Last week, I camped on the Lleyn Peninsula, overlooking Bardsey Island. I was with Helen, my longest-serving friend: separate tents. It's our secret of great camping: 2 x two-person tents.
My tent does not have plug socket, Wi-Fi or shower. My tent has a library, a cellar, a wardrobe, a narrow bed. When, in the morning, I let out the body fug of my night's breathing, it has infinite space: cubic yards of the stuff, all the way up to the sun, and all the way to the moon which rose each night through strands of cloud, growing to fullness by the week's end.
Camping transforms cooking, washing and dressing to play. We walked the coast path in the day and in the evenings, drunk on air, played house, played at dressing up, played with water. We cooked risotto for nights in a row with decreasing ingredients and increasing imagination. We wore tea towels on our heads to keep off the sun, tattooed our arms with dragons and anchors, called each other names, rolled Welsh place names and old stories around our mouths, and, laughing serious, made plans about dancing to ward intruders off our sacred territory.
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