Tag Archives: Camping

Newsflash: It Rains In Wales

19 Aug


Q: How do you fit two adults, two dogs, three teenage boys, one girl child, a tent, sundry camping equipment including a carpet, TV, and a fridge into a little 1400 Citroen?

A: Don’t be daft!  It’s not a Mary Poppins’ Tardis.  You don’t; you get one teenage boy’s Dad to bring him along, with half your gear.  Thanks, Dennis.

About three weeks ago the Hub said, ‘The weather is supposed to improve; let’s go camping.  Let’s go camping and take the niece and nephew and Spud’s friend. Let’s go camping in North Wales because it’s only an hour’s drive from here and I can just about manage that with my ME.  Let’s go camping and forget our last experience of three days in a tent in October in a gale.  Let’s go camping because the Olympics will be over and the football season won’t start until a week later and I’ll be bored.  Let’s go camping.’

I’m pretty intuitive, and I began to suspect that the Hub wanted to go camping.

He looked online, found a nice camp site about four miles each way from Abergele and Rhyl, and booked four nights, five days for six people and two dogs, reasonably priced.

Come last Monday morning, we loaded up the cars and went off on a summer holiday.  We had no trouble finding the camp site; we were given a good spot – sheltered, near the water hole.  The tent went up in fifteen minutes with all those bodies and because we knew how to do it this time.  The gazebo and wind breaker went up even faster.

We sat; we rested; the children explored and played.  We braaied sausages and hamburgers for dinner.  We congratulated ourselves on our choice of week, weather-wise.

The heavens opened.  We scuttled inside the tent and made the best of it.

The heavens closed, leaving behind a rainbow.  The children, dogs and I went for a walk.  The children played football and badminton.

Night came.  We watched a movie and went to bed, having first scoured the wonderful clear sky for the tail end of the Perseid meteor shower.  Hub and Spud were fortunate enough to see a couple.  Me, nothing.  The one time in fifteen years I’ve had a clear sky to witness it, and I was in the toilet.

The clear sky departed.  It rained all night.

Welcome to Wales.


Holiday’s A-Comin’

17 Aug

The Sun newspaper may be regularly derided and vilified but ten million readers will agree that they have great offers. Page 3 Girl Lucinda Lexicona from Luton declares ‘I asseverate that Sun readers are indebted to the editor’s munificence and much esteem their £9.50 caravan holidays.’

Not having had a holiday together in twelve years (and that was a disaster never to be spoken of again while the Hub and I are breathing…ssh! He’s coming), we thought it might be a good idea to splash out a tenner each for the four of us.

I bought the paper and saved the vouchers and we were all set to go when it suddenly occurred to us that we probably couldn’t take our dogs to stay in Pontins’ holiday flats. We were right. Mightily disappointed but not prepared to send our pets to kennels that cost more per night than we were paying for the week, we put away our sun block (for holding the door open to let in a little rain) and thunk again.

Thinking not being our thing, we were relieved when The Sun rode to our rescue with a fresh plan: cut out these here noo vouchers and you can go camping (at a camp site that allows dogs) for £1 a night. We simply had to phone our chosen camp site, book it, and pay up front.

We upgraded to a stand with electricity and mentioned the dogs and a week’s camping holiday in Abergele with our dogs and however many of our kids can tolerate our snoring in October when it’s turning cold(er) and wet(ter) after this delightful summer of leaky skies, will cost us a grand total of £25.

Now all we have to do is buy a tent.

Happy New Year

31 Dec

A long time ago, in a New Year's party far, far away...

The Hub, Spud and I will be spending New Year’s Eve watching a movie here in Stockport.  We will sing Auld Lang Syne at midnight, drink a toast, then chuck Spud out of the house so he can First Foot us.  Tory Boy is at a party somewhere in Lancaster, and will probably phone us just after twelve.  And that’s the extent of our celebrations.  I can’t even blame it on being parents because we’ve never made a big deal of New Year, apart from one many moons ago, when we were over here in the UK on holiday from South Africa, and went to the Brother-in-Law’s (see photo); and another in 1994 when we had family staying with us in SA, and we hosted a karaoke party.   We had people coming from all over and it was the height of summer, so extraneous rellies pitched their tent in our garden; and a nephew slept in the bakkie (a pick-up truck with a lid). The most memorable thing about that party was not the discovery that I have to be pretty tipsy to get up and sing, and then I’ll bash you about the face with the mike before I’ll hand it over; but the next morning, when a cousin, his wife and two toddlers found themselves eating tent canvas for breakfast, our Dobermann having chewed the guy ropes in the night.

I wish you and yours a very happy New Year: may your cupboards be full, your newspapers report only good news, and your credit have no crunch.

Happy New Year!

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