The
British have a long and historic tradition of camping. Almost a love affair, in
fact. Ever since Baden-Powell took the first ever boy scouts off to experience
the bracing open-air life of Brownsea Island, without telling social services
or conducting a risk assessment, right through to Barbara Windsor in Carry On Camping, or that 1960s TV classic, Nuts In May. There is a curious dichotomy in our attitude to
spending time under canvas. On the one hand, it’s all about rising at dawn,
skinny-dipping in the lake, hiking 17 character-building miles and then cooking
a hearty breakfast, usually black on one side and raw on the other, and in the
evenings, singing Ging Gang Goolieround a convivial camp fire (or, even worse, Kumbaya). On the other hand, it’s also slightly naughty, a dirty
weekend on the cheap, with occasional nuances of accidental nudity. No wonder
that many camp sites are a hotbed of cold feet and a scene of mislaid
virginity. Then, of course, there is
always the wonderful British climate, and the constant peril of
creepy-crawlies, both of which are such an integral part of the great outdoors.
Nowadays, "camping” embraces a very wide spectrum of experiences, from
"glamping” in luxury to sleeping in a shelter made out of bracken and bent
twigs, especially if you are Ray Mears.
Steve Rudd was musing on Tracy Emin one
day, as one does from time to time, and in particular, about her famous tent,
now lost in a fire at her warehouse, on which she had painstakingly embroidered
the names of everyone she had ever slept with. It seemed to him that there was
something particularly symbolic, almost iconic,
in her choice of a tent to convey that information. Something very British. He realised, when he thought
about it, how many of his own rites of passage, and how many crucial periods in
his own life had been spent in tents, or had revolved around camping. Some
20,000 words later, the result was this slim volume.
Steve Rudd was born at a very early age, completely naked and unable to walk,
talk, or fend for himself. He overcame these difficulties and started writing
poetry while still at school. Fortunately, all of this early work has been
lost. Four years in retail bookselling after graduation contained the career
highlights of mistaking Philip Larkin for Eric Morecambe and failing to
recognise Margaret Drabble, Phil Drabble, and Bob Monkhouse. Only one of them
had written a book on badgers. These days, he spends most of his time having
staring contests with the lino, feeding the squirrels, the cat, the dog and his
wife, but not necessarily in that order, and wondering whatever happened to
Abraham Lincoln’s hat.
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