Jam or cream on top?

As usual, the sheep and I are up first in the field, with a cup of tea for me and I imagine, fresh grass for the sheep. I remember one night camping in the orchard in Kent in our ( now retired) tipi . Possibly because I had forgotten my torch or possibly because we had drunk too much, we left the tipi door wide open. I woke in the night to hear this weird scrunching noise next to my head and was slightly shocked to find a large damp sheep nuzzling into the packet of cheddars we had left out. Another time down here I had decided to come and camp on my own and for the first time pitched my bell tent in the next field, the field that is wild and windy with a view of Tims stone and the ancient swannery ( though it’s hard to imagine what sort of life they must have had being battered half to death on the rocks). The first night was mildly alarming as I kept waking up thinking I could hear a mad axe man sharpening his knives somewhere in the hedge ( think Withnail and I kind of vibe) . What was also alarming was that there was absolutely no signal at all so there was no way I could alert the ( who? Bideford police.? Coastguard ? ) . The second night there was an awful storm, a storm that whipped and snarled around me like being tossed at sea in a washing machine with sheets of rain smashing against the canvas. Finally the whole front of the bell tent collapsed in on itself emptying a night full of rain on to my bedding and clothes. I gave up and got in the car and drove to the farmhouse where C made me a cup of tea. The interesting ( or perhaps not so ) fact about all this was that that very morning C had introduced me to a very boring gnome of a man who was in his perfectly formed beige caravan and claimed to be a weather forecast expert and even had some kind of weather aerial on top of his caravan. He was extremely pleased with himself and proclaimed that the next two days were going to be perfect camping weather. A claim no doubt based on the fact that he was living in his caravan with a gas heater and a roof so any train was of no consequence to him whatsoever. Either way he was useless and should perhaps consider another career. C later found two pairs of my pants and one sock lying in a sodden heap in the brambles. Being a very polite and discreet gentleman he folded them neatly and put them on the bonnet of my car. I threw them in the bin on the way up to the house.

And so here we are again in the ( other ) field in North Devon and goodness me, it’s a tidy camp. Gone are the days of endless trips in the rain to the laundrettes in Bude or Bideford, the highlight of which was always actually sitting in the car with the heating full on. We no longer have to lug water down from the top field, heat it up and then wash up dirty plates and mugs, while trying to keep a herd of feral children out of the mud, the fire and out of trouble, failing miserably on all three counts. There is now a washing machine , more loos, hot showers AND a washing up room with three sinks and Radio 2 playing at all times. Our army shelter ( Colonel Poppit) is up, we have cookers and my big burners at the ready, Ronnie Sunshine ( my Dutch oven ) has broken loose from our Camberwell garden and is waiting to be loaded up with chickens and fresh herbs for tonight’s dinner. The fire pit is dug and even the cool boxes are perfectly paralleled parked next to each other. This year , to add to the fun we have introduced a white board which hangs in the Poppit. Each morning we add a thought for the day ( yesterday’s offering was ” if you can survive camping with someone you should marry them on the way home”) the weather forecast , a list of the days activities , amusing comments..you get the picture. Its the little things that keep us happy, and frankly I find much to be happy about when I’m here.

Much of our time here is spent discussing the weather and what to eat/ drink next, when is high tide, the state of people’s bowels, whether it really is brightening up ( or does it just look like it because we are sitting under a dark canvas). Its amazing how much of the morning you can get through with these sorts of topics, particularly as it starts again as a new person emerges into the group so we recycle the chat through to about lunchtime then it’s time to eat again. We also spend hours making up games and quizzes. When the kids were smaller we also had to factor in the quad bike ride that happened each morning , the kids straining their ears for the sound of the bike and trailer and would then go off happily in a squealing herd with C who would take them hurtling across the cliffs to feed the sheep ( and teach them about electric fences by getting them to hold on to them, a practice not necessarily embraced by the other parents but it was just fine by us). But now they are all taller than me and would rather stay under the duvet than be out in the fields and I guess the next lot of quad bikers from this end will be our grandchildren. In the old days, Charlie the milkman used to drive round the field in his van with milk, eggs etc. He was a bit fascinated with our tribe of tipi dwellers and one day brought his grandchildren up ” to look inside the wigwam”. His fascination with us dwindled into mild horror as on entering they found a sleeping bag smouldering in the fire, with a gaggle of filthy matted haired children in pyjamas playing top trumps, totally oblivious to the melting bedding in front of them.

Since starting this post the church tower at the end of the field has disappeared into fog, the rain turned from fine mist into a heavy downpour, we went down the road for a swim, bobbing about like corks in the jade green swirling mass of splashing and splashing as the waves crashed over the end of the quay, shivering as we dried ourselves with damp towels, our hair sticky with salt. The church bells are ringing, the rain has stopped, sun has come out and the breakfast team are frying up sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes and fried eggs. And if I hadn’t left the camping radio on all night and drained the batteries I would be listening to The Archers. But actually it doesn’t matter one bit. And as if things couldn’t get better there is a dog show in the village hall.