onto your face until you startle awake, sit up, and get drenched. A lilo on the floor can be comfy enough if you remember you need twice as much insulation underneath you as above so you don’t end up huddling like penguins at 3am. And scrabbling for your glasses in the dark until you realise with horror you have rolled over them.
So the tent got put away somewhere at the back of the garage and I decided I would just upgrade to b&bs and hotels.
Until I saw the price of a two night stay in Falmouth in June. Ouch.
Standing looking at the apple blossom in our garden, seeing the open fields beyond with the sun setting and making everything look so pretty, I thought there has to be another way. It must be possible to make camping enjoyable again. Perhaps I just have to do it properly.
Maybe the farmer had sprayed something on his crops that made me lose my sense for that moment. Maybe it was all just so beautiful and perfect that I could only see the prospect of sun kissed Cornish summer adventures. It didn’t matter. I was going to buy another tent. A proper one.