In August four of us ventured out into the lush countryside
of Kent for a spot of relaxing camping, but what in actual fact ended up being a comedy of errors. We
took a train south to Ashurst, laden with newly purchased tents of varying
quality, one pot, a bag of marshmallows, instant coffee and some tins of baked
beans.
After finding our bearings, off we plodded in the direction
of the campsite, only to realise that the country roads were bordered right to
the very edge with thick hedgerows. Meanwhile the roads themselves were full of
rather large cars and trucks hurtling past at breakneck speed, and honking
their horns at us fools who clearly shouldn’t have been there. A sweaty and stressful
trek later, we arrived at the campsite.
To say we were underprepared would be an understatement. We
claimed our patch of grass and pitched our tents. It soon transpired that the advertised
on-site farm shop which we had been counting on for dinner that night and
beyond was only open on Saturdays. It was a Thursday.
We were assured there was a shop in the next village, a
short walk away. Using the unreliable maps on our phones, we eventually navigated
our way to said village, by way of some slightly quieter roads. Once we arrived
however, we were informed the shop was closed.
We were left with no other option than dinner in the pub –
about as far from camping as you could get. Asking about the shop for
tomorrow’s expedition, we were told that we would need to go to the next
village again. We sighed and headed back to camp to comfort ourselves with
toasted marshmallows.
A lack of foam mats, mattresses, or any form of cushioning
and being unaccustomed to sleeping on the ground meant a long and relatively
sleepless night for us city slickers.
No comments:
Post a Comment