BED IN THE BUSH

SARAH GROVES hikers, you must give way and go camp. But the hut sleeps 30 and, in our 20 years of going there, this has never happened.

As we pulled in, the sky screwed itself into an angry ball and burst open on our heads. “So glad we’re not camping tonight,” I said.

We chose a room, and set out pillows and sleeping bags on the big, foamy mattresses provided. Each child laid out a book on their beds, or a sketch-pad, or cards. It was good to be in a house again. We had packed light and hadn’t seen a chair or table for days.

The first hikers arrived just after the storm. We offered our room but they were polite enough to refuse and took the adjacent one. You can see hikers approaching from the river and, as the next group crossed the foot bridge, we counted them — a lot. There was still the middle room and the bunks in the dining area so we stayed put, playing in the river.

The sun was getting soft by the time the last group arrived. They were a tired family of non-hikers who would never do this again and they entered the hut, washed out and wasted, glancing in a beady-eyed manner at our luxuriously laid-out room.

“I don’t think this is going to work,” said Sam. “I will have to offer them our beds.” He did, and they didn’t count to 10 before saying they’d take them.

We rolled up our sleeping bags and walked to the campsite. The rain was gathering in its own tarpaulin in the sky, ready to tip sideways and land on our ill-prepared heads.

The kids and I set up two tents, lit a braai, opened cans, ate, brushed our teeth and went to bed.

By the light of my reading torch I could still see Sam, adjusting his ropes. In the rain.

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