PITCH PERFECT

The lure of a night under canvas is all too much for Alan Cochrane

It is entirely possible that it’s something to do with age, but obsessions never seem to pass me by nowadays. Oh sure, the more normal kind – the ones that get a chap into deep trouble – have long ago been seen off or proved so prohibitively expensive that they’ve had to be dumped.

However, there are some that simply cannot be ignored. I’ve written in this space before about my Imelda Marcos fascination with footwear and how my incredible collection of shoes causes scorn whenever a new pair arrives on the scene.

Providing you keep it to yourself, I shall admit that the new drug is – wait for it – tents. I know, I know – it’s a ridiculous thing to be obsessing over, but as anyone similarly afflicted will tell you, these feelings are extremely difficult to quell. Like most men of my age, this affection for canvas – as they were made of in those days – began in the Boy Scouts, as did my love of camping and everything associated with it, such as sheath knives, open-air fires and burst and burnt sausages.

I didn’t do too much as an adult. However, I did try to get my daughters interested when they were little – forcing them to sleep out in a tiny two-man job beside the burn, just up the glen from our former but ’n’ ben. That all went well thanks to a combination of the novelty of living off nothing but sausages and baked beans, and my refusing to let them run home to Mum. But on one occasion I was the only camper who survived the night, with only a packet of bog rolls as a pillow, when the others rushed indoors to escape a downpour.

I then invested in a fifty-quid bargain – reduced by £100 – at a Jenners sale. That turned out to be a mistake, in that it was quite large and proved almost impossible to erect properly and single-handedly. Yet again, the girls were forced to come along, but sad to say they quickly decided camping was a miserable experience when clouds of midges ruined their outdoor supper (sausages and beans, of course) and then wind and rain meant they spent the whole night complaining of the cold.

I quickly decided this tent was unlikely ever to pass muster and it now resides in Yorkshire where my son, daughter-in-law and grandsons reckon it’s the very thing for pleasant holidays. Those tykes are clearly a hardier lot than my Edinburgh princesses.

It was obvious that I couldn’t remain tentless for long and the remedy arrived a few years ago when the girls’ French godparents gave them one of those pop-up versions. To my certain knowledge neither girl has spent so much as a minute in it. But I have. I always take it on holiday to France with us and when the heat and my (alleged) snoring gets too much to bear I’m banished to the pop-up. And, not to put too fine a point on it, I love it.

I know such instant tents are looked down upon by the experts, but when pitching camp with some pals on a beach in Mull a wee while ago, my abode was up in no time, while they were wrestling with rods and yards of flapping synthetic stuff for what seemed like ages. That said, getting packed up next morning was an entirely different tale. As anyone who has a pop-up tent will aver, they’re much easier to put up than take down!

Another adventure to the islands, with a bit of beach camping thrown in, is being actively planned and it is this that lies behind my current (but thus far surreptitious) tent hunt. What I’ve been looking at is one of those lightas-a-feather jobs that would be completely waterproof even if placed at the foot of Niagara Falls. It must also be capable of erection in the twinkling of an eye, so that I can get cracking with supper. Yes, that’s right – sausages and beans. And, just as importantly, I must be able to re-pack it without even the suggestion of an impatient swear word. What chance would you give me?