Sometimes I disconnect during our camping trip to Dorset – mind buzzing up and away from its normal constraints under all that empty sky – and wonder what our ancestors would think, if they could see us leaving our safe, waterproof Life Boxes to sleep under a flimsy, pegged-down balloon. Voluntarily huddling round open flames to cook our dinner and warm our bones.
I’m not putting myself forward as a candidate for the Stone Ages or anything, but camping really isn’t as mad as it sounds. Sometimes. This time, the boys a tiny bit older, the weather better, friends and their baby with us, and all our plans working out like a dream – it felt like five days of bliss. Even though there is such a thing as camping hair, and it visits my head with the wroth of a thousand fuzz-fires. I just try not to look in mirrors.
Our little experiments, back when we first tried this in 2012, have solidified into traditions we look forward to for weeks. Plan to arrive before dark. Actually arrive after dark, and put up tent in glare of headlights and frayed tempers. Eat breakfast overlooking the valley and the steam train. On the sunniest day we head to the beach, all purple heather and white sand. This year H surprised us by galloping into the sea first thing, and staying in there most of the day. Apparently he’s not afraid of water anymore? I wonder if I will ever learn not to assume his dislikes and fears are permanent. Probably not, but it’s one of those occasions where it’s nice to be proven wrong over and over again.
After a hot and windy day in Studland bay, we drove into Corfe for the Purbeck Film Festival, which runs an open-air cinema every year in the castle grounds. We order hefty boxes of fish and chips from the local pub, and eat them under blankets, waiting for the sun to set. This year we watched the new, live-action Jungle Book, which Tim and I thought was ace, and both boys decided was ‘weally scary, actually’. (It was, a bit.)
The next day we went to Brownsea Island, surely the Enid-Blytonest day trip ever invented. We park on Studland Bay, take a chain ferry over to Sandbanks, and then a little yellow boat over to the island. Brownsea is a nature reserve (red squirrels! Peacock babies!), and also the place where the first Scout camp was held in 1907, though it’s much older than that: a solitary hermit monk set up camp there in the 9th century – lording it up spectacularly, I’m sure – and it hasn’t been left alone since. These days there are amazing clifftop views, lots of bright heather, a cracking wooden adventure playground in the middle, and lovely forest for little hikes. The island is small enough that even the longest hike is a doable challenge for toddler legs. It’s my favourite day, this one. No matter how many people get off the boat with you, you always feel like you’ve got the place to yourself.
Then, of course, the castle day. I keep expecting H and T to get bored of coming to Corfe Castle, but they haven’t yet: they loved it this year more than ever. We got there on the steam train – always a pants-wettingly exciting experience for these two – and then had a good ramble around the ruins.
And a sword fight. Can I get one of these furred tabards for casual leisure wear? It was like being embraced by a bear who respected personal boundaries.
We always take the same photo in this window, and it always takes us at LEAST half an hour to find it again. Which leads to me bellowing across a crowded castle yard ‘I’ve found it! I recognise the mould patterns!’
They are very distinctive mould patterns, to be fair.
(If you open this in a new tab, it’s bigger.)
That evening I settled into my million layers and read a book under a duvet, while Tim and our friends played cards, and Teddy wailed through firmly-zipped canvas ‘BUT I WANT TO KEEP THIS HOLIDAY FOREVER AND EVERRRR’.
The next morning we packed up, loaded the car, and drove away in the direction of Durdle Door. We’d never actually been to Durdle Door – silly, because it’s one of the main tourist attractions in the county – and it was busy, but utterly breathtaking. Not a beach ideal for little ones, because it’s pebbles rather than sand, and you have to climb an awfully large hill to get back to the car. But the view! I couldn’t stop looking.
On the road out we always pass a little footpath sign that marks 2 1/4 miles to Corfe Castle, and I think ‘one day, when their legs are long enough’. Maybe in a few years. In a few years they’ll spend rainy mornings reading in their sleeping bags. In a few years, we can cycle. It’s rather a lovely thing, knowing that your August bank holiday is only going to get better and better – even if that’s not true, alas, of your hair.
(The castle, the island and the beach car park are all owned by the National Trust – we already use our yearly membership to death, but even if we didn’t, this one holiday would make it even out. The steam train, the film festival and the little ferry (still free for under-sixes!) tend to be our only activity expenses, which is extremely happy-making.)