nature | Gloria McBreen

Have you ever been camping?

Camping is high on my list of favourite things to do.

Our lovely Irish weather doesn’t make things easy for us, though.

We invested in a fabulous new tent in the summer of 2023. We only got to use it once that year – in Kerry. The weather was beautiful and we had a lovely time.

Last summer, the weather was brutal and many of the campsites didn’t open for tents.

So we went wild camping one weekend to a popular place for campers called Carrowtighe. It’s basically a field of roaming sheep alongside a small sandy beach surrounded by coastal cliffs.

A scenic spot but also very windy.

My son Tommy, his fiancée Chloe, and their young daughter Sophie, came with us, and they were using our old 4-man tent.

It took a little longer than usual to erect the tents because of the wind, but we managed. I did so much bragging about our brilliant new tent; how spacious it was, easy to erect with colour-coded poles.

I had advised Tommy and Chloe that when you look after a tent well, you’ll have it for years.

We unpacked all our stuff from the cars, blew up our airbeds, organised our kitchen, and then set up our dining area on the grass between the two tents.

We had sausages, bacon, beans, eggs, bread, and tea. As I washed up, Stephen sat in his camping chair reading, and Lucy lay in her sleeping quarters (very posh tent) resting, while Tommy, Chloe, and Sophie napped in their tent.

The wind got… well, windier!

Just as I was hanging up my dinky fairy lights, I remarked to Stephen, “It’s getting fairly blustery out there.”

I no sooner had the words out of my mouth when Lucy yelled from behind me.

She was buried under the tent. I bent down and got my back under it and pushed it up into position, but the wind fought back! It was hopeless… I wasn’t strong enough.

My fairy lights dangled in Stephen’s face threatening to strangle him as he rushed to the rescue.

He urged Lucy and me to get out. I pulled her free from the wreckage and crawled out into the fierce wind, leaving my brave husband behind.

I called my son for help. He poked his sleepy head from the flap of the perfectly stable tent I had regrettably cast aside for the fancier model.

“We need help. We’re down. Quickly… Stephen is trapped.”

Stephen was saved from the smothering ensemble, but there was no saving our beautiful 8-man luxury ‘robust’ tent. Bent and broken poles meant we had no choice but to take it down and pack up.

However… we did see the funny side of it! We laughed so much the whole way home.

We cooked marshmallows at our table later that evening. We took photos of them and posted them on Instagram. We just weren’t ready to tell everyone about our failed camping trip!

He walks our hay meadow often, with his camera, binoculars and a lunch box. He crosses the stile, then stops to smell the honeysuckle. He closes his eyes as he inhales the sweet pungent fragrance that emanates from the pale yellow tubular flowers. He’s appreciative of the natural things in life, I imagine.

He whispers to the birds and the bees as he rambles through the wild rebellious grass. Sometimes he lies among the buttercups to stare at the sky, photographing the clouds or a passing jet. Then he sits in the shade for a while, eating his lunch.

He wears a silly hat when it rains and a different silly hat when the sun shines. Perhaps he comes here because it’s peaceful and serene—most of the time. Sometimes the thrashing of farm machinery in the distance disturbs the serenity, and Farmer Tom’s noisy old tractor passes by now and then.

He caught me watching him one day and I fled to the old farmhouse that is my home. I hoped he wouldn’t follow me; yet I didn’t feel afraid…only shy. He seems a kind gentleman, not likely to cause me any harm—like some of the others.

He didn’t follow me but he came back the next morning and I watched him again; out of sight, shielded by the foliage of the hedgerow. Red Fox slinked through the meadow and the man took lots of pictures of him. That made him happier than the time he got a shot of the melodious Blackcap warbler. I wondered if he’d like to take pictures of me. If that might make him happy. I know he’s aware of my presence.

The noisy machinery will soon make its way to this uncut meadow and he might not come back here after that. It’s time to give him what I know he wants, even though I know that when I do, I won’t see him again. But that’s okay because I too will soon leave the meadow, and my adoptive parents.

I called out to him. He looked all around. I called again, teasing him. He took off his silly sun hat and craned his neck, as if pushing his ears forward so they could hear me more clearly. A funny little man indeed. He stood in the middle of the meadow peering through his binoculars.

Then I showed myself…in all my glory. ‘Cuckoo’, I sang. ‘Cuckoo.’ I perched on Farmer Tom’s rusty gate and dared him to come closer. He did, very slowly, with his mouth open and his eyes as bright as stars. His got down on his knees and positioned his camera.

I ruffled my grey barred feathers and opened my pointy wings. I gave him more time than any bird ever did, I guessed. But I think he deserved my attention, and I trust that his rendition of how he captured the rare cuckoo in the lens of his camera, will glorify his ego—and mine!