I tend to just put photos on this blog because originally that was it’s purpose, but it’s can be a bit of a drag if you only see pictures and don’t know the story behind them. So, considering I am a writer as well as a photographer and a gifted compulsive talker in everyday life I felt I should really express my intentions from time to time in words too.
The kitchen at Manor Park Farm campsite, South Devon, where I spent a week recently, relaxing for a change. No, not in the kitchen, on the campsite.
Yes, I went camping in the huge family sized, dark green tunnel tent I bought four years ago. Like a fool I was trusting my natural optimism rather than the weather forecasts. The other half of me couldn’t care less about the weather, just chilling out and that’s what I did.
I found a perfect spot to pitch my tent though, opposite a huge barely field that I photographed most evenings under a slightly different sunset, or more routinely under a different colour grey bank of cloud. Hey at least I was outside in the fresh air.
The site is located at the top of a picturesque village a short drive from Blackpool sands. If you ever go there and fret you’re going to be disliked as a bloody holiday maker rest assured, if the locals were any more laid back they’d be decidedly horizontal, and most of them are by 8 P.M or at least 3 parts that way . The pubs do a roaring trade.
Indeed, once people got used to seeing me, and that takes some doing seeing as I have long blond hair right now and was dressing in camouflage-wear mostly. The stories of my nightly ramblings, which could only happen to me, quickly became a daily staple and sparked many a gobsmacked conversation and served to make me welcome in that at least it showed that I was one of the few visitors showing signs of a pulse.
I had no cooking to do to speak of because I cooked all my meals the day before I left and froze them all in their own Tupperware tub, complete with lid and label. And hey presto there were two microwaves in the site kitchen just like I remembered.
Another detail to keep in mind if you are limited to a mountain bike for transport is that the local Post Office, which doubles as the corner store, is the only thing in town remotely resembling a shop. There is nowhere else to buy your daily goods, IE. newspaper, bacon, or whatever else. Very important I say because they shut at 5.30 and there’s nowhere to get those evening goodies so buy them during the day.
That’s tricky for me because I object to rising early unless the house is ablaze or some such urgency such as being paid to do so.
Upon my very first shopping trip it I was mercilessly reminded that Manor Farm Campsite is located at the top of a respectably steep hill and the lesson here is to keep an eye on the weight of what you buy and buy yourself some good insoles, they’re bloody priceless in a place like this. You’ll soon see it as part of the fun pretty soon; I know I did as I popped my blisters of an evening. Ah the pure joy.
And then Saturday it was not at all bad weather-wise so I trecked to the beach, minus bike as it’s wonderful going down the hill but just a huge pain in the butt to wheel the thing up again plus whatever else you want to take to the beach.
So, I get to the bottom and am admiring the meandering gravel beach and the quiet. I almost didn’t see the female before me on the only path until I almost knocked her over in my enthusiasm to get to the beach. She was weighed down with bags, beer, bottled water and a couple of other things that caught my eye and I say, “Might be quite a challenge for you to make it all the way down there with that lot, on your own.” Thankfully the young woman was good humored enough to be polite and seemed genuinely in need of a helpful hand so I offered it, being the selfless gent that I am.
Turned out she was headed to a beach party held by her, Claire, and friends each year on this very weekend, the one before the Yachting Regatta. Also it turns out I’d seen them partying 4 years previously along the beach from where I was holding my own little gathering at the time. What a coincidence, I said, blooming amazing, do you fancy a quick fuck?
So, we found her mates, friendly as you like they were, their tents and sound system, complete with petrol driven generators and huge log fire. They appreciated my helping carry the stuff, greeted me each with a handshake, only in Devon, and plonked a dirty great drink in my hand bidding me join the party and take a fucking chill-pill.
Nice bunch of late 20’s early-thirties ex-Uni types all down for the weekend for a 48 hour knees up on the beach, come rain or shine. Needless to say we sat there all evening being pissed on with intermittent breaks among the assorted beverages and other things that went round within the gathering and a good time was had by all.
Once it became clear there was no hope in hell of any extra curricular activities anytime soon I said my goodbyes. I know, it sounds like I’m afte one thing only and frankly I was on holiday so it’s perfectly justified as far as I’m concerned. Hahaha!
I half promised to return with my own tent but never made it due to even heavier rain that began when I was half way back to Manor Farm. I got drenched and had to seek shelter in the site kitchen and TV lounge the very early hours , although I was pretty much past caring by that stage. It reminded me of that scene in the Shining where Jack’s wife is on the radio.
More tomorrow…..
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