Camping

We packed some bread rolls and cups, plates, wine, tinned food and a picnic rug and escaped. Vamoose. Up in the hills where the bush is flowering we pitched a tent in rocky earth. I sat there an eternity, while the minutes passed like blissful hours and watched campers come and go; bucket loads of children shovelled into cars at the end of the long weekend, replaced by pensioners who constructed their tent only after due consideration and much humming and haring. We wandered about the lake and forced ourselves into its cold, murky water. We read and snacked and lounged around, had a fire, ate marshmellows and returned home to find, as usual, things to be done and places to be.