Sunday 13 September 2009

his tartan shame


I love the faff of camping. Erecting a tent in a field at Maker Heights is incredibly relaxing, providing you`ve got all the bits, and it`s not raining. This weekend has been glorious. We stumbled upon a wedding taking place in the lower field as we pitched the questionable four man. There was a draped canopy, dias it may have been, couldnt see, and a bride with yellow hair and white lace, plus a groom all dapper handsome. There was an applauding crowd, and then music from the marquee. The sun rained down, there was a light breeze, and below it all, The Sound, and Bovisand and Heybrook and the Mew Stone ... oh, I was entranced by the serendipitousness of it all.

Anyway, we`ve had a pick`n`mix of camp beds this year - a futon which was so hard I had no feeling in my legs come daybreak, a folding camp bed just long enough for one thin short person, and this weekend, all the cushions from the sofas we possess: four brick red, and two large tartan ones from a sofa bed we bought second hand (we buy everything second hand, as it happens). This sofa has an amazingly durable and comfortable bed within it`s being; this was the clincher. As for the hideous fabric, well, you can cover it with a throw, cant you. (I`ve found that you can cover most things you dont like with a throw, even old boyfriends.)

We swam yesterday afternoon- the sea was 18 degrees, tropical in these parts. We had our meal after watching the sun set over Looe, the clay-spoil mountains of St Austell just visible behind. The band they had on at the wedding`s evening do were stonking. Freshly Squeezed. There, I`ve given them a plug. They did soul covers mostly, but a few original tunes, with a bit of mixing and a witty wedding rap. Considering we werent even at this wedding, I feel bound to send my congratulations and thanks to Heather and Tiernan, as if we were , as we did sort of witness it all, being separated by a mere hundred feet of grass, and a hedge.

Today, after waking to photograph the dawn, we packed up in a trice and headed off to Whitsand for a swim. The car was stuffed with sofa cushions, and VJB was very keen to ensure that the tartan ones were buried on the bottom. But why? I innocently asked. It`s all a bit too Bay City Rollers for my liking, says he - my tartan shame. I feel dreadful for having unwittingly inflicted such an ugly fabric riddled with trauma on one with such tender sensibilities. I misjudged the situation, due to the fact he owns an album by Mud.

*A note for Abbie - the compost loos were fragrant, but certainly not `mingin`!

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