I was practically born into camping. My first camping holiday was when I was about six months old, and the few times I spent in hotels didn’t exactly warm me to the idea. However, in one way, camping is exactly like staying in a hotel: the term describes a wide range of options, from very simple to very luxury. The American version of pitching your tent in the wild and shitting in the woods is unknown in most parts of Europe, probably because we don’t have many bears that can eat you up. People here go to campsites, which range from simple to holy fuck, how much does that cost?
Campsites near big cities, like the one we stayed at, have a very interesting social mix, since the residents range from students on a 20 bucks a day budget (been there, done that, it was great fun) to people with camping “cars” that cost twice as much as our house, extra car not included. Interestingly, those peple also had the cheapest, most uncomfortable folding chairs on the market, the very ones Mr and I had back in the day when we didn’t have the money or space for anything that didn’t leave you with a sore back.
Anyway, we clock somewhere in the middle, with a tendency to pack too much stuff and create utter chaos:
What I personally like about this version is that you’re as protected from the elements as you need to be, but as open as possible. The campsite is on a piece of former farmland, so you live in nature, which gets me to our constant companions this holiday: ants.
The ones pictured here were the large ones. They were exclusively interested in harvesting the seeds of the various grasses, which they transported during the cooler times of the day via a veritable ant highway.
Not pictured: the millions and millions of small ones that went everywhere until we bought repellent and sprayed all the parts of the caravan in contact with the floor. It’s not nice to be woken by half a dozen ants crawling on your belly.