So, camping over Easter weekend was fun. (Mostly.) We camped next to a rain forest. (It rained a lot.) We spent our afternoons debating—would the tent leak? (It didn't.)
I was impressed by the facilities. (Free electric barbecues! Power to charge your mobile phone! Rubbish collection!)
We ate well. Steaks and burgers and sausages and chicken wings. Porridge for breakfast and proper coffee. Easter lollies and chocolate.
The Bogans were our neighbours. Uncle and his three teenage boys, Niece and her young two kids, and a couple of dogs. They had two caravans and two tents.
After our first night, they shared secrets about the camp ground. They'd been going there for years, and they had the best camp site. They knew where to find dry wood. Did we need more tent pegs or another tarp?
“I wish we had a caravan,” I said.
Uncle told me about the deal that he got when he bought his caravan, and how to get around paying the rego for the whole year.
“And you can come up here if you separate from your partner,” Uncle said. “You can stay here until yous get set up.”
Apparently, this was what he had done when his wife kicked him out. I didn’t mention that Adam and I had separated. It was too complicated to explain.
The Bogans were unruly, but nice people. They always had a fire going on the bank of the river. (They were burning old furniture.) They drank and played music—but not too late. They looked after a dog someone had left in the campground.
But I couldn't help thinking of a scene from “Cold Mountain”.
“Do you remember when Jude Law’s character and that crazy preacher go up to the lopsided cabin, and they get drunk on moonshine?" I asked Adam.
"The room is spinning, and the women are dancing around and lifting up their skirts. And they get turned in for being deserters.”
It was a strange, tangential thought.
But aren't all holidays an odyssey? Adam and I went on a journey together. While we camped in the ruins of our marriage, I was happy to pretend we were still a couple. One last time.
