Thursday, 23 July 2015


You don’t want to go camping with a toddler they said, not unless you've got a magic blackout tent that lets in no light or noise or you’re prepared to drive all the way back home in the middle of the night when they won’t go to sleep. Others offered more pragmatic advice, ‘an endless supply of blueberries and a pair of earplugs should do the trick’. The hippy crowd was more forthcoming with tidings of joy. ‘Oh you’ll love it, just take a washing up bowl and some plastic cutlery and he’ll be happy for hours’.

Never ones to listen to predictions of doom we packed the car with every conceivable piece of gear, filled the hamper with food and the cooler with booze and off we went. We have invested wisely over the years and are equipped with a full set of glamping essentials, invaluable when travelling with toddler, to which we added some extra Felix kit; his own camping chair in the shape of a lion, his travel cot and warm bedding, and a quantity of blankets and pegs for various uses. I also conducted some thorough research in terms of location and after much deliberation plumped for West Wittering, a two hour drive away and the location of a blue flag award winning beach complete with dunes. Nearby Nunnington Farm campsite offered a baby bath, in actuality a double butlers sink, for washing filthy infants at the end of a long day, and a petting zoo, which sealed the deal.

The campsite was a wide green expanse of perfect flatness ringed by trees, and we pitched the bell tent in dappled shade where we hoped we could be in shadow by bedtime. ‘Oooooh’ and ‘Aaaah’ said Felix as the tent took shape, his face lighting up with delight. It was love at first sight; in and out he ran, touching the canvas and making little squeaks of excitement. It was now time for the finishing touch. Two star print blankets, some clothes pegs, and a little ingenuity later, and Felix had his very own bedroom in which we placed his travel cot and favorite tiger toy. This addition, we hoped, would help him sleep well both day and night, and would also give us a little privacy. After lunch, eaten with gusto in the camp chairs, and a stroll over to see the donkeys and goats at the petting zoo, and it was time to try out the bedroom. After some gentle persuasion he zonked out, leaving us to relax.


That afternoon we walked the fifteen minutes to the beach, a beautiful expanse of golden sand backed by dunes. A strong wind buffeted the shore so we put on our hoodies and huddled into the dunes, where Felix raced up and down the mini mountains and caked himself in sand. 'Wittering means wind' an old lady said as she caught sight of us. 'Next time bring a windbreak!' We ate slightly gritty ham and cheese sandwiches and paddled in the shallows, then took it in turns to have a proper swim. The tide was coming in and the waves were crowned with ruffles of white foam. ‘Bubble’ said Felix, pointing at the surf and tugging my hand. Deeper and deeper we waded as the waves pounded the beach, nearly knocking him over as he chortled with glee and I clutched tight to his little hand. Later we walked back home, exhausted and windblown but happy. ‘Thank goodness for the baby bath’ I thought as a startling quantity of sand detached itself from Felix’s body and swirled down the plughole, leaving him pink and smooth once more, and as the sun began to droop heavy and the night milk was drunk, we laid Felix in his cot and stood listening. The cawing of crows and cooing of doves were the only sound, lulling him to a deep sleep.

The elongated shadows of sunset made tiger stripes on the grass as the sun took its final bow, bathing the tent in a warm umber glow. As the barbeque filled the air with the evocative smell of searing meat I cooked potatoes on the camp stove and sliced the ingredients for a Greek salad, thick salty wedges of feta to complement the spicy chicken and blackened sausages. Drinks in hand we toasted the success of our inaugural venture and set about devouring our feast. The 'toddler quarters' meant we could sit up in bed and read without worrying about waking Felix, and as we prepared for sleep I peeped over to see him deliciously cozy and snug in his blankets. Hours later I awoke to a terrifying sound, my heart hammering. As consciousness flowed back I recognized it as the cawing of crows, those intelligent corvids whose presence legend has it signifies impending doom. Glancing at my phone I saw it was 4am, and for an hour between then and five I lay wide awake,
convinced the sound would surely wake not only Felix but also the dead, an army of whose rotting corpses would stumble over to where we slept and drag us screaming to Hades. This not being the case I decided to pop out for a wee, and the sight that greeted me was fairytale in its beauty. A crescent moon hovered low above the sleeping campers, gilded with the coming dawn, a single star atip the point like a beauty spot. On one side the sky was the colour of indigo ink, on the other a deep powder blue. Dew silvered the grass and the air carried a hint of salt from the nearby sea, and everything was still. I felt the special magic of being awake when all others around were asleep, and for a moment I stood and breathed deeply. Feet plastered in wet grass, I crawled back in the tent and tumbled back to bed, smiling at the thought of us all safe and snug under the canvas.

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