Earlier this year I was unfortunate enough to go camping! Now I’m not one to shy away from nature or getting grubby. I merely say ‘unfortunate’ because my sleeping experience was a dreaded one.
Every time the prospect of a camping holiday is brought up to any grown person half of you is filled with dread, the other with complete excitement. Everyone has a child within them that would just love to go camping, especially if you didn’t get to go much as a child. But you’re an adult now, so you’re the one that’s got to pitch the tent, cook the food, remember to pack everything, light the fire, drive all the way there, look after the screaming, bored kids, all whilst making sure everyone (yourself included) is having a good time!
After you’ve wrestled with the tent for 2 hours, it’s only then that you realise all the stuff you forgot to bring. Food, clothing, and most importantly – bedding. I can handle screaming kids, driving, rubbish food and boredom, but when my rest time is jeopardised I can’t handle it! The first night was bearable, I found the flattest part of ground I could (despite the field practically being a minefield for cow dung) and placed half of my sleeping bag over it, whilst using the other half as a cover.
“Great”, I thought. It wasn’t super uncomfortable and I was too tired to care. I dropped off like a light, and woke up not being able to feel half of my body. The next night I doubled up the blanket, but this was only accompanied by a family moving right next to us, who seemed to have an unrealistic amount of children with them. They didn’t go to sleep until about midnight, and then awoke at 6am, more excited than anyone ever, running circles around all the tents and kicking balls right against mine.
I had a rubbish day that day, and an even worse night’s sleep. After 3 nights I returned home to find that my mother had bought us an enormous inflatable double mattress. It’s a shame I’m never going camping again.
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