On Thursday night it rained.
Oh, how it rained. You could hear it on the roof, you could hear it playing music with objects in the back garden, you could hear it flattening supposedly summer flowers.
There was a reason for this. It wasn’t caused by global warming, low pressure, anti-cyclones, the Gulf Stream or Al Gore. Just four words were all the explanation that anybody would have needed.
Tinson2 was going camping.
He has been camping about four times before, on a Par 3 golf course owned by parents of a friend of his, and the weather has been the same. He has never known the delights of drinking tepid tea full of twigs from a chipped tin mug, of listening to night-time rustlings that could be anything from rats to mammoths, of falling into a clump of nettles whilst peeing in the dark.
All he knows about camping is that it involves sitting in wet clothes in a wet tent, being dripped on from above and osmosissed from below. All he knows about camping is that it is miserable.
In other words, he is learning a valuable lesson.
Poor Tinson. But if you think you have rain, you should come here. Is it never going to stop?
wrinkly fingers, damp clothes, smelling of grass….
never was my cuppa either.
Poor Tinson. I have had many wet camping experiences – most of my camping has been done in Scotland!
I remember walking the Routeburn Track as a thirteen-year-old and my uncle telling us that putting on wet socks was character building. We didn’t believe him, either.