Glamping Gratitude

*Written end of September 2020

I’ve just come back from a weekend glamping in the Cotswolds. Sounds idyllic doesn’t it? And trust me, getting away and leaving the county for the first time since March felt amazing. I think we all felt like we’d get nosebleeds just by travelling an hour down the road. We stayed in a Moroccan tent, with beds (bunkbed for my little one which was the highlight of the weekend hands down…he must’ve climbed up and down the ladder 100 times without the novelty showing any signs of wearing off). It had a fridge, electric and an ottoman full of all the utensils we needed for our stay. We had a BBQ outside and a clean, Covid-safe toilet block (complete with showers, kitchen washing facilities and laundry). Everyone wore masks, respected each other’s space as well as the environment. Yet there’s a BUT. It was the last weekend in September and it was 4 degrees at night. That’s quite chilly in a tent with only a little fan heater. Laying in bed at night I felt how a dog must feel when it sticks its head out of a moving car’s window and catches the force of the breeze. Each corner of the canvas flapped around us and shook the walls. Our 4-year-old slept well but my husband and I looked more haggard after one night than 6 months juggling work and childcare during lockdown. This wasn’t the relaxing break we’d looked forward to and for a moment we were disappointed. Then it hit me just how lucky we were.

I started thinking about everything we had right there. Each other. Together. Warm, clean, layers of clothing to change into. The money to invest in thermals for another night and the transport to get to the shops. Clean water. A kettle to fill hot water bottles, make cups of hot chocolate and tea. Hot chocolate and tea – the solution to any problem. We could order extra blankets if we were cold, buy breakfast and take-away food from the campsite café, or cook fresh produce ourselves on the BBQ. We could have a warm shower. We could recharge our phones and let the family know the tent hadn’t blown away overnight.

Choices

We’d chosen to put ourselves in this position. For leisure. For fun. We had a warm house and creature comforts waiting for us if it all got too much or the risk of getting ill got too high (esp. given current Covid circumstances).

That second night I couldn’t sleep. I stayed awake as the jet stream of cold air blasted my face. I stared at my son, fast asleep in his bunk bed, cuddling his favourite toy and wrapped in his spiderman duvet, wearing thermals under his spider man pjs. I had no worries about keeping him warm – he had two hot water bottles and blankets. I had no worries about breakfast in the morning, he had a choice of cereal, toast or a fry-up. I had no worries about keeping him clean or what he’d wear the next day – if he’d have shoes that covered his toes and a hat to keep him warm. The bottom bunk was full of options to match the weather, just as it was bedtime with stories to suit his sleepiness. None of this kept me awake. But the thought of Moria did. A canvas camp where people have nothing. Where ‘home’ to them is a shelter made of whatever is available and full of what little creature comforts they can find. Many of which now burnt and left with nothing. Parents just like us, watching their children as they sleep. Feeling like they’ve failed them through no fault of their own but through a quest to give them a better life. To seek asylum in a better place. One where their humanity would be respected, or so they hoped.

Luck

What we felt were hardships would be considered the ultimate in luxury to others. A dry tent. A lockable door. Electricity. A bed. The ability to feed, clothe and keep their children warm. To have access to clean water and basic facilities. To feel safe in their beds at night. To wake up knowing what the next day would bring. We didn’t have a baby, a vulnerable family member or sick relative to care for. We hadn’t risked life and limb to get this far. We hadn’t spent days walking, sleeping rough and wondering where our next meal was coming from. We hadn’t fled our homes, our jobs, our families and neighbourhoods. We hadn’t left everything behind us. And this wasn’t a reality for us.

Hunger, fear, fatigue, stress, anxiety, depression. The price paid for hope.

Hope so desperate it clings to the ashes for warmth. Hope that haunts me. Hope that taunts me for not realising how lucky we were. How the worst of our days are still a huge privilege by comparison to those in a canvas community with no way out.

Reality

I wonder how many creatives are in those camps. How many copywriters, designers, photographers, artists? How many artworkers, web developers, animators, production directors, proof readers? – all people who would be colleagues in another life, in another country. If things were different. How many of them don’t recognise their daily life now or their new identity without their purpose? For many here, Covid slammed the brakes on career prospects and opportunities but our professional roles are still recognisable if not scarred by the process. I wonder how many writers are bathing their sanity with words each night, etching scribbles of wellbeing onto whatever they can find to write with. Poems whispered on silent lips. I hope their words lead them to a better life and that their creativity gives them the escapism they need. And that with every ounce of grit they have left, they hang on to hope, while the rest of us choose love.