WHEN camping was first suggested as something to do with the kids on the bank holiday weekend I recoiled as if I'd been shot. I've camped – and not just in a YMCA kind of way – and I still have the scars to prove it.
We spent long, usually wet, summer holidays under canvas. For some reason, money probably, our parents thought it would be great fun for us to leave our lovely homes (the ones with running water and electricity) to hi-ho our way across Scotland.
Fun for them maybe – they had the benefits of alcohol to sustain them. Us kids had little more than Connect Four and the odd sherbet dab to entertain us, though we were all taught to play poker during the wetter days. Our parents – who didn't believe in letting children win – believed it taught us valuable lessons about winning and losing gracefully. In fact, it taught us not to play with hustlers who would think nothing of relieving us of all our holiday money as they were running low on gin.
Camping can indeed be a life-changing experience – just not necessarily for the better. One of our campers refused point blank to use the chemical toilet. It meant long spells of crossed legs and frequent trips into the nearest village, although our parents seemed happy enough to settle for a nearby hostelry. And even now, some 30 years later, she cannot set foot in an unfamiliar town without first identifying where the public conveniences are. New acquaintances are alarmed by her shouting "Look, look over there – flushing toilets!" whenever she gets near the fine works of Mr Shanks.
Although there are some of our number who are happy – nay, keen – to repeat the experience with their own offspring, most of the survivors have forsworn canvas for four-star hotel roofs. We've been there, bought the T-shirt, then washed the T-shirt in a cold burn and dried it over a campfire. We've lived to tell the tale. But would our own precious little darlings be able to cope without all their modern accoutrements? And on a farm?
We needn't have worried. They weren't in the least bit fazed by the lack of electricity. Luckily for them, chemical toilets wouldn't be an issue as our tent came with indoor plumbing – what luxury. They thought it brilliant that the only cooking facility was the bonfire or a wood-burning stove (although those of us who had to get up and spend an hour getting the stove up to ramming speed before even a sip of caffeine could pass our lips weren't necessarily so enamoured).
They didn't even seem to mind the morning of rain that we had – opting to stay tucked up and play I-Spy through the tent flaps.
No, what marked today's little thugs and hoodies out from their parents' generation was their attitude to the animals. Lambs, chickens and rabbits all roamed free on the farm and they were followed by two types of people: those who oohed and awwed over them, thought they were adorable and wanted to smuggle them home; and those who salivated every time the creatures came near, thinking of mint sauce, lemon and thyme stuffing and shortcrust pastry. Guess which category I fell into?
Hunger pangs apart, a good time was had by all. And the kids' holiday money paid for the pinot grigio.
The full article contains 582 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
