A Very British Weekend

A friend commented on our “true British grit” as we set off to camp in the Peak District last weekend. Along with four other families, we defied the amber rain warning and forecast of thunder-storms, and pitched our tents on Friday evening in bright, hot sunshine.  We sat enjoying our first mug of tea, watching the kids ride around on their bikes. Surely the forecast must be wrong?

Just after midnight the rain began, pattering on the canvas as we lay snug in our sleeping bags.  Thunder and lightning followed, and we counted between flashes and rumbles, judging the distance of the storm.  At the count of five it started to move away, and I pushed away the niggling anxiety I had been harbouring about lightning and metal tent poles.

At 6.30am we were woken by shuffling and giggling, and the boys emerged, hopping across the tent in their sleeping bags like disheveled invertebrates.  The rain was persistent, and we contemplated the dense grey cloud as we waited for the kettle to boil.  Our plan to spend the day wandering around the Buxton festival in the sunshine was dissolving in the deluge. 

Over breakfast we discovered that one family had abandoned their tent and gone home in the early hours, faced with the twin disasters of a nappy failure and an inconsolable toddler. 

We flicked through tourist information leaflets, looking for inspiration to keep eight adults and ten children entertained. The kids voted for the cinema, and so, feeling rather defeated, we set off for Stockport and the nearest multiplex.

A forty minute drive, and lunch, later, we found that the showing was full. We returned to our cars, shepherding grumpy children with promises of cinema visits in the holidays. 

Back on the campsite, we sat under the shelter with another mug of tea, and I began to wonder whether “true grit” had been the best strategy this weekend.

The kids rode around on their bikes, sprays of wet mud up their backs, hair plastered to their foreheads.  I stopped trying to persuade them under cover; we had dry clothes when they needed them.  They were engrossed in a complex game and the rain didn’t seem to feature. No-one had mentioned TV, or “Minecraft” (their current gaming obsession) for two days.  

Later, the rain stopped and the sky began to brighten over the trees. Backpackers arrived, damp but triumphant, to pitch their tents and peg wet socks to guy-lines.

With the humid evening air came the midges, and we sprayed repellent and lit citronella candles, laughing as we tucked trousers into socks.

My smart-phone had run out of charge. It had not occurred to me to charge it up; checking emails and Facebook no longer seemed that pressing. I put the kettle back on and reached for my book.  

Tomorrow would be dry, and there would be no excuse for inactivity. Maybe camping in the rain isn't so bad after all.