A camping we will go...

Let’s amble back down the winding path of time to 1983. To a patch of ground on the Nicol Ballogie estate near Aboyne and the Peterhead scout troop’s annual summer camp; where boys became men!
Don’t get me wrong I like camping just not with about seventy other boys my own thirteen years and older; none of whom I’d call friend and only a few more I could even tolerate.
Ah, I hear you pausing to ask ‘what do you have against the scout movement?’
Actually nothing; beyond the fact that I’d been shoved into joining only so mummy dearest could get a couple of hours on a Friday night without me around. And, as a bonus, two weeks out of the summer holidays when I was to be interred here.
Apparently I would enjoy it. Everybody told me so. There were a couple of flaws in that particular theory and these are they: Obviously there was the fact stated above but also; being from a ‘broken home’ (hardly a secret) meant that there wasn’t any money to buy the equipment I would need, i.e. a rucksack, a pair of sturdy hiking boots, a sleeping bag and a camping knife. (Yes, yes, I know this would seem to help my cause, but wait!) Actually this wasn’t the solution it appeared since the nice scout leader was more than willing to lend me said equipment. (The knife was more a knife shaped piece of metal that could only be deemed a lethal weapon if I tried to jam it down someone’s throat. The boots were so high they could walk around on their own. The Rucksack smelled of mould and was so old it had probably come through Mafeking with the Illustrious Baden-Powell himself. And last and probably least there was the sleeping bag. Once upon a time it could have kept you warm on the south face of Everest – probably about the time Sir Edmund Hillary was climbing it. Now the down within had all but disintegrated and it smelled worse that the rucksack.) Don’t get me wrong I’m not knocking the gesture but I was walking proof that the adage ‘something is better than nothing’ was in fact; unsound.
So, Ballogie. The place itself was nice enough; an open stretch of ground surrounded by wooded hillside but the presence of seventy raucous teenage boys and the half dozen or so scout-masters tempered the whole experience. That and the fact that I didn’t really want to be there of course.
First the patrol had to erect their tent (For those lucky souls who’ve had no experience of scouting, each troop is organised into patrols consisting of between six and ten boys and a patrol leader; or as he called himself ‘the boss’) This in fact was a more enjoyable experience than it sounded and I actually began to consider that perhaps I had misjudged the whole prospect after all (ah, the naiveté of youth! – translation; how stupid could I possibly get?).
The tent’s were big, canvas, ridge affairs but when you crammed eight boys and all their belongings inside they shrank considerably. As a ‘pleb’ I was given the honour of the spot by the door or as ‘the boss’ like to phrase it the ‘door mat’. This meant a night spent with the others walking on various parts of my anatomy on their way to the latrine and back. And, as an extra prize, waking up with the sunrise to find myself lying half out of the tent thanks to the fact that the others had all managed to establish their space within. It occurred to me at that point that while I didn’t really want to be there neither was I wanted there. All things considered I would’ve preferred to be in my own bed. On the bright side it was a lovely sunrise.
Amazingly, things got worse.
We’d been told that long trousers weren’t allowed (quite why I never found out) this meant we were all running around in shorts in late July. This wasn’t a bad thing for those who tanned easily (remember this was before factor fifty protection and all the warnings about excessive exposure to the Sun.) but for someone like me who burned at the first hint of sunlight it was, to be honest, a very bad idea. By lunchtime on the first day my legs looked like I’d just finished runner up in a slapping contest; every movement was a wild, new experience in pain. And boy there were plenty of opportunities to move.
Our task, whether we choose to accept it or not, was to build a bench at which we could sit and eat our super-noodles. Take a wild guess who it was that had to drag those logs over. No! Wrong! It wasn’t that vaunted team effort the scouts are so famous for promoting. Now I’m not against hard work nor am I against pulling my own weight but pulling the rest of the patrols as well?
Luckily for me ‘the boss’ decided there were enough logs and besides someone had to fill the fifty litre water container and carry it back. After all loafing about in the sun all day is thirsty work and you can’t cook super-noodles without water. But it wasn’t all that bad; here was an opportunity to learn something: Jay-cloths could strain out all sorts of interesting bugs from the water. Though, being a curious sort, it crossed my mind to wonder what it wasn’t filtering out of the water. E. coli here I come!
All things considered, I figured a full day in Stalag Ballogie was one day too much after all I’d given the whole experience a try and I think that both my patrol and myself were in agreement that it was time for me to leave. Trying to explain this fact to the scout-master however earned me a very condescending lecture on the dangers of homesickness. Now I am and always have been a peace-loving person but at this point trying the technique to make my knife shaped piece of metal lethal was very appealing. Since I’m not writing this from a prison cell (honestly I’m not) it’s obvious I didn’t give into the urge instead I explained in a calm and even voice that the only reason I wanted to go home was because at least there I could wear a pair of long trousers and wouldn’t be force fed super-noodles. I wanted to go home because at least there I didn’t have to use a jay-cloth to pour a glass of water and because there I could put some cream on my medium rare legs.
He was, to say the least, unsympathetic. Strangely he seemed convinced I would feel different in the morning. This sentiment had me worried and I was tempted to remind him that the Geneva Convention forbade torture or brain-washing but thought better of it.
Needless to say I felt no different with another beautiful sunrise blazing in my eyes. It was definitely time to leave but before going I did tell ‘the boss’ what I was going to do with the water container if he mentioned it again. I explained, probably less than politely if I’m honest, I was too busy packing to fetch any more E. coli juice for him. And so, if it wasn’t before, it quickly became clear to everyone as I started down the track that I hadn’t changed my mind. I’d only covered about a quarter of a mile before the pick-up rumbled past me and stopped.
Nothing was said. I threw my pack in the back and climbed in after it. As we drove back to Peterhead I realised that, funnily, they were right; it had made a man of me. Nobody was ever going to push me around again.