Tuesday, 26 February 2008

signs of the times


I've been going through my couple-of-hundred photos from last summer's Great Welsh Walk, and filling out the Flickr album a bit. It's a restless business, looking at adventure-ish summer photos. It's getting me thinking of what to do and where to go this year. Summers are too good to waste them not going on expeditions of some sort.

Also reminded me of the infinite variety that there is in campsites. The signs here were on a site at Rhaiadr Gwy, or Rhayader if you prefer. It was nicely-located on the bank of the youthful River Wye, and the showers ran on time, but...

....this is more my sort of place, on a farm high up near Cemaes Head. There were things growing in the shower (singular), and everything was higgledy-piggledy, including, or especially, the landscape.


...and it was Very Nice Too. A rainbow hung over the Teifi estuary as we pitched the tent and the sun reappeared after the rain which had followed us from Hay. We watched a chough haranguing a buzzard high above us, and a whitethroat sang from the adjacent ash tree.

Well, I think it was a whitethroat.



We met this german couple further south. They thought it was hilarious that there was such a complete lack of consistency in british campsites. Look, they're laughing. We were sharing our memories of that shower with things growing in it.

They like that sort of thing. They said they preferred it to the uniformity of european municipal campsites.

Perhaps they're not typical germans.....






...this, on the other hand, is the encampment of a fairly typical Modern Family That Camps. I'm curious; if there is a recognisable demographic thing going on here, then where did this particular group come from? -were they the sort who would have been going on package holidays to Spain twenty years ago? Are they a new growth rather than an evolution? Questions, questions. I suppose I could always pluck up courage and ask them. Lord knows there's no shortage of 'em...



...o well, there's always hit-and-run camping. Melt away with the morning dew, leaving no trace of our passing.

Roll on, summer.

A distant jet plane,

And a blackbird chipping chinks
From the dawn's silence