Camping it up!

In my younger days I went camping on many occasions, and really enjoyed the outdoor experience. However, with Juliet consistently showing zero enthusiasm for holidaying under canvas, until last summer the most recent nights I spent under campus were back in 1997 when I walked along the Thames Path from its source at Kemble in Gloucestershire to the Thames Barrier at Woolwich.

Last year, however, I finally found myself a campsite companion when Hannah announced that she wanted to go camping during the summer holidays. So, with a new tent and various other bits of equipment packed into the back of the car we set off to Norfolk, where after we'd set up camp in fine sunny conditions, it started to rain and didn't stop for the entire four days of our stay. Fortunately the novelty of being under canvas kept Hannah's spirits up and didn't dampen her enthusiasm for another attempt this year.

Juliet's sister, Rachel and her family have been living in Jersey for a year. Against all expectations when we started to think about planning a visit for this summer, Juliet announced that she was willing to give camping a try. After all, she reasoned, if things got too grim in the tent, there would always be Rachel's sofa to sleep on if an emergency room couldn't be found in a hotel. In the event, Juliet seemed to even quite enjoy the outdoor experience, although possibly not enough to want to repeat it in a hurry.

Our tent is to the left next to the caravan.

The weather was mostly fair during our stay, and the campsite at Rozel was picturesque and well kept with very clean facilities in the shower and toilet block, which even included a hairdryer no less. I think perhaps the only real negative, and it's the one thing about camping that I really struggle with myself, was the inconvenience of getting up in the night to answer a call of nature. Or in my case, calls of nature, my bladder sadly nowhere near as efficient as it was in my younger camping days. It's a right old pallaver, and even more so in rain as heavy as we expeienced on our final night, even though as a male I have the advantage of being able to use mother nature's own urinal, also known as the grass a few steps outside the tent.

The picturesque harbour at Rozel Bay, about a mile from the campsite

We had a lovely relaxing time throughout our stay in Jersey. My young niece and nephew, Katie and Josh loved spending time with their older cousin and vice versa. An unexpected and massive bonus for us were the front row tickets that Rachel had bought us for the famous "Battle of the Flowers" parade, which has been an annual highlight of summer in St Helier since 1902. It was by some distance the most colourful, creative and enjoyable carnival style event that I have ever attended and we all left the seafront buzzing with excitement.

A throwback to the 1960s during the "Battle of the Flowers"

This was my third visit to Jersey, having spent a week there in the early 1980s with my brother Simon and a weekend in 1987 on an inter-bank sporting visit when I was working in the City. The Sunshine Hotel, where Simon and I stayed, no longer exists having been pulled down to make way for a residential development. Not surprising really I suppose, as it was already pretty dated when we stayed nearly 30 years ago but I was nevertheless disappointed not be be able to spot it as we emerged from tunnel that passes under the Fort at St Helier. There was an element of hi de hi about the hotel with its chalet style rooms and organised evening entertainments. Dining room places were allocated in advance and non-negotiable. We were placed next to a couple of lairy OAP eastenders, Bill and Lil. Lil was especially loud and Bill had a fondness for string vests and pants that extended to putting more of them on public display than was strictly necessary, but they were a game old couple who meant well and enjoyed a laugh. For the whole week we managed to keep up the pretence with Bill and Lil that I was a dustman and Simon was unemployed and that I'd paid for him to come on holiday to cheer him up. They kept repeating how kind this was of me (e.g. "Ahhh, ain't that lovely Bill?), and were also unnaturally interested in what my job as a binman involved. By the end of the week I'd described so many of the unusual objects we came across in people's bins that I almost believed I really was Bromley's answer to Curly Watts.

Another noteworthy couple on that holiday were Mr and Mrs Buckle, whose chalet was next to ours. The Buckles, who seemed to disappear back to their room immediately after dinner every night, told us nearly every morning that we had woken them up on returning to our room in the middle of the night. We felt that this was unfair as after their first complaint we were careful to slip back quietly each night and concluded that either Mr and Mrs B were very light sleepers or just habitually miserable. Either way their moaning grew increasingly irritating and eventually prompted us to exact a measure of revenge on our last day. As we left our chalet for the last time we noticed that the Buckles had left their key in the door on the outside. We quietly approached the door, removed the key and buried it in a flower bed. Twenty minutes later as we waited in reception for the coach to take us back to the airport, an announcement was made over the tannoy,

"Would Mr and Mrs Buckle please return their room key to reception"

"You had it last," said Mrs Buckle to her husband "where did you put it?"

"We must have used it to get into the room when we returned from the shops this morning" replied Mr Buckle, "Are you sure you haven't picked it up since then?"

"No, it must be in your trouser pocket" answered his wife "Oh but you've changed into your going home trousers since then. It must be in your suitcase"

At which point Mr Buckle started to empty his case onto the floor just as the coach arrived. Ten minutes later the Buckles, very flustered and arguing with each other, were the last people to board the coach. Of course, as a responsible 50 year old I would never do anything like that now, but I do allow myself a little chuckle every time I remember this episode.

Anyway, enough for now of anecdotes from my youth and back to August 2011. After a brief interlude  in Cornwall (see Doin' it Dreckly), Hannah and I dropped Juliet off at Newquay Airport for her flight to Gatwick and subsequent return to work, and headed back towards Weymouth to spend a further three days under canvas at Haven's Littlesea holiday park.

Our idyllic pitch at Littlesea next to the Wildlife Reserve
.

The park, which is enormous, consists mainly of very well equipped static caravans. The camping area, positioned next to a beautiful wildlife reserve, is very well kept with washing facilities even more pristine than those at Rozel, and campers have the same access to all of the central facilities at the park as guests staying in the permanent accommodation. However, once we had put up the tent in sunny but blustery conditions, somehow our enthusiasm for camping seemed to have evaporated. Our hearts were no longer in it. I'm not exactly sure why. Perhaps, unless you are a die-hard camper or a member of the SAS, living under canvas is fine up to a point but that after a certain number of days, five in our case, a tipping point is reached at which the lure of your own bed and the attraction of a short dry journey to the lavatory seizes control and starts to override everything else. At 4:00 am on our second night we were woken by the rain hammering down on the tent even more fiercely than we had experienced in Norfolk last year. It was still coming down just as hard when we eventually dared to brave the outside world 6 hours later and heard from fellow campers that so heavy was the deluge, large parts of Bournemouth and Poole, a few miles along the coast, were completely under water. Fortunately the camping area, although sodden, was relatively high up and so not in danger of being flooded, but by now our minds were made up. If there was a break in the rain, we would pack up the tent and return home one day early. This just wasn't much fun any more.

And luckily, that's exactly what happened. The rain relented for an hour or so, just long enough for us to break camp and set off for home just as the heavens opened again. At home the following day, prolonged sunshine and a keen breeze enabled me to put up the tent in the back garden and allow it to dry out and be be packed away neatly ready for next year. By then, of course, my enthusiasm for camping will have returned. However, I'll definitely be taking my tipping point theory into account in the planning process. Four days max!