Who the hell goes camping? Who wants to sleep in a glorified sack listening to everyone else either bonking or snoring while they discover lumps in the ground big enough to penetrate the fattest blow-up bed? You wake up in the middle of the night bursting for a wee before stumbling naked out of the tent trying to relieve yourself without spraying the precious things you couldn’t be arsed putting away.
It’s pitch black, freezing and as you lie there wide awake, you wonder what’s making the little scurrying sounds just outside your tent. Oh, rats love campsites. Just saying!
My first camping trip was a weekend in Llangollen.
By that time, I’d been on a few trips with school to climb mountains in Snowdonia and fell madly in love with Wales. I went with my mate Ray. His parents, Ron and Dot drove us down and they stayed in the caravan whilst me and Ray pitched our tent with the other youngsters of the camping club.
The location was stunning. Either side of us was two spectacular escarpments. The field was green, the weather was mild and we played loads of volleyball. I embraced myself in this rich verdant rural setting. All I wanted to do was just be there.
On the Sunday afternoon, I found my way up to the smaller ridge and engorged myself in the view. I arrived home that evening relaxed and full of stories. It was my first time away from home. My mate Ray’s family did it frequently in the summer. A great way to relax. I slept on a lilo with no issues of the pitch-black piss mission. Mind you, I was only fourteen and pissing was not an issue.
The following Tuesday, I went off to Burton Manor for four nights.
It was a five-day course for Wallasey Youth Orchestra. What a week. All that countryside.
My second camping trip was equally memorable. Jon John and I were coming to the end of our three years at Chester College. We pledged our support for a nearby high school and their annual trip to Anglesey. I found the island wildly enchanting; I still do. To sit on the sands of Newborough Warren and gaze across at the Welsh highlands can’t be bettered.
Our campsite was on the windswept north coast.
After pitching up, I awoke the next morning drenched. The tent had leaked. My friends Jon and John had backed out at the last minute and I was stuck with the staff of Christleton High School. Some were kind but most were cliquey. The following morning, equally sodden, I awoke at first light, packed up my tent and walked to Holyhead. It’s 7.8 miles walking with a suitcase and a tent on my back. Lumbering over the causeway to Holy Island, a very kind railway worker gave me a lift to the station.
It was an exciting journey back along the coast. When the ticket inspector had to prod me awake for my ticket, we were at Colwyn Bay. Despite feeling shunned by the staff and waking up saturated, that Sunday was filled with wonder at the power of such a bleak landscape.
Two years later, undeterred, I travelled down to Cheltenham with a tent on my back to walk the Cotswold Way. In a village called Edge, I found a pub. I stayed a bit too long but still managed to put my tent up in the middle of nowhere; totally against National Trust rules of course.
As the sun rose, I was on my way again. The warm sun shed soft shades of dappled light through the leaves of the ancient trees. I crossed farms and fields before following a ridge to a village called Nailsworth.:
“Oh look, another pub.”
I’d been walking for six hours and the pub was just opening. Time for a pint! I didn’t use the tent again that holiday. I stayed at a B and B in Wells and met up with a mate for five days in Taunton.
Now if I were to go into the same amount of detail with the next camping trips, you may well want to eat your own arm with boredom. So, here’s a summary:
1980 Abersoch with Eddie. I discovered Bardsey Sound. Truly beautiful.
1985 Coach to the Costa Brava and big tent with brother and family. Wild.
1986 Two weeks on my own in Tarragona. Even wilder. Those naughty spliffy things.
1992 Drove in my Escort Mexico through France to meet my mate Pete for a week in a flat in the heart of Provence. Very middle-class drinking more wine than beer.
1993 Went all the way up to Durness. The tent blew down in the gale force whatever.
1993 Two nights in Aberdaron, nephew minding. Whispering sands.
1994 Drove through France and Spain to meet friends in Malaga. Lazy long days drinking by the tents.
1997 Ten days with Stash in Cognac. Men behaving badly.
2000 In Brittany discovering Calvados. Satan’s apple.
2003 Going through France on honeymoon. More spliffy stuff. Spectacular scenery and food.
And that’s it.
Thirty-three years of not-so-regular camping where I had the tolerance and fortitude to smile through sleepless nights on stony floors, continental, rarely cleaned toilets and as much cheap drink as I could squeeze down my neck.
It gave me the opportunity to see vast swathes of France and Spain without breaking the bank.
What were the most memorable things?
The dust. The dreadful toilets. The noise. Diving endlessly. Getting lost in St Etienne. The spectacular places. The good company. Freedom. In 1994, I’d been diagnosed with MS. I became an angry young man.
But the friends stuck with me.
Thank you for reading.
mcchrystaleyes 