Camping

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 18^th 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.)