Happy Camper

Home sweet home...

Haggling over the price with the grumpy reception lady. Praying for a few square metres of juicy grass only to find a gravelly wasteland. Preventing the footprint from blowing into a treetop while unpacking the rest of the tent. The usual fiddling with the tentpoles. Stripping the soaked cycling gear from your shivering body to discover that the showers only give cold water. Drying yourself with the same towel you used for the dishes the night before. Intending to prepare a mouth-watering meal with the one stove you have, and somehow always ending up with a big plate of lentils or beans. Turning in at nine because it's too cold and dark to sit outside. Having just strapped yourself into your sleeping bag and realise that you forgot to go to the loo. Arriving at the loos and finding out it's a bring-your-own affair. Waking up with a sore back because your air mattress has difficulty staying inflated. Having to dry your tent every single morning, both on the outside (rain or dew) and on the inside (condensation), while the only thing you want is to hop on your bike and ride off.

The view from my tent in L'Hospitalet de l'Infant (Catalonia)

But also... Sitting down after a long day in the saddle, stretching the old pistons and basking in the last light of day. Being welcomed by fellow campers—always with a friendly smile and a hammer for the pegs, often with a cold beer, and sometimes even with a chair and a table and an invitation to come over and watch that night's footie or get some milk or coffee in the morning. Falling asleep to the sound of the wind in the trees, a one-note cricket concert, the soft drum of a nocturnal shower or the deep roar of the sea. Crawling out of your tent early in the morning, still half asleep but feeling your senses awaken to a rejuvenated world, everything fresh and sparkling and full of possibility, sensing that nothing is more real than this—the cold air in your nostrils, the pale light of a new day.