Loitering within tent

A word of advice for anyone contemplating a camping holiday...don’t!
No matter how idealistically stimulating it sounds to up sticks and head to the great outdoors this Summer, take it from one who has often loitered within tent...it ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

To leave the comforts of civilisation in order to enjoy the benefits of living under canvas and savour the delights of ‘roughing it’ is madness in the extreme. I should know, I have been man against wild, I have laid on my back in the middle of a cold and blustery night, staring up at the stars, wondering where our tent has gone.

I have squeezed through a tent flap, into the cold forbidding night, like Captain Oats of the Antarctic, whispering to my wife that I am just going for a short walk. Dressed only in my pyjamas, swan dry, track suit and beanie I have fumbled my way through a dark wooded area, wishing that I had not drunk all that liquid the night before.
I remember the night well; it was foolish to venture bare footed into unchartered territory. I managed to tread upon the only nodding thistle within a five square mile radius and I discovered that at night small but sturdy, pointy tree branches move surreptitiously from the upper part of a tree to groin level.
My definition of camping is ‘learning to stay alive in a hostile environment’.
The adventure stories, tales of daring-do and books about the great outdoors fail to mention that the number of giant sand flies in any given location is dependent on whether or not you remembered to pack the Dimp. Keep a bottle of repellent in your pack; you will not see hide nor hair of a biting insect, conversely leave the Dimp in your medicine cabinet at home; you will be eaten alive.
My wife is usually very well organised, she cannot help herself. This is a commendable talent but one that totally falls apart when we go camping. Oh she plans alright; she plans beyond the call of duty.
One summer we decided to pitch our tent at Ocean beach in Hawkes Bay. Everything was loaded onto the back of our Austin Gypsy truck. Mattresses, pillows, coolie chairs,fridge, Labrador (he slept in a pup tent) and chest of drawers! I kid you not; we took a fully laden, six drawer chest of drawers on a camping holiday! The fact that I was in charge of securely roping the load and then loosing it all on the Havelock roundabout, is neither here nor there.
Who could forget our summer holiday at Hahei in the Coromandel? We wanted a good night’s sleep so purchased the very best double blow up mattress we could find. I pumped it up, the kids, Labrador and I jumped up and down on it. Having had an exhausting first day, we retired to bed at eight thirty. By nine fifteen we were on the floor. I had to pump it up again. I pumped that bloomin’ mattress up six times in the night; goodness knows what the neighbouring campers thought about the huffing and puffing emanating from our tent. By morning we were all deflated.
Then there was the piece de résistance, the final curtain to camping holidays. Waihau Bay camping ground produced the wettest two weeks on record and we were in the middle of it. Everything was damp, the food was damp the clothing was damp even the damp was damp. We awoke in the middle of the night suffering from a lack of oxygen. It felt like a giant Hippo was sitting on our faces. ‘Get off John’ my wife gasped. Turned out to be rain water, a huge reservoir filled the roof of our tent and threatened to engulf us. We heaved it into the air, spilling gallons upon the neighbouring campers.
Camping anyone? Never again!!