Intense

It may not be obvious, but I do like telling people how tough, worldly, and generally up-together us Brits are (even when our own government tries to prove the opposite).  This is exactly what I've been doing in the run up to Pete's annual school camp.  Other parents have been loudly worrying about the dire weather forecast, and I've laughed and reminded them that camping is supposed to be in the rain, and that it's still going to be warmer than any British summer.  They have found me amusing and instructive.

But then the weekend arrived, and it was time to put my money where my mouth is and actually go camping.  So I grumpily packed the Fiesta to the roof and set off to Double Lake Recreation Area, an hour north.

The campsite was in a beautiful lakeside spot, in the middle of a forest that makes it seem far more remote than it is (well, 35 minutes to the nearest Starbucks, so genuinely pretty remote).  We picked a fine spot, far away from everyone else in another illustration of British warmth, and set up.

And it was COLD.  It's been a long time since I wore five layers at once, but even that didn't keep all the nippy air away from my delicate skin.  Pete and his Kindergarten pals didn't seem to notice at all, and had to be reminded on more than one occasion not to run around in just their socks.

Then came the rain, and I thought: maybe I did enough of this when I was young.  Maybe camping in California in the summer is now my thing.  But I adopted a stiff upper lip, sulked off to collect some wood, and a couple of hours later had a roaring fire going.  Once a Cub Scout, always a Cub Scout.

As I repacked the car on Sunday I reflected that I'd just spent two nights under canvas, which surely qualifies me for some kind of award.  Only around 60 of the 130 people who had booked turned up, so I was in the top 50% at least.  "When can we go camping again?" asked Pete as I erected the tents in the garage to dry them out.  I communicated my reticence with silent disapproval and inscrutable sullenness, and nothing is more British than that.

Deep roots in Texas now.

How to survive any outdoor experience.

Pete's friend Elena joined us for dinner on the first night.

 The view from my camping chair.

First, and not the last, batch of s'mores.

Hannah makes oatmeal on Saturday morning.

And that, my friends, is a graded woodpile #scouting !!

A walk around the lake.

If I hadn't started a fire, we'd have all died from hypothermia!

Next generation of pyromaniacs.

One final s'more.

Ford Fiestas - so roomy!  But let's give it a few months before we do this again...