The owner of the glamping site didn’t sugar coat it: if we don’t take your porch off, your tent will blow away. With that, she handed us a bottle of champagne and apologised for the shower not working. So we’re battening down the hatches for the imminent arrival of Storm Katie. The Boden brigade in the tent next door have already booked themselves into a hotel for the night. Lightweights. Our answer to the promised storm was to load up our wheelbarrow – cars aren’t allowed on site – with as much gin, wine, crisps, marshmallows and cake mix, as a teenager can wheel across a field. We already have masses of pasta, hot chocolate and the champagne freebie stashed away: bring it on, Katie, bring it on!
The porch being take down, ready for Storm Katie’s arrival
So far this glamping lark has been a huge success. The tent is so posh, it resembles a house. So much so that I thought it was a house the first night, until it started flapping and then a huge shadow of partner appeared on our bedroom wall at 4am. He was trying to relight the stove, as the owner had mentioned that it is possible to keep it going all night and his competitive instinct kicked in. I woke up to what looked like the Incredible Hulk wielding a canoe, but it was just partner and his gas lamp and a log.
Captain Caveman
Dog 1 and dog 2 are having a ball. Last night they needed a wee. It was dark. Partner asked me to put dog 1’s lead on (on the dog, not on me – thin walls). I felt around and struggled for a bit. It won’t go on, I said to partner. He shined his phone in my direction. That’s because you are trying to get it around his bum, he retorted.
I now realise why I had four kids: one to cook, one to wash up, one to dry and one to put away.
Daughter 1 being mum, while her mother is getting pissed on the sofa
Meanwhile, partner and I can languish on the sofa in front of the stove, drinking free champagne and waiting for the storm to hit.