Storm in a teacup

As I looked out of the rain smeared window on the bus  back from Covent Garden this morning,  I thought about the rain in Devon. Proper skin drenching rain, with an earthy dampness that softens your skin and mingles with the  smell of woodsmoke and damp socks, the perfume of summer camping.

This years camp got off to a promising start, with blue skies and sun and my birthday  swim at high tide,  a pint of Tribute and a picnic of squidgy cheese and pickles balanced on the rocks. That’s the thing about the weather down there,  it throws a bit of sunshine at you and you get carried away. You forget to pack waterproofs and boots when you go out, because you simply can’t imagine  that within the space of an hour the wind will pick up,  the clouds start to  bleed into each other like a Turner painting and the soft pitter patter of rain on canvas  worsk  itself into a drumming frenzy of Samba band proportions as the sky closes in on itself.

As I have said before in numerous posts,  we are well prepared. This is not because we are particularly clever, more that 28 years or so of coming here has made it abundantly clear that this is not the sort of holiday for a pop up tent and a quiet night in, with a tin of ready made gin and tonic as you huddle in your ( tiny) porch waiting for it to stop raining. No, it needs to be a holiday of military canvas and a proper drinks cabinet. And a well equipped kitchen complete with saffron and mushroom stock cubes. We probably eat better there than any of us do at home, and its all the more fun because its outdoors and pretty much anything tastes delicious when you have been in the fresh air all day, even the odd slug that may accidentally have found itself in the wrong place at the wrong time. And the introduction of quiz night added to the fun, though certain people should perhaps have a little chat with themselves about the rights and wrongs of cheating before we do it again next year. Personally the local round was most informative and I was astonished to find that the actual cost of a ( plastic) basket of cheesy chips at the quay  is £4.25p. I must thank the quiz masters for that snippet and budget accordingly in the future.

After five days of hot sun, the storm rumours started. Not any old storm, a storm of Biblical proportions, one that would bring down caravans and camper vans , trailing sodden tents  in its wake. The locals even considered cancelling the carnival, an event that had carried on despite everything for the past 100 years. It was hard to imagine the upset this very thought must have caused the gaggle of farmers, who viewed this one day in the whole year as their opportunity to borrow their wives frocks and mascara and frolic down the high street in  fishnets.

Friday morning loomed blustery and wild. The church spire at the end of the field had been swallowed up in a sea mist, and if you looked out across towards Lundy you could see the waves frothing and crashing around the headland like angry wasps. People were packing up , shoving damp tarpaulins and bags into their boots, chivvying children and disobedient dogs to hurry up and get into the car. Gradually the campsite was emptying as people headed out, relieved to be returning to four walls and double gazing.

Obviously we didn’t all go with them. We reckoned that our corner would survive if we moved everything down into the hedge , so we shifted the army shelter and dragged  all the cookers and crates underneath. My van wouldn’t blow down ( hopefully) and the bell tents  should withstand strong winds. So we drank wine and waited.

At about 2am the wind really started to howl, to the point that I had to lie in bed holding on to the main pole of my bell tent. At about 2.30am G came in to say hers had collapsed and that she was moving into the Ford Capri. At about 5 am the wind direction changed and the full force slammed against the front porch , collapsing the poles that hold it together. At the same time the wind whipped around the guy ropes so that the entire front was flattened and the whole tent  was doing some kind of crazy blancmange dance . At this point I went into the van and woke L who claimed to be asleep. After some prodding he got up. ” Fucking hell” he said as we managed to get it upright and pegged backed in.

The next morning the sky was clear, though the wind continued all day through to the evening, rattling and whining through the shelters, which remarkably were undamaged.

Just in case we hadn’t had our fill of wind, we went to the lighthouse, and then down to the quay where huge waves crashed over the quay as we ordered cheesy chips ( £4.25) and pints.

And they got away with the carnival that night though to be honest we were all so exhausted we were all in bed by 10pm.

Roll on next year.