Camping Gear By Alp Mortal
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Both Adam and Robert are stuck in their grooves. Adam has a mundane job, working in a call centre; Robert works on the farm; bound by tradition and familial obligations. Adam rolls up and pitches his tent. Their mutual attraction and blossoming feelings open their eyes to a future neither thought was within their reach.
Thank you, Alp Mortal Categories: Contemporary Romance | Gay
Word Count: 10,588 Heat Rating: 2 AMAZON LINK relinks.me/B00GBHY7ZU |
Chapter One – Why doesn’t everyone do this?
I love camping and for a man who has a manicure every two weeks that’s quite rare. I love the city too but camping is freedom; freedom from the fuss and the bother. It’s simple and uncomplicated, cooking and eating outside, lighting a fire, sleeping in a tent; I just love it.
I planned a trip; a couple of weeks, maybe ten days depending on the weather. I don’t mind if it rains as long as the tent isn’t sitting in a lake or there’s mud up to your arse; a bit of weather presents a challenge. On line I’d seen a farm advertising its campsite which I presumed was new because it didn’t feature in my magazine. It wasn’t a big site but it did have a shower block and toilets; always useful though I’m not averse to washing with just a cup of hot water or taking a dump behind a tree. I phoned and they had spaces so I booked two weeks. A fortnight on a farm; what utter bliss!
I had a week to plan and pack. I don’t have a lot of stuff because I like to keep it simple. I have the essentials and they’re well used and well cared for. I packed up the tent, which is a double with a double air mattress; the tent has a separate annex which is just high enough to sit in; my chairs and table, essential kitchen tools and eating iron box, stove and lamp, both gas, cool box for the perishables, clothes, including trunks as there was a river nearby, a few warm layers and that was it; boot full, bike on the back and map on the seat beside me.
I’m holidaying alone because I am alone just now; the bruises have vanished and the heart is back in one piece. He never liked camping and when I thought about it, I realised that I didn’t really like him.
I drove the two hundred and fifty miles southwest of where I lived and found the farm. It occupied an idyllic little spot sited on a gentle slope where I chose a pitch up at the back. Being up the hill with only the woods behind me, afforded me better views of the country and provided easier access to the path that led to the river. It suited me to be the furthest from the showers and the stand pipe because the showers are always noisy.
Two hours to erect the tent, inflate the mattress, make the bed, boil the kettle and brew the first cuppa and seeing as it is nice out, I sit in one of the chairs and drink the brew, contemplating the world; or rather, judge my fellow campers and award marks out of ten.
It’s three o’clock. I check out the farm shop and it’s quite good but a bit pricey. I fill up the water containers and hike to the river and back; a two mile round trip, thirty minutes at a steady pace. I fit the wheels to the bike and check her over, prepare my all in one soup come stew and by five o'clock, I’m all set and sitting with a customary glass of wine and a cigarette. I'm nodding at the others as they arrive and set up; mostly older couples or very young couples, a few families with tents the size of a circus big top, definitely one lesbian couple, a possible gay couple but it could be father and son; no other singles. It’s warm and the light has a sepia quality, a nostalgic quality. Camping and farms; it’s the stuff of the Famous Five and the Secret Seven. In many ways I am that teenager, the rude healthy boy with blond hair, blue eyes and a nice line in knots. If only I was twenty years younger, but if I was I’d be in Ibiza with my mates getting smashed every night.
The site is filling up. I have neighbours, an older couple, Len and Maureen; nice gear. The light is fading a little and the noise reaches a hum as everyone’s attention turns to cooking. I heat the concoction in my trusty pan on the two ring stove, breaking the fresh bread which was my only purchase from the shop and pig out, spooning hot vegetables into my mouth with hunks of bread, sipping a rather good wine, feeling relaxed and happy.
