Knee-jerk-reaction camping food; and my downfall

So yes, we have gone back to camping. And we really, really enjoy it.
But...
In what I can only assume is a fear of literally starving whilst separated from my kitchen, larder and hob, we packed a large quantity of instant-junk-snack foods. Just in case. We had boxes filled with chocolate bars, biscuits, processed bread, jam, preserved meats, well-sugared Welsh cakes, crackers and cheese, and a fair quantity of alcohol and crisps.
It was what I can only explain as a knee-jerk-reaction to when we used to take our kids camping, bar the alcohol [no wait, I think we probably did take alcohol to be fair]. Kids cry, kids, argue, kids get bored - and the quickest way to bring peace used to be to feed them chocolate...
When we camped with kids, I used to be so busy changing nappies, quelling fights, and looking for lost toddlers that I didn't spend too much time on the al fresco menu. I remember it as chaos, but the kids seemed to like it.
Anyway, this last weekend I seemed to have reverted to 'this is the food we take camping' from over 20 years ago, and all I can say is after eating it I feel crap have got a headache. And we didn't even have a kid with us. The weather was great, the site was beautiful, I slept well and did not use a laptop or watch stuff on my phone. Not once. So all I can blame is the diet change.
As soon as I hit my kitchen I shuffled around making chamomile tea, simmering Crown Prince squash to add to sauteed organic onions and courgettes, with the freshly-picked mushrooms from our camp site, and home-grown parsley. So at least I feel morally better.
This camping-food-tide just has to turn. I am not going to take any junk food next time. I'm just not. I have my beloved Trangia, complete with the book that turned my heart that way; 'How to Eat Outside' by Genevieve Taylor. Though I could do with need more books, obviously. I've got my eye on 'Feast by Firelight' by Emma Frisch. I've dropped hints to my husband to buy it for me for Christmas. Actually, I've sent him the link on Amazon - so...
If anyone has any brilliant suggestions for fresh-food-eating while camping, I'm all ears.

 

When I'm sixty four

Remember that Beatles song? The one we sang along to in our distant youth. The above photo is me in 1973 just a few years after the song was written…

In case you don't know it, the song begins

When I get older, losing my hair

Many years from now.

Will you still be sending me a Valentine

Birthday greetings, bottle of wine?

Will you still need me?

Will you still feed me?

When I’m sixty-four?

Well, the time has finally arrived for me. Today I am sixty-four. I have to keep pinching myself to check I’m not dreaming. Thankfully I’m not losing my hair even if it is a bit thinner. That song has been running around my head all week for obvious reasons. So… I had a look at the lyrics, only half remembered. What did we assume being a 64-year-old was like?

How old it seemed. What a boring life those old folks must have!

Knitting by the fireside, going for a Sunday morning ride, gardening, grandchildren on your knee, scrimping and saving and a rented cottage holiday on the Isle of Wight.

So, how much of that has come true?

I’m glad to say I do still get Valentines, birthday greetings and bottles of wine if I’m lucky.

Knitting and firesides were part of life when I was a young mum. Its been years since I knitted anything, although I will admit to a bit of crochet when the mood takes me and that’s not often.

Gardening? Well I do just a bit. Wish I could do more because I loved it. That was also when I was younger.

Grandchildren on my knee? If I can catch one of them maybe. They seem to dash about a lot. Most of them live too far away to see very often anyway.

Sunday morning rides?

Gone are the days of the Sunday Driver who got his car out of the garage (yes, people used to keep their cars in the garage!) once a week and ‘go for a drive’. They were a great source of irritation to younger road users – us - years ago, tootling about in their neat little cars and stopping to look at the view. Now people of all ages are driving around all the time and Sunday is no longer the special day it used to be.

And as for the Isle of Wight, I haven’t been there since the Beatles were singing that song. I have no desire to rent a cottage there now.

Anyway, my point is – sixty-four isn’t old any more, although it IS still a bit of a shock when I look in the mirror. I’m convinced that soon nobody will be allowed to get old. Don’t you think though, that one day it might be nice to feel you deserve to put your feet up and let the rest of the world get on with it.

