Hindsight is a dangerous thing
After days of trundling our trollies through thickly pollarded woods we arrive at the Sprattstock, the Stockade of the Spratts on the top end of the field of Dernwood, a southern sort of Sherwood. Our encampment consisted of the full array of tent sizes and shapes, from those inspired by aircraft hangers to one the snugness of a coffin. We are all circled about the campfire and the Gazebo-ed Kitchen, with its trully wondrous array of alternative outdoor stoves, grills and Barbeques. Our diet consisted of meat only, yet seasoned by a few eggs and a sprinkling of vegetables, mostly the locally sourced wild garlic.
Mealtimes were various and often, from when we woke up until well past midnight, or my bedtime, or just when the joint was cooked, which sometimes was not until the next morning. Completing the defensive fortifications was the seaside windbreak, thus cutting off the wind inside, forcing it back upon itself, and really stoking up the fire. Once sat down in the inner circle around the carpenter's wood fire, one was absolutely cut off from the outside world, one's children, or any other campers. One was in the zone, frying pan at the ready, or outdoor fire toaster, or the pot of gold, the elixir of coffee, and the heaping on of more and more wood, in gay abandon, and of more and more banter, until we were trully roasting with heat and ideas, and our eyes were streaming, and the gossip was flowing, and even the kids started telling fireside stories and bad jokes. We were loving it.
Yes immediately our kids met each other, met the grass, met the trees, met all the possibilities of the space, all in two seconds, they went 'feral', they up sticks, they bonded into a unit, a scout party, and took to the woods, and only returned to check on the adults, to see if they had finally got up and left the camp fire. Usually they hadn't.
Our unconscious defensive encampment turned out to be totally necessary: because, armed with lance long sticks, marauding children of another tribe came menacingly up into 'our space', beside us, through the woods. Pitched jousts ensued, battle was joined. Adults restrained themselves from joining in, just.
One day, enmasse we moved out of the Sprattstockade, we must have been feeling particularly brave, to all experience the joys of being immediately and instantly lost in the woods. The moment we plunged into the buzom of its greenery, down by the transcendental Rhododendrons we hadn't a clue where we were going, where we were, or in fact, for a second, who were were. So we tried to reestablish our identites by gathering close together in a group photograph. Lead by an inner core of intrepid geographers hope was regained, only to be dashed once it was known that we were being led by the children, and isn't that the Pylons again? After many twists and turns and bifocations and comings back together, we found our target, the village pub. Predictably nearly all of us chose a meat dish. Why break the habit of the weekend?
Out in its back paddock a whole history of British Motocycling was arrayed, including the legendary Black Vincent, that Richard Thompson, I was informed, sang about. It was heartening to see all these expressively made old machines. It reminded me of myself!
Sprattstock had, once again, stumbled into another world. On the way back we were in Chicken Run, and then we were again plunged back into quintessential rural England, green meandering fields, rich with Oaks. Where the hell are we? Where the hell are we going? I just love such moments. I dont often get them in Bloomsbury.
All in all it was a great experience, for me an my children. Thank you, all of you who made it possible, especially Ants and Christina
love robert
