Putting a Tent in Perspective

In my last blog I wrote about parting with old things I no longer need and how I hope to tackle my attic soon. One of the things that I know is up there is a small tent. And I know it’s time I took that tent to a charity shop where someone else may find good use for it. But that tent has come to represent something to me. It’s a symbol of my youth that I struggle to let go of.

Fifty years ago, at the age of thirteen, I went camping for the first time. I was doing the Duke of Edinburgh’s award Scheme and part of that was a week spent camping and hiking. It was hard work but great fun. Most of the hard work came in the form of hiking up mountains. Me and a group of 5 other girls climbed Cader Idris which at almost 3000 feet is the second highest mountain in Wales. I have long since lost the badge awarded to me for this feat, but I can still remember the names and the faces of the girls who climbed with me.

The fun part was the camping. I absolutely loved it. The tents then were quite basic compared to modern camping equipment. The ground sheet never quite seemed to reach the edges of the tent and grass curled round our sleeping bags. We’d find frogs in our box of food, and it rained almost constantly despite being July.

Cooking breakfast sausages had to be done outside the tent on a tiny portable stove. We’d hold our hands over the frying pan to stop the rain from getting in.

For a young girl living on a big, concrete housing estate, all this was so wonderful. The fresh air, the wild horses nearby, the company of the other girls, the big sky and the stars at night.

I went camping lots of times after that using many tents. The one in the attic has actually never been used. Because maybe I was already a little too old for camping when I bought it but loved the IDEA of it.

And now? Well, at 63, I can no longer wriggle through a canvas flap to lie on the ground. I might get down there, but I’d never be able to get up again. I’m sure most of you reading this can identify with that.

I feel a bit sad when I think of the tent and of giving it away. The end of an era.

But here is another way of looking at it. I was so lucky to have those experiences. The tent is a token of those happy times, but now it’s time for different people to use it. It’s their turn.

I’ve been blessed to have such marvellous days. The tent may go, but the memories remain.

When we climbed the mountain, I had just bought an album by the Beach Boys and I sang songs from it as we trudged along, the other girls joining in. I only have to play one of those songs or smell wet grass to be transported back to those days half a century ago.

I don’t need a tent to remind me that it really happened. It’s all still within me.