Ouch! I’ve just burnt my tongue again.
It’s Friday night and I’m outside toasting marshmallows on a fire I’ve made. I’ve put up my tent and cooked myself dinner. I’m here alone.
I can hear the cracking and hissing of the wood on the fire, the rushing water of the weir and a few birds sporadically conversing in the surrounding trees. Wait, was that a cuckoo? I can smell woodsmoke and the dampness of the evening air on the breeze. I’m sitting cross legged on a grassy island, only accessible by foot or water.
Only if I listen really hard can I hear evidence of other people; cars whizzing down the Oxford Road. Not too bad really, after all, I’m only 6 miles from my house.
I’m at Pinkhill Lock, perhaps the most perfect campsite in the world: no road access, 5 pitches, fires allowed and a hot shower. I cycled here, the long way, and it took half an hour. I left at 4, straight after my working day. Now, I could be in the middle of nowhere.
I’ve just poured myself another vodka and coke. I’m camping, not roughing it and it is Friday after all. But why the rush to get away? Why not?
Evenings at home alone are spent doing jobs, or faffing whilst pretending to do jobs. Or worse, in front of a screen – a mindless connection to Facebook “friends” or a half hour hypnotic escape into the world of TV drama. Here, all I can do is think, read, write and enjoy my surroundings. And play with fire. Coming here alone reminds me of being New Zealand, of the feeling of luxury associated with having time to one’s own thoughts. We all live such busy lives and get stressed out by largely inconsequential things but here I’m a world away from all of that. Perhaps I’m just hiding from my To Do list, but for this evening it can’t find me here.
Instead I can concentrate on far more interesting things, like the Perfect Marshmallow. For me it’s practically black, chargrilled in fact and bubbling on the outside, but make sure you blow it out if it’s caught fire before it reaches it reaches your mouth. Ouch! The best bit is to peel away the toasted exterior revealing virgin marshmallow below and go in again for the toasting, then peel and go in again and again; the Russian doll of the marshmallow world.
Camping alone might not be on everyone’s List, but time out for oneself ought to be. And toasting marshmallows on an open fire most definitely should be.
ruths30thyearonearth 