It had always been a puzzle to me why people went camping. Folk work hard to surround themselves with those small luxuries which make life conducive; hot water, fridges, comfortable chairs, beds, and a myriad of lesser items. It seemed a form of masochism that they would, apparently willingly, sacrifice all this for a few days at the mercy of the elements, midges, and damp clothes. But I was about to find out for myself just what joys camping had to offer. We were a fairly typical family group. There was Mum, stepdad, myself, home from my first trip to sea, Sister Jackie, 16, and young David, 3. Together, we were about to embark on a memorable experience.
It promised to be one of those desirable rarities, a bank holiday weekend with a favourable weather forecast. An excursion of some kind seemed preferable to spending the weekend in the back garden feeling that we had wasted a good opportunity. On the other hand, we were sufficiently familiar with day trips to North Wales to wish to avoid the inevitable traffic jams, overfull cafes, and crowded beaches.
It was Dad who suggested going further afield on a camping trip. There was a long silence before several objections and doubts were raised. We had no tent; "That’s OK, cousin Reg has a tent we could borrow". Someone said that we were too inexperienced, but Dad said that he had not been a Royal Marine for nothing. Would Betsy, our elderly Hillman Minx, be up to the job? Well, she had never let us down before. Mother knew she was on a losing wicket, and her protests were muted, and she became rather quiet. Sister Jackie, in typical teenage fashion, just kept saying "No way". You can’t tell these kids anything, can you?
Within the hour, the decision was made. Planning, preparation and packing took up the rest of the day, ready for an early start next morning. Dad announced that our destination was Abersoch in mid Wales, and although the rest of us had never heard of it, Dad assured us that someone in the pub had said it was the ideal place to camp. There were still a couple of problems to overcome, but with a military mind at work, overcome they were. Reg said that of course we could borrow his tent, but pointed out that it was only a climbing tent, but seeing as none of us knew what a climbing tent was, it made no difference. Jackie still insisted that she had no intention of climbing Welsh mountains in a tight skirt and high heels, especially as there wouldn’t be a hair dryer for miles. It was agreed that as we couldn’t put a wise head on young shoulders, we would drop her off to stay with Auntie Joan for the weekend en route.
Although city dwellers, with all that implied, we were not complete idiots in matters rural. We knew our sheep from our cows, although not too sure about heifers. We knew that farm gates had to be closed, and that this inevitably meant standing in a cow-pat. We also knew North Wales, it had mountains to the left, and sea to the right, having ventured as far as Llandudno on occasion, so no need for road maps.
Next morning dawned bright and sunny, and promised to be a ‘fry eggs on the pavement’ sort of day, and we set off in high spirits, the car overloaded to the point of imbalance. Base camp was at Auntie Joans, where we offloaded sister Jackie and her 5 weekend cases. There was now a little more room in the boot, and as we pulled away, Jackie and Auntie Joan, waving Goodbye, clung to each other laughing as pots, pans, primus stove and provisions rearranged themselves into a new order with a loud clatter. Poor deluded fools, they didn’t appreciate what they were about to miss. The adventure had begun
Having consumed several pots of tea to fortify ourselves before departure, plus 2 more at Auntie Joan’s, there were frequent requests for toilet stops. We were able to measure our distance from civilisation by the increasing primitiveness of the facilities, the final one being so rural that Mum was unable to complete her mission, saying that it was too full of ivy and spiders to enter. Eventually, we found her a secluded spot behind a hedge, but at the critical moment, a cow popped its head over the hedge and mooed at her. The experience changed Mum into something of a camel, and she lost the need to spend a penny for hours after that. Baby David, a notoriously bad car traveller, slept peacefully throughout the journey. When I remarked on this, Mum said that although he was really too young, she had given him a ‘Kwell’ tablet before leaving home. I decided not to mention that I had also given him one, and it later transpired that Auntie Joan had also given him one. It is a wonder the poor kid ever woke up again, and I don’t think he has ever been the same since.
I was a trainee navigator, and you will remember that North Wales has sea to the right, but when we saw sea to the left, I decided we were lost. Dad said I obviously didn’t know my east from my west, or even my arse from my elbow. Most of the locals appeared to speak Serbo-Croat, but when we eventually found one who could speak pidgin English, he informed us that we were looking at Cardigan Bay, and the mountain in the distance was Cader Idris, which was only visible in good weather. We had arrived, and found a beautiful field in which to set up camp, surrounded by woods, and sloping gently down to the Bay.