I heat water to fill my washing up bowl, wash up and dry, putting everything away neatly, brew the coffee and sip it with a nip of brandy. By now it’s almost dark and I put on the lamp in the annex and read a chapter of a book I’d bought for the holiday; the travel log of Ewan Macgregor and his trip on his motorcycle with his pal whose name I can’t remember and always forget. Job done, installed, tired, bed warm, sleep assured, no alarm; why doesn’t everyone do this?
I love camping and for a man who has a manicure every two weeks that’s quite rare. I love the city too but camping is freedom; freedom from the fuss and the bother. It’s simple and uncomplicated, cooking and eating outside, lighting a fire, sleeping in a tent; I just love it.
I planned a trip; a couple of weeks, maybe ten days depending on the weather. I don’t mind if it rains as long as the tent isn’t sitting in a lake or there’s mud up to your arse; a bit of weather presents a challenge. On line I’d seen a farm advertising its campsite which I presumed was new because it didn’t feature in my magazine. It wasn’t a big site but it did have a shower block and toilets; always useful though I’m not averse to washing with just a cup of hot water or taking a dump behind a tree. I phoned and they had spaces so I booked two weeks. A fortnight on a farm; what utter bliss!
I had a week to plan and pack. I don’t have a lot of stuff because I like to keep it simple. I have the essentials and they’re well used and well cared for. I packed up the tent, which is a double with a double air mattress; the tent has a separate annex which is just high enough to sit in; my chairs and table, essential kitchen tools and eating iron box, stove and lamp, both gas, cool box for the perishables, clothes, including trunks as there was a river nearby, a few warm layers and that was it; boot full, bike on the back and map on the seat beside me.
I’m holidaying alone because I am alone just now; the bruises have vanished and the heart is back in one piece. He never liked camping and when I thought about it, I realised that I didn’t really like him.
I drove the two hundred and fifty miles southwest of where I lived and found the farm. It occupied an idyllic little spot sited on a gentle slope where I chose a pitch up at the back. Being up the hill with only the woods behind me, afforded me better views of the country and provided easier access to the path that led to the river. It suited me to be the furthest from the showers and the stand pipe because the showers are always noisy.
Two hours to erect the tent, inflate the mattress, make the bed, boil the kettle and brew the first cuppa and seeing as it is nice out, I sit in one of the chairs and drink the brew, contemplating the world; or rather, judge my fellow campers and award marks out of ten.
It’s three o’clock. I check out the farm shop and it’s quite good but a bit pricey. I fill up the water containers and hike to the river and back; a two mile round trip, thirty minutes at a steady pace. I fit the wheels to the bike and check her over, prepare my all in one soup come stew and by five o'clock, I’m all set and sitting with a customary glass of wine and a cigarette. I'm nodding at the others as they arrive and set up; mostly older couples or very young couples, a few families with tents the size of a circus big top, definitely one lesbian couple, a possible gay couple but it could be father and son; no other singles. It’s warm and the light has a sepia quality, a nostalgic quality. Camping and farms; it’s the stuff of the Famous Five and the Secret Seven. In many ways I am that teenager, the rude healthy boy with blond hair, blue eyes and a nice line in knots. If only I was twenty years younger, but if I was I’d be in Ibiza with my mates getting smashed every night.
The site is filling up. I have neighbours, an older couple, Len and Maureen; nice gear. The light is fading a little and the noise reaches a hum as everyone’s attention turns to cooking. I heat the concoction in my trusty pan on the two ring stove, breaking the fresh bread which was my only purchase from the shop and pig out, spooning hot vegetables into my mouth with hunks of bread, sipping a rather good wine, feeling relaxed and happy.
I heat water to fill my washing up bowl, wash up and dry, putting everything away neatly, brew the coffee and sip it with a nip of brandy. By now it’s almost dark and I put on the lamp in the annex and read a chapter of a book I’d bought for the holiday; the travel log of Ewan Macgregor and his trip on his motorcycle with his pal whose name I can’t remember and always forget. Job done, installed, tired, bed warm, sleep assured, no alarm; why doesn’t everyone do this?
