The Grass is Growing

After a distinct infliction of hesitation, it feels like the English spring has finally arrived. The wood pigeons are waddling in the quick growing grass and the sun on my nape renders me pleasantly lethargic. It is one week until Jake and I head off,  and it would be nothing shy of lovely if we were to be dealt a day as beautiful as this one on which to part from Bristol. That said, even the most optimistic footers would predict at least a few rain days between Bristol and Dover; we are going to get wet sometime, so why not make it the first day?

Preparations are going neither smoothly, nor roughly. We seem to have acquired all the necessary items, with the exception of a few small bits and bobs. My personal trepidation lies with what ‘camp trousers’ I should take. To be sure, I am not referring to trousers, which when slipped on enhance my already slightly camp persona, but trousers to be worn when on and around a campsite  My favourite brown corduroys may prove to be too weighty, and my joggers too casual for any spontaneous public house visits. My baggy canvas trousers would be good in warmer climes, but would leave my ‘vulnerables’ exposed in colder, breezier conditions. This is certainly a woe that can be remedied, so I shall not dwell on it too long I am sure. A woe, however, that most would find near impossible to remedy is that of a worried mother. Of course, this is only natural, and it is true that we could be devoured by ticks or charged by mountain goats, so I am happy to adopt my mother’s wisdom of such potential incidents. However, when being warned that the sunlight reflecting off of our Casio watches may turn our tent into a pile of ashes, I do begin to wonder whether wisdom is really the correct word.