Every story has a beginning, and we’ll start this story with
me setting up a tent in a conference room at work.
A co-worker had loaned me the tent after I announced I had
just bought a ticket for a weekend music festival, and didn’t have a tent. For various reasons, I bought a sleeping bag
five years ago but never used it, and last year I bought an expensive air
mattress, but only because I saw it on Kickstarter and thought it was
cool. (It had a special valve that let
you inflate it quickly with just your breath.)
I had a travel pillow, wellies (in case it rained), sandals (in case it
didn’t), a picnic blanket and two camping chairs—all I needed was a tent.
I don’t know what possessed me to go camping in the first
place. I’ve been camping twice in the
past 25 years, which is sad because as a child, my family went camping all the
time, although my mom can tell you I was a terrible camper: I hated
marshmallows; I was afraid of the dark; porta potties were a huge issue; my
allergies were always a problem; and I could usually be found in the car
reading by the overhead light, ensuring the car battery was dead the next day.
In fact, the only camping trips I enjoyed were when we went
to Ensenada with my dad, slept on dodgy beaches with soldiers patrolling with
automatic rifles, and ate even dodgier street food.
In any case, weekend festivals are very popular in the UK, and
I felt I’d been neglecting my British cultural education. I’d been to day festivals—in fact, I’d gone
to “Folk by the Oak” just the week before—but I’d never stayed overnight. And
at US $10 per night with the promise of hot showers, this seemed like a good
opportunity.
Which is why I was practicing setting up the tent, although
what I should have practiced was taking it down at 6am in the rain. It’s always hard to believe that camping
equipment came out of a bag that is clearly two sizes too small.
Normally my stories involve minor disasters, but honestly I
can’t fault the weekend: The car rental went smoothly; the sat nav delivered me
straight to the site; the organisers had thought of everything; the music was
brilliant; and the weather was perfect.
I’d say the food was good but I had a bit of a panic Friday night and
filled a grocery cart with fruit and nuts, bagels and salads, hummus and carrots,
and so ate every meal out of the boot of my car. I kept looking longingly at the people with
pizza and nachos whilst munching yoghurt-covered raisins.
Of course there were a few glitches. It turns out the air pad is not designed for
people with asthma; I was blowing as hard as I could and it was barely
half-full. The tent was “mostly”
waterproof, but we had a squall come through Saturday night and a few things
(including my phone!) got soaked. Both
my camera battery and phone battery died, and with no way to recharge them, I
got almost no photos. Plus I’d forgotten
my book, so I had plenty of time lounging around with nothing to do!
The music didn’t start until noon and I was awake at 7am
each morning—partly because the sun was shining brightly, but mostly I wanted
to beat the queue for the shower—so Saturday morning I went to the Yorkshire
sculpture park, and Sunday to Wentworth Castle & Gardens. The sculpture park was only 5 miles away and
charged £8 for parking, so I thought I’d be clever and leave the car at the
campsite and ride my bicycle! They
didn’t mention it was 2.5 miles down one hill, and 2.5 miles up the next! My thighs were burning by the time I’d arrived,
and the sculpture park is actually 500 acres with sculptures dotted over the
landscape! I could not feel my legs by
the time I was finished walking around, and I called a taxi to take me
back. (I saved £8 in parking but the
taxi cost £11.)
The next morning I drove to Wentworth Gardens, but since
they didn’t open until 10am I took my bike and tried riding the Transpenine
Trail. Now, my bike came with an
old-fashioned bell, with a little spring-activated clapper that made a very
satisfying “ding.” I love the sound it
makes. But the Transpenine Trail is not
surfaced, so you are riding over rocks, and that constant vibration caused the
clapper to hit the bell over and over again.
I sounded like an ice cream truck.
Other cyclists were getting very annoyed, as if someone were driving
down the motorway blowing their horn for no reason.
Wentworth itself was fantastic; a spectacular 18th
century Georgian mansion surrounded by a ha-ha (a decorative moat designed to
keep livestock out) and even out of bloom, the gardens were incredible. It really made me miss what I had in
Pennsylvania—and I did have grand designs on the garden—but I could have never
matched the grandeur, in any case.
Restoring the Victorian greenhouse at Wentworth cost £3.75 million (US
$6.35 million) alone!
Sunday evening, Richard Thompson closed the festival at 6pm
and everyone got in their cars and left.
Except for me, as I had nowhere to go.
It was quite melancholic. In the
small tent, a jazz quarter was playing softly, and a woman with severe learning
disabilities was dancing awkwardly with her carers. I thought that was so sweet, bringing someone
like that to a music festival. Then
later I noticed they were using sign language, and thought how cruel it was
bringing a deaf person to a music festival!
(Of course, she may not have been deaf, she may have been dumb.)
I went back to my tent – which was now practically alone on
35 acres – and went to bed early. Since
I was driving straight to work, I had left out a suit for the next morning,
although in hindsight I should have taken down the tent before putting on the suit.
Also in hindsight I should not have climbed around in the cut grass, as
my allergies kicked in and my eyes swelled up.
I also figured I could get breakfast along the motorway, but it was 57
miles to the office and the first rest stop was 54 miles.
I returned the tent to my co-worker and let him know it was
rubbish: No central heating, no indoor plumbing, no closet space and I couldn’t
even plug in my kettle! He suggested
that next time I go “glamping.” (I don’t know if that concept has hit the
States, but it is a portmanteau of “glamour” and “camping” -- in other words, a luxury hotel room, in a tent.)
