Le Weekend or Camping With Children

A couple of months ago, we were at our neighbours' who suggested that a small posse of us depart for camping over the Bank Holiday. There would be 8 people there, three couples, two of whom had toddlers. I was enthusiastic, I can't recall why - presumably I was drunk. Months after I refused to countenance it happening. Camping and children combined? Not just Hell but Hell with extra added Abyss. I couldn't have done this to myself.So I closed my head and ignored it. Thus it came to pass that we ended up in Kent last weekend, camping with two pairs of parents and two two year old boys.

Don't ask me how this ended up as such a gorgeous time.

The bed was warm, the weather was English and campfire cooking entertained us throughout. Marinaded mackerel followed by bananas in passionfruit cream, curries and nans and cakes, a luscious mushroom stroganoff, all washed down with copious amounts of wine...and on saturday night, our first experience of corn popping madly in little foil bags among the flames. The wind blew, the trees rustled sea-strong, and the nights were full of Narnians and Dog Soldiers. Looking up at brilliant stars between bark and branch, it was hard to believe we were 10 minutes away from Tunbridge Wells. But there we were...

Hever Castle demanded a visit.

I last went there in the late 90s out of season. Hever is a small pretty castle with a beautiful culture-stuffed Italian pavilion overlooking the lake. It's one of the few places where Anne's Boleyn's ghost has been seen as a happy presence, a black haired little girl running and playing in her childhood home. There were many children echoing such laughter on Saturday, leaping in and out of the water maze, including one fay minx who spent much time desperately ricocheting off a weighted water-trap; try as she might, she just didn't have the pounds to manifest her dream of a right squitting. A friendly adult surreptitiously pressed the slab, resulting in her delight at nearly drowning standing up. Proud of her prowess, she ran off to join those joyful brigades who could not only nearly drown themselves but also nearly drown their family, friends, and passers by. No-one was safe.

The water maze was great, everything the jousting was not. For all the knights' thunder, they barely tapped each other, and kept no-one's interest; our two own squires-to-be played better games. They ran down the field and fell over, sometimes together, sometimes one after the other. There was none of the dismal wailing I detest, they picked themselves up and carried on running. I was momentarily charmed by one of them calling me by my name - and I was gobsmacked to see how they could run so fast. My mind sees toddlers as babies-only-meaner, these were little people, wilful, determined, quick. I still wouldn't have one but Aunty duties are very easy and quite fun.


My only real overload occurred in the shower/toilets. The place was awash with Poppies and Ambers, and MummyBeingImportant; I do wonder about Mummy's intrusiveness sometimes. Is it really necessary to know the ins and outs of your daughter's bodily functions? The conversations were terrifying. One little girl had been 'holding it in,' and now had a bad tummy. After her mother's encouragement to tell us all about it, she gave a push by push commentary - 'OOohhhhhhhoooooh Mummmeeeee it hurts...I'm pushing, oooooo it's poking outOoonnnnerrrrrrrrrrrNNNNNNNNGGGGGurrrrrr....' the room was full of giggling mothers pleased that theirs was not the loudest defecating daughter in camp. But between this, and some spartan woman demanding her child swill her mouth with salt water...'Hmmm you haven't done that very well have you? Again, swish it round! Round!' I found it all a bit overwhelming.

'There's too much going on in this room!' I announced to the multitude and left. I came back minutes later to pick up my showergel dropped in shock. Three little girls pointed to it solemnly. They said they knew it was mine, their eyes riveted to my grim reaper t-shirt. Clearly I had made an impression.


Sunday saw us exploring the site. It all got a bit Kirrin Island. I was pleased at the Britishness of the parents when the rain started. Grizzly children were covered on shoulders, and everyone held off the dreadful moment of thinking, 'We really should turn back...' Valour brings its own rewards. We did not find the deer herds that apparently roam, nor the iron age fort, but we found the Working Horse Trust, and a cave that alternately terrified and transfixed the boys, a moment of wonder looking up a well shaft and seeing tree roots above and the sky beyond that, and a fabulous tumbledown mini-castle protected by brambles.


And now I pause, exhausted and pleased.