For many members of the drizzly United Kingdom, one of the prominent attractions of upping sticks and moving to Australia, is the promise of an outdoor lifestyle. The country does indeed have the advantage of offering the prime necessity for al fresco fun, in the form of consistent warm and, most importantly, dry weather.
This is more than a strong draw for those forced to sit indoors wearing warm socks, sipping an even warmer beverage, while watching “The Antiques Roadshow”.
In June.
(I appreciate there are individuals who would relish the above setting, classifying it as, “cosy”. That is their prerogative of course. Personally, I find people like this irritating. I’d be hard pushed not to fling their always present packet of Hobnobs at their permanently bobble hatted heads! Clearly, I wouldn’t do that… I LOVE Hobnobs.)
Australians, being fully aware of this atmospheric advantage, regularly partake in the civilization spurning pastime known as ‘camping’.
The reality of camping is one of contrasts. Sure, it’s a chance for family and friends to spend time together while getting back to nature, but as discovered on our recent trip, nature isn’t always keen to get back with you. Sometimes nature really doesn’t want to know. As far as nature is concerned, you left a long time ago, and she has moved on!
Mrs B and I spent a late summer weekend at a picturesque camping spot named Pretty Beach, which is located around an hour south of Jervis Bay in New South Wales. One could accuse the area of being somewhat pretentious identifying itself as ‘Pretty Beach’, but there is no escaping the fact that it is indeed a beach and it is, well, pretty.
‘Getting back to nature…? As far as nature is concerned, you left a long time ago, and she has moved on!
As tentative newbies we decided against the commitment of purchasing a tent. If we own a tent, we are campers, and we just were not ready for the obligation of being identified as such. Baby steps were in order. Alternatively, we decided to push the seats down in the rear of our car and convert it into our sleeping area.
I realise I am at risk of receiving a retaliation pack of McVitie’s finest right between the eyes, but I don’t care. Our sleeping arrangements were indeed, “cosy”.
For a living/cooking area we purchased a gazebo that covered two camping chairs, two gas cooking stoves perched upon a foldaway table, and an “Esky”. This is a brand of cooler box that, in Australia at least, has done for the portable chilling apparatus what “Hoover” did for the vacuum cleaner and “Coke” did for cola. Not wanting to be a slave to genericized branding, I shall strive to refer to it as a “cooler box” for as long as I can be bothered.
Our Esky is not the biggest, so we were limited in what we could keep cool.
Deliberation over priorities led to a debate over how important it is to chill vegetables and meat for health reasons, at the cost of having no space for alcohol. Good sense eventually prevailed.
I’d rather have ‘E. coli on toast’ than drink a warm beer!
Food therefore was stored somewhat arbitrarily around our temporary accommodation, just making sure it be kept out of direct sunlight. This, we felt, would give the groceries a fighting chance of not going off. If they lost the battle, hey, crisps for dinner!
The inconvenience of setting up camp now behind us, we proceeded to spend the day with friends who had joined us on our maiden camping experience. Enjoying the glorious sunshine, yellow sands and crystal blue water of Pretty Beach, and forgetting the stresses and trials that come with the bricks and mortar lifestyle.
Day, as is standard, turned to night, and we prepared our dinner with the food that had been relatively exposed to the elements. Tasty and, thankfully, not at all detrimental to the health of our digestive system, we then joined our friends for a bit of a jolly up around the campfire.
It was on the short walk back to our canvas enclave that nature began to give intimidating clues of its antisocial intentions. Turning our final corner toward home, we were stopped in our tracks by a male grey kangaroo. He stood upright, perfectly still. Staring.
Might I add, he was big…extremely big!
He started to chew, not breaking his gaze from either of us.
I questioned my native wife, whom I assumed had been in this situation before.
“Do we give him something?”
“Like what?” asked Mrs B, who’s demeaner was a lot calmer than mine.
Recalling previous experiences in London of being stopped in the night by an intimidating figure, it would usually lead to me being relieved of my mobile phone. But I appreciated that it was highly unlikely we were being mugged by a kangaroo.
“I don’t know. Food?”
My wife accurately stated that we hadn’t got any.
I decided to rely on the universally utilised action of ‘shooing’.
