Everyone should go camping.
Even if you think you won’t like it, you should just try it once… just for me (Unless, of course, you have agoraphobia. If you have that you need to stay at home because I don’t want you freaking out my kids with all of your yelling and shit).
There is something about camping that my words will not let me explain to you. There is something about the air combined with the hum of the ocean combined with the lingering smoke. It is the crispness of the morning as the mist slowly reveals the surface of the river. It is (now that I have spawned) watching my children watching the fire as their own father did when he was a child… as did his father before him. It is the absence of the sounds and smells of the civilized world. And, it is the way I am made to feel at home like only the bush could do for a man with a beard such as mine.
And of course there is the food.
As long as there is some kind of receptacle that may hold dead wood, which may in turn be set alight using nothing more than a regular household cigarette lighter or matches, that is. This installation, that we shall refer to as “the fire pit”, is then used as a source of heat to cook said food and also warm both your earthly being and spirit (I have found that a hip flask is also good in such occasions – not the cooking, but the warming of body and spirit). The food you cook on a set up like this cannot be repeated in an ordinary household kitchen. Why? Simply because you do not have a word fired stove. Every whisp of smoke that floats gently over your food, caressing it with it’s loveliness, is camping gold.
Which brings me very neatly to my next port of literary call; camp seasoning.
As we sat around the fire (not singing a chorus of “Kumbayah” thank fuck. I would have quite possibly punched myself fair in the nuts if that had have gone down) drinking our tea, we spoke about the taste of a brew from the coals and just how damn good a simple cup of tea can be when licked by the wisps of smoke that shall be affectionately known as “camp seasoning”. I definitely come for a world where everything can be made better by a dose of smoke. A big hit of tasty, tasty, smoky sexual emanation from the coital union of wood and flames.
I’m getting aroused.
But that’s my camping experience. It’s a different beast for different people, I can understand. As I walked along the dunes today I did notice a lot of solar panels and I-pads to keep the kids occupied. Not for me, but I say that as I type away on my laptop… now contemplating the irony of the situation… now contemplating what irony is… now remembering the line from the BBC classic “Blackadder” when Baldrick suggested that irony was “just like tinny and coppery… just irony…”
And that shall segue me nicely, but with a heavy heart, into my next subject; the passing of one of my all time favourite actors slash comedians – Rik Mayall. A legend of many BBC classics such as “The Young Ones”, “Filthy Rich and Catflap”, “The Comic Strip” and, of course, “Blackadder”, in which he played the boisterous Lord Flashheart – purveyor of anything male a woman may want for. RIP Flashy. Woof, Woof!