The last tent to arrive is put up in laps of drizzle, next
to the old fashioned frame tent, facing the giant ex-display bargain. The last
tent is a modest dome, suitable for short stay camping. But not, it turns out,
as waterproof as it should be. Rain is sieved by the flysheet: the big tent has
the same problem. Ad hoc towels soak up the worst of it. There's a moment that
will be familiar to most damp campers, where everyone considers giving up. Once
the indoor picnic is spread; oh my heavens, it goes on for miles; that moment
is consigned. It's not so cold, after all, once we've found some dry socks and
this fine dining. It's only one night, after all. What's a little rain on your
olives? We will eat and talk; I'm on Chapter Ten, I can tell them; and Little
Grandson will stay up late playing Uno, looking sooo casual in his dinosaur
onesie. He loves his cousins and his baby brother: but they are rubbish at card
games thus far.
The morning is made for drying tents. Wind blows, sun shines, everyone is
tired, relieved, rewarded for persevering with the feast. Jobs get done, one by
one, until the children and the dogs are close to sleep and the cars shoe-horn
packed.
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