Turbulent Tent

24 Jun

Gower Caravan View

Monday

It looks like the wind has finally died down. Being positioned on a cliff top overlooking the sea meant we felt the full force of the gales sweeping the country over the weekend. The overwhelming difference about living in a caravan compared with living on a boat is that despite windspeeds of over 50mph we never felt worried for our safety. That is not to say we got much sleep, though.

The main culprit was the tent next door. I’m not the greatest fan of camping at the best of times but it beats me why on earth anyone thought it a good idea to sleep in what is effectively a plastic bag this weekend. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before the tent pegs were being uprooted and the whole structure seemed to be disintegrating. It flapped and cavorted, straining at its leashes all Friday night.

Saturday dawned and the owner cheerfully informed us that, yes, the guide rope had snapped before disappearing to the pub to watch the rugby, leaving the tent to its own devices. We became convinced that at anytime it would simply lift off the ground and we’d get a tent pole through the window. Perhaps understandably, its occupants didn’t return until evening. The rain had finally stopped and the kids were unleashed.

I have every sympathy with youngsters that have been cooped up all day and have finally got the chance to run around a bit. It’s just that it was our caravan they chose to run around and it seemed like there was at least 40 of ‘em. As the light faded out came the torches and shining them into our windows became endlessly fascinating. It was long after our bedtime before they were tired. And even longer after before the parents quietened down, collapsing in what I can only assume was a drunken stupor as the noise the tent itself was making would have prevented sleep for anyone not similarly anaesthetised. Like us. For some reason I can now see the attraction of adult only sites.

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