Under wraps

I’m not going to lie ; the above travesty in wrinkled Goretex isn’t going to win me any awards for best pitched tent of 2026. Saggy in all the wrong places, it looks as if it had been hastily erected by someone with zero experience of camping, stumbling around in the dark, possibly after necking several stiff drinks and finally deciding - ochhhh, it’ll do.

Instead of which, it took two elderly and seasoned campers the better part of fifteen minutes to unpack the groundsheet, find a level bit of ground, crawl around on protesting knees, arguing about the exact degree of tension required to attain groundsheet optimisation, whereupon one of us headed back to the main party and the other cursed her way around in the undergrowth, growing increasingly cross as the flysheet failed to pull the whole assemblage into a state where Brown Owl might award her a Brave Effort badge to add to her collection of badges signifying various milestones in a long and challenging life.¹

I did, however, finally decide ‘Ochhhh, it’ll do,’ and stomped off to drink gin with my family.

Night the first: Beloved headed back to the comforts of home as darkness fell, sensible man that he is. I stayed on, deciding that the rare pleasure of two sleepovers with our grown children in a woodland setting was worth the considerable discomforts of having to spend two nights under canvas. We huddled round the woodburner in the cabin, drinking herbal tea to postpone the moment when we headed off in the chilly night to our separate tents. Needless to say, the herbal tea was a mistake.

Possibly you’re thinking the whole notion of camping was a mistake, given that despite it being late May, it was unseasonably cold and yet another rain shower was turning the whole tree canopy into a drippy assault course. We stood shivering at the standpipe, brushing teeth and trying to continue a conversation through mouthfuls of minty froth. To have running water onsite is an incredible luxury.

This is, after all, the same family we camped with for three whole nights on the shores of Loch Fyne twenty one years ago

where we endured deep gloom, horseflies, deer ticks, bracken over our heads

jellyfish, instant potato ( AVOID) and a boat which needed hauled up onshore every hour less it floated away and be lost forever in the same way six cans of beer, set to cool in the shallows, had vanished forever, much to our sons’ chagrin.

That long-ago campsite had no running water. We had to bring our own. Plus enough sachets of instant hot chocolate to placate outright mutiny on the part of our poor, innocent children who’d been sold the idea of camping as something entirely different from the midge-bitten, overcast skies, lost beer, burnt sausage-fest of their lived experience. But the family that camps together…

either murders each other in their tents or goes on to repeat the whole traumatic experience year in, year out as some self-flagellating form of family therapy.

The gin helps. Most of us drink it now that we’re older.

Anyhoo. Back to May 2026. The ancient shed surrounding the composting toilet had developed such a pronounced lean that it was almost impossible to exit without feeling one was on board the Titanic during it’s bow pointing starboards phase. Plus, spiders… So many spiders just waiting for the moment of peak personal vulnerability to brush their legs ( mandibles? eyeballs?) against whichever areas of human skin were available.

Floundering through my tent’s two zippered doors in the beam of a head torch, I wriggled and thrashed out of my boots, tucked them in the porch pockets, reversed into the inner sanctum and zipped myself in for the night. I had brought my pillow from home, ditto pyjamas. I’d sprinkled both of these home comforts in camomile oil in the hopes of aromatherapying myself into a coma. I had earbuds, some stunningly boring podcasts and audiobooks to seal the deal and if all else failed -

I’d downloaded some transcription software onto my phone and actually envisaged dictating a chapter of my adult novel, to myself, in the dark. The children’s tents were far out of earshot of their mother’s creative mutterings, were I to find myself sharing my tent with a muse². I zipped into my four seasons bag, pulled the hood snug round my face and embraced the night. It was, at least at first, utterly idyllic.

Listening to the overhead pattering of rain through the trees and staying warm and dry. Being part of the night life in a wood yet separated from it by a layer of down, goretex and some effortfully inflated cells in a Thermolite air mattress is one of the best feelings. Smug and snug.

Outside, owls hooted, foxes barked, and the sound of distant traffic finally ceased around 11.45 p.m. I dozed, woke frequently, realised that I was in fact, cold. ( 4 seasons, huh? ) It was barely zero degrees outside, and yet I was too cold to sleep. I considered unzipping and pulling my discarded clothes back on but reasoned that such efforts would wake me up completely, whereas lying still and moaning to myself would probably return me to a fitful and twitching slumber. Until the herbal tea demanded release from the confines of me.

So I unzipped a. the bag, b. the inner sanctum, c.the flysheet and stumbled out to find a tree. Sorry, tree. Repeated the whole palaver in reverse and then lay awake and shivering until 4.15 a.m whereupon I decided to head home for a shower. A hot shower.

Unwrapping the world outside

Needless to say, the subsequent night under canvas was spent wearing a merino mid layer long sleeve top and leggings. I was toasty warm but utterly unable to sleep. The audiobooks and podcasts remained unopened, the novel unwritten but oh - the thinks you can think…

Sheesh.

‘Toon inspired by Jane Porter’s excellent online Comics Class

1. The Quorn Badge for Mycoprotein Inventiveness on a Tight Budget.

The Bit my Lip and did not Shriek ‘You are not going out dressed like that’ Badge for Maternal Forbearance.

The Millionth Guinea Pig Poo Pick-up Badge for Dedication Above and Beyond.

The Creative Flow Interruptus Badge for Women Who Multitask While Making Art.

The High Achievement in the Field of De-Kleenexing Wet Laundry After the Spin Badge.

The Gold Standard for Lip Zipping Badge.

The Mostly Unspoken Obscure But Filthy Oath Badge.

2. O make it so.