bunkhouse living
I’ve never camped in my life. I have tried, once. I remember pitching a tent in the back yard of my dad’s house in Louisiana, fully intending to sleep in the paper-thin plastic despite my fear of every living creature roaming around outside. I can’t remember what time we decided to abandon ship and head back in for creature comforts like a mattress, but we most definitely did not last more than a couple of hours. It was more of an evening spent in a tent, versus camping.
Other than that time when I was maybe six, I’ve never attempted camping.
I’ve grown up, am not so scared of living things, even though the thought of living inches away from scurrying mice and furry spiders does still make my stomach turn. But I still can’t bring myself to drive to a field, spend over an hour attempting to build a tent with rubbish directions, pee in an outhouse with everyone listening in (although it is the other form of toileting that really unnerves me), swat midges flying in my face in front of a fire, or sink into a broken blow-up bed.
But by far, the aspect of camping that puts me off more than anything is the rain. The thought of spending days in wet is completely unappealing. A real turn-off.
And yet. I have three boys and feel camping is in our future. I have to learn how to love, or maybe just like, or let’s just say endure – camping.
In an attempt to slowly immerse myself in wildnernessing, I agreed that we could stay in a bunkhouse in West Wales, near Cardigan, for three nights.
Following a two-and-a-half-hour drive with an anxious, trembling dog, one child on the verge of throwing up and another child struggling to keep a fever down, we arrived, bumping down a farm track.
The house, or shall I say shed, was basic, but more than I had imagined. There was a main room, with couches, a table, and a makeshift kitchen, a toilet, and two rooms full of bunkbeds. Ivy grew threw in the walls. Damp patches speckled the walls. Basic.
For three sleeps, four days, we made our abode with simple living. Instant coffee in tin cups. Sausages and beans with pasta on a stove. Sitting on couches, with nothing to say, nothing to do. Trickling showers that just about cleaned away the grime.
By taking away life’s complexity, its varied choices, we were left with the present.
Present world. We woke in the morning to the picture-perfect world, the sea practically touching the farm we stayed on. Digging feet into the powdery sand.
Present people. Wide eyes. Thin fingers. Marshmallow mouths. The way they argue. The way they play. What they like to talk about. Where their minds escape to.
Present thoughts. Noticing how common patterns of thinking commonly passed over in the hustle.
The present.
Not wishing days away. Not fast-forwarding through tension. Not daydreaming about how life used to be. But feeling each moment in its current form, uncomfortable or pleasant.
Bunkhouse living was better than I expected. Up next, not camping.
Are you a camper? Any tips? Or do you hate it? Why? I’d love to hear from you if you’ve read this. And for more musings, not always on bunkhouses, do subscribe. It’s free!