Camping the Final Time
For most of the last fifteen or so years we spent Easter camping. Not with family but with school families down at a rather nice caravan park right on the beach in Northern NSW. And no it wasn’t Byron, less busy and buzzy than that. By the time COVID came along all the children had reached seventeen or so and had gradually stopped coming. So we kind of knew that the last time we went, which was just before the virus hit town, that this time would be the last time. In fact we left our old leaky tent behind; we balled it up and put it in the big campground bin before we went home in a gesture of finality and farewell.
We had had enough. I was just getting too old to wake up in the middle of the night on a half flat mattress with the gentle patter of rain on the nylon a foot or two above your head and my back going WTF.
I think it rained every time we went. Most years it was just a shower or two but a couple of years were diabolical. One year the wind blew and the rain came down and the camping was nothing better than miserable. The tarp that covered our central dining hub blew down and most of our dried goods as they used to call them were no longer dry, thereby matching our wet clothes. The first time we went we drove home early in the pouring rain with a vomiting daughter in the back seat.
Good times.
Of course it was not all bad.
There were surfers among the dads and later the kids so we made the most of Easter’s usual wave bounty. There were always some waves at the beach out the front or the right hand point five minutes up the road. Some years it was excellent and generally uncrowded too. One year in particular it pumped so much that one dad literally lost his memory which is another story.
Mind you the campground was not empty. We were squeezed in, every site was filled with tents and caravans, surrounded by swags, surfboards, fishing rods, kid’s beach toys and of course there were literally dozens of children careering around on scooters and bikes from dawn to after dusk like stray atomic particles from an atomic bomb blast.
The campground was noisy until about 10.00pm. The dusk air filled with cooking smells, the toilet block warm and fetid from a hundred different bodies. You could walk around on Saturday night and hear the scores from four different footy codes just by lingering outside marquees and listening. Once I drank four cans of beer with some blokes I met because I was standing outside listening and they invited me into their annexe to watch Richmond play. They were all Tigers fans. I staggered back to our site where everyone was playing cards and wondering where I was. I collapsed and never saw the blokes again.
We fished but as far as I can remember we never caught one fish worth keeping. I learnt to play different card games but never got any good with knots. My wife and I did master the tent erection after the first couple of years so we certainly began to feel like we fitted the part of campers. Little Easter rituals became something to look forward to each year. Always Coco Pops for breakfast, the Easter egg hunt for the kids in the early years when the Easter Bunny was still a believable entity. Hot cross buns for morning tea, a beer or three for lunch, afternoon naps in a hot tent, beach strolls down to the town’s cafes for espresso coffee, discussions over the correct timing on when to go and have a shit based on the alternatives of very early morning peace and quiet visit versus the mid-morning swoop on freshly cleaned cubicles.
We never, ever, not once had a takeaway meal for lunch or dinner, not even minimum chips. Dinners were prepared with each family providing a meal for their night. Curries, pasta, chili con carne and memorably thanks to Richard some sensational risottos. Doubly impressive since he was sitting on wet grass drinking his umpteenth beer and stirring the Arborio rice in its pot as it sat on a gas ring between his legs. Fascinating random conversations with strangers at the communal sink as you did the washing up, the teenagers having pissed off to the beach before they could be pressganged into service. When it was good it was very good.
This year we all went away again. The kids are now in their twenties but most came so there were 17 of us. But it was different because now one of the families owns a holiday house at a different beach up the road a bit. The house is just as brilliantly situated, nestling between beach and inlet. It is big, two levels and solid with brick walls and tiles roof, definitely more functional than attractive.
The town is smaller and even quieter, only one café, one pub, bowls club etc. There is more to do with the calm water in the inlet brilliantly suitable for fishing and generally mucking around on boats.
It rained of course but this time we were inside brick walls and under a tiled roof. We had great fun as you do when you are with good friends with a shared history but you know what? Part of me missed the chaos, the dirty feet and damp clothes, the no TV, the press of humanity that are features of the crowded camping ground at Easter.
Not my back though, my back loved the house.
Six Songs about Camping - actually only two but these are all you will need to summon up the vibe.
The Outdoor Type – The Lemonheads
The Campfire Song Song – SpongeBob Squarepants
Photo by Roxanne Desgagnés on Unsplash
