Plan B

It was a weekend of the plan B.

I'd been promising Elliott that we would go camping for, what… a year? With his mum going away for the weekend the promises became more authentic, acknowledged and inescapable. So, with a car full of tent, firewood and potatoes, and a very excited boy, I pulled up to the campsite on Exmoor that I'd been talking about for the last two weeks.

Campsite full. I stared at the sign in disbelief. I read it apologetically to Elliott and it didn't quite register with him either. "Does that mean we can't get in?" he said. His hot face crumpled and tears instantly welled up.

"Don't worry, we'll find somewhere else." I said quickly, just about managing to plug the dyke.

Plan B.

A quick map consultation and I found the pink mark highlighting the splendidly named Cloud Farm Campsite and we were on our way. Thankfully it wasn't full (don't think I wasn't dreading that scenario) and we pulled up in the loveliest of campsites and parked next to the river. One happy boy, one parenting point to me.

I wanted this trip to be more like the camping I did on the Duke of Edinburgh Awards when I was a teenager so I thought we would sleep in a smaller, two-man tent that I had enjoyed for years before Elliott was born. Quite a few years. 16 to be exact and it was second hand when I bought it. I unravelled it and ignored the musty smell. I looped the poles through the frail elastic hoops and overlooked the bird poo on the roof. I pegged out the flysheet and dismissed the strange shape the dome made. Elliott looked inside and said "It's too small". Then there was a slight gust of wind and the whole tent sagged and flattened like a wet cardboard box.

Plan B.

A last minute decision to put the massive family-sized tent in the roof box paid off. I bundled the broken tent back into the car and rolled out the new one. Elliott ran over to me and gave me a big hug. "Yay! I love this tent!" Camping gods: 0, me: 2.

I don't think of myself as the kind of person who deals with adversity well. I come from a family who, when plans don't go well, will turn the situation into a catastrophe, immediately abandon hope, blame as many others for their misfortune as possible and retell the story as a Shakesperian tragedy. But, for this weekend at least, I didn't. I dealt with each problem like it was just another twist in the tale.

Even though the campsite wasn't the one I had chosen and the tent wasn't what I imagined, the weekend was a success (my camp chair fell into the fire but that's by the by). Elliott went feral and came back from playing with two new friends covered in mud and marshmallows. I got to sit in front of a fire and stare at a darkening river for a moment. And we both went home having learned a few good life lessons.