Ghostly Breathing

A couple of times a year, Nigel and I meet up with our old friends David and Carolyn who live in the North East. We walk, pub and sightsee. 

 This time we tried a new halfway meeting point - the Lincolnshire wolds. 

It would have been great if this had been the only new element of the weekend but there was another novel experience. 

On our first evening Storm Amy cut the electricity and we had a game of hunt the candles in the Airbnb in the dark. We found one set of fake candles which nevertheless looked like someone had set fire to them, and two real ones. But no matches whatsoever. We decided to pass the time by listening to ghost stories on David's phone. 

We were listening to Shirley Henderson reading a spooky tale. Shirley Henderson has a high-pitched uncanny voice and the special effects department had added to the atmosphere with very realistic ghostly breathing in the background. 

Eventually, the tale drew to its chilling climax. However when the story finished, and Shirley Henderson fallen silent, the ghostly breathing continued. 

I raised my phone torch. The rest of us might have been on the edge of our seats, but after a long and exciting day, David was catching forty winks.

A Camp and Windy Weekend

I love camping.  It is an utter idyll to sit by a firepit with a glass of wine and good company.  You don’t have to go out because you are already out and in prime position to watch the sunset, hear the dusk chorus, spot the bats flitter past and catch sight of the first star.

Last summer Perran and I camped near Avebury.  This July, Carenza and I were to stay at the excellent Woodfire Camping site at Westlands, East Sussex. 

We planned walks on the South Downs Way and Serpent Trail and sightseeing at Petworth House.  However, most unfortunately, we forgot to book good weather.

The forecast said fair on Friday night, downpour Saturday. 

‘We have to pack all my favourite bits of camping into Friday night,’ I said. 

So we ate looking out over acres of woodland, I painted a watercolour and Carenza read. As night fell, we lit the firepit, opened a bottle of wine and switched on my bat detector (pipistrelles were passing).  Even the air stayed in our airbeds and we were woken early by a family of noisy woodpeckers. (Outside the tent, not in it.)

We also had a solid plan for the rainy Saturday evening.

1)      Go to pub

2)      Stay in pub

3)      Return to tent at bedtime

BUT I had not paid sufficient attention to the forecast – not only was there to be rain.  A MIGHTY WIND was on its way.

The blasts bent the tent poles double and forced rain in through the seams.  I could not see Carenza in the dark, but I imagined her lying like me with eyes wide open, listening to the buffeting of the storm and wishing we’d checked the guy ropes before turning in…  Every time I fell asleep, the side of the tent blew in and slapped me awake. 

In the morning our tent was still standing, but we couldn’t help noticing not all the other tents were where they had been the night before. Some gazebos were missing altogether.

At the time, we enjoyed the first night way more, but it is the second night we will still be enjoying years from now as we continue to recount the tale of the scary gale.