After several ‘shoos’, combined with some limp wristed, back of the hand motioning, the kangaroo finally made its way and disappeared into the darkened shrubbery. I would assume this was probably due to boredom rather than intimidation. Nonetheless, our path was clear.
On the remain of our short journey home, I expressed my relief of coming out of the situation unscathed. Sensing her lack of concern, I regaled Mrs B with a cautionary tale of when a friend of mine had her purse pinched by a monkey in Gibraltar.
I concluded the story with the warning that wild animals shouldn’t be trusted.
She simply said, “Right-o.” – Somewhat dismissively, I thought.
Arriving back at our camp, we carried out the standard pre-bedtime routine, which becomes somewhat less dignified in the great outdoors. Although the process of getting changed took place behind a polyester sheet, any random passers-by would be treated to the silhouette of a hopping, half-naked man, struggling to take his jeans off.
Bed couldn’t come soon enough…
I was awakened abruptly by Mrs B.
“Oi! Clear off!!”
The sun was now up, so it was morning, but I had no idea what time.
“Get out of it!! Go on!!”
Being half asleep and surrounded by a mosquito net, I struggled to see to whom she was addressing.
“He’s eating our bread!!”
I wiped the sleep from my eyes and pulled the net to one side. There, stood inside our gazebo, was the very same kangaroo that we had encountered the night before. This time he had an entourage. Three smaller kangaroos accompanied him, stood slightly back, like the T-Birds would position themselves behind John Travolta in the film Grease. Gripped tightly between ‘Danny Zuko’s’ set of thieving claws, there was indeed our loaf of sourdough bread.
We may not have been mugged by a kangaroo the night before, but we were being burgled by one now!
“We were going have that for breakfast” my wife said, sadly.
This was intolerable! No way this menacing marsupial was breaking into my home, stealing our breakfast, and getting away with it!
I jumped out of my sleeping bag and confronted the gang leader.
“Give that back!” I demanded.
Danny the Roo remained motionless. He then insolently took a large bite out of the bread and proceeded to chew slowly.
“That cost us $7.50!!”
What did I hope to gain informing him of the cost of the loaf? Would he be so shocked at the price of artisan bread that his guilt would motivate him to reach into his pouch, pull out a $10 bill and tell me to keep the change?
Unlikely.
Danny remained indifferent and I started to contemplate on the fact that I was stood in the open air arguing with a kangaroo wearing nothing but boxer shorts with an elastic waist that had seen better days. (I was wearing the boxer shorts, not the kangaroo. That said, I wouldn’t put it passed the long-eared larcenist to route around in my pants drawer and have it away with my best Y- fronts given half the chance!)
Embarrassment, paired with Mrs B bringing to my attention the unappetising thought of eating anything pre-chewed upon by a wild animal, led me to concede defeat. I put on a t-shirt and made my way toward the campsite wash cubicles.
“I am going to the toilet,” I declared, “and you lot better not be here when I get back!”
It was an empty threat. Merely a lame attempt to recoup some pride.
To my surprise, it appeared to have worked!
Upon my return, they were nowhere to be seen. All that remained was a large chunk of crust discarded disdainfully in the dirt outside our camp. Mrs B was out of bed and tidying up the additional mess made by the spring legged delinquents.
I tried to see the funny side.
“Maybe the government stopped their job seekers allowance and they got desperate” I chuckled.
She thinned her lips and motioned her head toward the inside of the camp.
“You won’t be laughing when you see what they’ve done to your hat.”
I made my way to where I had left my baseball cap on the floor the previous night. I peered inside, and there it was. An expertly deposited kangaroo poo.
The final insult.
THAT is what nature thought about reconciliation!
As I disposed of the defecated headwear, I attempted to make myself feel better by having an internal lament about the all-inclusive holidays that we used to take back in Europe.
Man-made resorts that were as far from nature as could be.
Lacking imagination or opportunity of adventure, the food could be repetitive, and the drinks watered down.
As I would wander through a maze of sun loungers, lobster pink skinned and culturally ignorant, there was often a sense of disdain from the locals.
Although aware of the need for tourism, they still resented you being there.
That said, they never left a poo in my hat…
You Know It Makes Sense 