Just not yet. Because life at 64 is not boring. Not a bit of it!

I just can't help myself...

If you know me, you might have noticed I caught the photography bug a couple of years ago. And now I just can’t help taking photos. Wherever I go, whoever I’m with. It’s like an addiction, but without being bad for my health. Lets call it a passion - sounds better.

How did this suddenly spring itself on me in late middle age, you might ask.

I blame the dog. It all began when he arrived, and I started taking him for early morning walks come rain or shine. I had to be out in the fresh air every day whether I liked it or not. And I did like it.

So, one cold morning there was this amazing atmosphere by the lake in the park. And I just had to take a photo on my phone. After that first one I had the bug, and it grew inside me by degrees. I started to notice the texture of silver birch bark, the dew sparkling on grasses by the lake in the early morning light. All that sort of thing. Soon I wanted editing software, then a ‘proper’ camera, more editing software, bigger and/or better lenses… where will it all end?

The photo that started an addiction.

This morning I took the dog out for his walk and got firm with myself. I’ll leave the camera at home, I said. I’ll concentrate on being with Archie and making sure he gets a good run around. He’s been trained to stand still while I take photos, which he does with an ‘Oh for goodness sake!’ look on his gruff little face. He knows he’ll get a treat when I’ve finished but he’d rather not have to stand around so much.

Archie – surely the most photographed dog in Somerset.

Well of course I couldn’t walk past those poppies standing bright and defiant against a glowering sky, now could I?  And I did have my phone with me of course. I struggled with the urge to get some photos, but to be honest I didn't struggle very hard. Turns out they made some great pictures. And Archie got his treats as usual.

I not only take pics whenever I see something that moves me, I hoard them too. There are literally thousands of photos squirrelled away on laptops, iPad, phone, iCloud, lightroom catalogues, hard drives etc. There are even a few printed out.

Well, its not harming anyone, is it? It makes me notice things and focus on the amazing, fascinating world of everyday things. I can be creative with the images which satisfies some sort of basic human need. And it certainly keeps me off the sofa.

I’ve got a rosy idea of retirement where my husband is in the garage playing with his train set   working on his model railway layout, and I’m taking amazing pictures of it. Or the dog. Or the cat, the garden… anything that strikes me really. Or – even better – I’m out and about practically every day, camera at the ready, visiting stately houses and gardens, interesting buildings, nature in general. Then long cosy evenings by the imaginary fire, editing. Bliss!

Bingo!

I have to ask...

How do people cope with broody hens?

We only have three chickens and one of them is broody 50% of the time. Last time she sat on her eggs and refused to budge I got impatient and pushed her off. She pecked me. Fair enough, if anyone tried to snatch my babies I would retaliate with violence too.

But still. I want those eggs and they are never going to hatch, however long she sits on them. I admit she doesn't know this, so this time I wanted to spare her feelings and not shove her off. But it was days and days.

The other two hens have forgotten how to lay eggs so it was all down to Delilah in the coop. I started to lift the flap and peek in to see if she had moved, but there she was squeaking at me in annoyance and ruffling her feathers. In the end I forgot to creep past the run in the hope of catching her sneaking a quick snack of corn while I wasn't looking. I just carried on with life, throwing the food in and topping up the water, not thinking of any return.

Then on Tuesday Moo came round to take some photos for a magazine article I have got coming out. She was supposed to be on the patio snapping the artful arrangements of Rosemary that were placed there for her on the rustic table. But just as I walked past the run on my way to snip more fresh Rosemary, I caught sight of THREE HENS in the run. Quick as a flash I lifted the flap and there were seven eggs, still warm, lying in the hay.

I snatched them up with a whoop of joy and a cry of Bingo! Then I noticed that Moo was clicking away at me and not the Rosemary. She wants these photos to be seen as she feels they reveal the sinister, greedy side of my nature.

I say it was a war of minds between me and Delilah, and I won.

Besides, that's what hens are for...