We parked the car in the field, and went for our first paddle. Dad decreed that as I was a sailor, I would be best suited to erecting the tent, while he got a brew going. He handed me a small canvas bag containing the tent. I buckled to and soon learned what a climbing tent was. It was a small canvas cone, big enough to house 2 small dwarves at a pinch. Instead of flaps, it was entered via a long canvas tube, with a diameter of 32 inches, and even in those days, I had a 34-inch waist, hence when I entered, there was a gentle ripping sound. I decided that we had a problem, which Dad said we should discuss over a mug of tea. Black tea, as the milk had curdled on the journey. Still this served to disguise the dead insects and grass floating on the surface. As our leader, Dad said that he would sacrifice himself and rough it in the car with the baby, while Mum and I were almost slim enough to get into the tent. Orders were issued that I should unpack the car, while Dad would prepare a meal. As he struggled to light the stove, I was instructed to unload the car. I innocently asked where I should unpack the provisions to, only to be told to use my initiative, so I placed them neatly on the grass behind the car, then went to see how the meal was progressing. Bacon, bangers, beans and bugs were sizzling away nicely, well they do if you drop cold water into hot fat. The first drops of rain began to fall, and Cader Idris began to disappear from view. Damply, we sat in the car to eat our watery meal, then we all got soaked packing our now soggy belongings back into the boot. There then followed a short group discussion about what to do next, but as it was now dark, the only suggestion put forward was that we should have an early night. We did not even need to wash the dishes, as the rain had done an excellent job of it. Heroically, Dad and David settled down in the car, locking the doors to guard against marauding wolves, while Mum and I retired to our minuscule wigwam. Mum entered on all fours, getting stuck halfway, her backside protruding in a most unladylike fashion. Several sharp pushes and more tearing sounds got her entombed, and I followed her into the coffin like tent. We soon discovered that whatever the merits of a camping tent were, being waterproof was not one of them. I suggested that if we did not touch the canvas, the water would not drip in, but this was an academic point, as we were wedged against its sides. Stoically, we lay there, hoping that the noise of the rain would eventually lessen enough for us to fall asleep.
After several hours of trying to keep our sleeping bags dry, Mum asked quietly if I was still. awake. "Of course I’m still awake, I’m trying not to bloody drown". We decided to return to the car. We paddled out of the tent on all fours, scrabbling in the deep mud outside, and staggered to the car, where father and son could be seen sleeping peacefully inside.. We banged on the window to wake Dad up. He slowly came to, looked at the torrential downpour, and wound his window down an inch.
"What do you want?" he enquired
"Let us in" said Mum
"Why?" he asked. The rest of the conversation cannot be repeated, as Mum used language that made even this sailor blush. Once inside, heated words were exchanged, and we spent the rest of the night steaming in every sense. Dawn eventually arrived, and the rain stopped. Dad, much refreshed after his nights sleep, and still dry, brightly offered to get breakfast on the go, after which we could decide on what we were going to do for the day
"No" said Mum ever so quietly, "Just take me home". This was said in a tone so final and determined that even Dad did not argue.
Eventually, we found a farmer to tow us out of the field for an exorbitant fee, and set off homewards. However, it was many hours since Dad had had a few beers, hence his sense of direction had deserted him completely. At one stage, we crossed a bridge, only to cross it again an hour later, in the opposite direction. By now the roads were filling up with day-trippers, all decked out in their Sunday best, while we looked like bedraggled refugees from a flood disaster. Eventually, we found a roadside café, full of smiling tourists. It was a converted old church, and the counter was where the alter used to be. Imagine the picture, as we processed up the aisle, leaving puddles behind us to the astonishment of other customers. Having ordered some breakfast, I was deputed to pay. Taking a wad of soggy notes from my pocket, I tried to peel a couple off, but they disintegrated. Blodwyn only accepted them with great reluctance. We did not tarry long, as we did not wish to give the place a bad reputation.
We eventually arrived back at Aunty Joan’s, where they had had no rain at all, but we failed to see the joke. No more camping trips for us. Next time we would hire a canal boat, but that is another story.
