WHAT IS THE CHARM?

Evening Star, Issue 25400, 3 February 1945, Page 10

WHAT IS THE CHARM?

[Written by Maby Scott, for th» ' Evening Star.'] Cousin Ella tooked at my sunburn with obvious distaste. " But why on earth do you do it? " she asked mildly. " How can a woman of your age really enjoy roughing it to that extent ? I think it's just a* habit, and you'go on doing it because you've always done it. Come now, tell me—what is the charm? " What is the charm ? I looked at her dully, aware that I could never possibly explain to. her. I merely said vaguely that it was nice sometimes to be primitive, but she only asked if I meant dirty. I then murmured something about the charm of the sea when one lives inland, but she retorted that I had refused the offer of a perfectly good house at St. Helier's, where she supposed I would have found plenty of sea." After that" we parted with our usual affectionate Animosity, and I went home to think it out. But I find that I:cannot, put it down in black and white, cannot analyse the happiness of that early camping adventure. As well try to explain why you like horses and dogs and dislike bridge parties. All I can do is to- remember' the happiest and "most special" moments of life in camp. " Most special " was Elizabeth's name for the highlights of her holiday by the sea, dating back to the days when she herself wasa sunburnt little creature, with sand in her hair and a minimum of clothing. If you, also, are of the brotherhood of campers, you will know those , moments; if you are like Cousin Ella and merely amazed, you will not read further of this column. Best of all, it always seems to 'me, is waking on the first morning., after you have settled mtocamp. You went to bed tired but, "inclined to the fretful belief that you were going to have a bad night, and were asleep in- that strong salt air almost before you had. had time to' notice that the bed was undeniably hard. . You woke sometimes during the night, of course, because you had forgotten how light it is in a. tent on a moonlit, night; but it was good to wake for a moment, to hear the tide lapping on the beach just below the tent, to know that only "canvas "separated you from the stars and the bush and the moonlight.■-■ Even as you Felt yourself aikin to .-them all, you had turned and were asleep, once more. But the real awakening, when' the sun is already high in the sky and. the birds clamorous in the trees behind tho tent—that is the, best moment of all. To see the blue sea through the open door of the tent, to hear the cicadas perched on your very tent pole heralding, the sunshine, to know that a long day_ stretches ahead—l 4 long days—during which' is no shearing to spur you from your bed, no 6tove to be tit. no floors to be cleaned—this, surely, is bliss indeed. To taste it to the full you- must wake indecently early—indecently, that is, for camp; say 6 o'clock or so—and l go to your tent door and look at all the beauty about you,breathe deeply of the strong air. wave a. langourous hand to the beckoning sea—and then go back to hed and think it all'over'until "you fall asleep again. That alone mates all the labour and work of preparing for camp worth while.

■ But there are many other moments. . Some. of these, are "common" property, some are your very secret joy. There is the first bathe in the surf, for example, when the tide is "too high to be safe," the. wise-acres say, and the waves " too .strong, for , swimming." You know all this; you have been told it for years; but you agree to " keep all together" and. take the. . plunge. You others who live always close to the sea and can bathe when—or rather if—the weather permits, can- have no idea of the intoxication of that first rush into the breakers; the mingled joy and terror, the determination to plunge at once and not have the slow misery of feeling, the waves crawl higher with every step, .the.triumph with which you rise to the surface, dash the spray from your face and gasp: " It's simply splendid—once you've been under." No one really believes you, of course; those who are as yet only knee deep look at you with cold dislike .until very shame forces them, into the breakers and they know the satisfaction of rising from the waves to assure shivering newcomers that " It's wonderful—once you've been under." There is that minute of primitive triumph, too, when you get your first good haul of. fish. Rations have heen running a trifle low, and the elder.*, who are expected to provide for ravenous appetites, have had their anxious moments—and then almost the very first time you pulled the net it came to shore with a dozen glistening mullet embedded in its depths. You rlo not wait to see the drab end-of that adventure, but hurry back to camp, stoke up the fire, and heat the camp oven, aware that within half an hour a dozen young people will all ba ! saying at once, " Why, I never knew l could be so hungry." And how good it tastes, that first fish, fresh caught and cooked from the very net! Doesit really belong to the same species as I that limp object that emerges from its brown paper wrapping when you have brought some fish back from town ' for a treat ? I In the evening, too, when everyone is a little tired with' bathing and playing cricket and hockey, climbing round the rocks and rawing the heavy dinghy, when the huge camp fire is well stoked and the young folk sit drowsily around it and talk with quiet voices aud sleepy eyes of other days and other camps—those, too, are good times. But when at last you have said the final goodnight, when you. are free to go to your tent and revel in the silence that ia broken by the washing tide and the | owl's friendly cry—then comes one of I the best times of all. For, if you have chosen your camping time wisely, you .will have moon rise to - watch, far across the sea. A week ago, when you first camo to camp, you all watched it together as it topped the dark mountain and sent its shining band across the still water; but now it is very late and it is your moon alone. Everyono is asleep, and you may sit at your tent door and remember other moons, and those who watched them with you. Only when it is high in the pale sky can you bear to leave it and slip into your bed, knowing that its light will be very close to you while you sleep. I tried to explain some of this to Cousin Ella this morning, but she only said, " And what about the wet days? In a summer like this only a fool would - enjoy living in a .tent." I told her that that, also, was fun—that it waa good to wake in the night and-hear the soft and. muffled thud of the rain so close above your head, and know yourself defying the storm and yet of it. She said, "What about wet blankets and colds in the head? " I said that you could always dry the bedding and that joy came in the morning, but she merely retorted that so did pneumonia. There is really nothing to do with a non-camper, after all.