I Indulge In A Paradox

It's a month till my annual camping trip with my longest-serving friend, Helen.  The trip marks the anniversary of the start of our 50th year celebrations and therefore their end, allegedly.

Some of the pleasures of camping are unavoidable, and are largely to do with shedding - shedding walls, ceilings, fridges, the internet: baring body, mind and soul to the considerable elemental forces of a field in Wales.  Some of those pleasures are, however, to do with acquisition - particularly, the acquisition of new equipment which allows campers to camp-lite.

It's a paradox, but camping shops are full of sleeping bags, tents, roll mats and cooking equipment all lighter, more compact and streamlined than the ones you already have.  You need to buy more to have, to carry, less.  The technology is alluring, and helps to leaven memories of soggy, heavy, camping without integral groundsheets, under canvas, on camp beds.  My worst ones concern being a camp leader in a wet August in Cornwall.  With slugs.

So yesterday, I popped into Millets for the third time in three weeks.  Inbetween my visits, I've been thinking about what I can justify spending on new cooking equipment.  Trangia, the Swedish ultralight camping stove specialists, have been seducing me with their impeccably designed stoves,  mini-stoves, non-stick pans, kettles and mess tins.  I have been imagining extending my camping recipe repertoire beyond various forms of risotto into scrambled eggs, friend eggs, poached eggs, coffee.

Millets clarified the situation for me yesterday by having most of these items in their sale.  And by offering me an extra 15% off if I buy them in May.  There's nothing like saving money to induce a flurry of spending.

I Pitch My Tent

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.