Zipped In

To mark the end of summer it seemed fitting to dedicate something to one of my most cherished traditions. Camping. I’ve crawled in and out of tents all summer and at points where dramatic temperature changes have led to deathly fever, have begun contemplating where the appeal lies.

My excitement for camping has too often been met with puzzled expressions from people who don’t know how to hammer a tent peg into the ground. I can see their point. You live in claustrophobic and unhygienic conditions, where boiling an egg is a 3-hour palaver of empty gas canisters and damp matches…and you pay to do that? Apparently not everyone grew up determinedly clipping sheets across tree branches or attempted to turn the bottom area of their bunk bed into a version of Aladdin’s cave. Tents are nostalgic and I am just a sucker for opportunities to reminisce.

Camping also requires quite a bit of effort. The dependence on torchlights and half-mile trek to the toilets seems unnecessarily strenuous, especially when buckling on a guide rope results in a face-full of cow-pat. Well, at least you escape the pressure of hair straighteners and electric razors. No one is saying you have to attempt building a campfire, accidentally burn a few sausages and sing along to classic acoustic guitar ballads like American Pie, (I recommend all of these). Being outdoors just makes you more impulsive. Do a handstand. Take a walk. Have a swim. Go on a jog. Write, read, or draw something. Anything.

Or not. Just enjoy waking up to the smell of damp grass, listening to rain daringly tiptoe across a sheltering strip of canvas.

Tenting experiences to follow…


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