It came, I remember vividly, in the small, tight blue roll of a string tied bag.
Some forty plus years later the same bag is just about recognisably blue but heavily faded, discoloured and grass-stained from as many summers. It was the tent. A Boy’s own first and starter tent but only in that four letter word did it have any actual resemblance to a real tent. It failed on so many criteria.
It was made of light and almost transparent cotton and not heavy duty canvas. As a consequence it had no waterproof qualities whatsoever. The two poles were thin and flimsy, about the girth of a babies finger, in two sections and with the connector being possibly part of an elvish friendship ring. The poles emerged through the front and rear apex of the tent from small holes with only fancy stitching to hold them in place against a strong wind, for example, if anyone opened a door. There was no connection between the poles, no stout ridge, so the whole structural integrity, as much as it was, relied on the tension of the two guy-ropes. These simply looped, at the centre, over the protruding pole end and could extricate themselves through any momentary lessening of the tension, usually if someone coughed or sneezed.
Setting up the tent singlehandedly was a challenge. The cloth rectangle was laid out on one of its sides. The far end pole was assembled like sticking together two matchsticks with a tin foil wrap. Then, the first excitement of crawling into the semi transparent enclosure like putting salad into a pitta bread. I usually, and illogically held my breath for that part. If it was done easily that was fine. Any small problems delaying the operation and I would emerge very red faced and gasping for air. The latter was usually the case. Then the front pole. This was very straightforward as I just had to pull back the sub-triangle door panel and insert the pole, just like an upside down cricket stump. The guy rope was attached to the rear pole. Trying to maintain equal tension on two lengths of little more than kite string was difficult. I was trying to walk in one direction to find a spot to push in the metal skewer but with the other arm stretched out along the tangent where the other skewer would go. It was evidently, quite a plausible imitation of Dr Magnus Pike in full flow.
The metal skewers were not the original fittings for the tent. Those supplied when the bag was its bluest colour were purpose made and stout tent pegs. True and straight with a nicely turned and angled top. Most importantly the pegs had a pointed end for easy driving into the ground, even by a small child without his Dad’s mallet, best hammer or any other tool with a handle and a head. The originals were long gone. Lost in the garden. Misplaced in the bottom of the toy cupboard or thrown into the far reaches of the compost heap if they dared to catch, snag and damage the rotating blade of the fierce petrol driven lawn mower as it dragged my Father back and forth across the lawn on a weekend. The usual spikes to secure the guy ropes were meat skewers. Under slight pressure into even light soil they buckled and folded. They were useless.
As a back up plan I could tie the ropes to stationary objects such as a garden bench or abandoned toys, the heavy red metal pedal car being pretty solid. With one of the pegs just about stable I could scuttle across to the other. I was a bit of a stickler for a correct angle for the guy rope. It had to be forty five degrees from the pole, creating a ninety degree arc altogether. If I misjudged the angle or tension the whole far end of the tent would, at best, distort and sag or at worst just collapse. If it held up I would gingerly step back so as not to create any air turbulence. The tent was half up. It looked at that stage like a camel kneeling down on its forelegs with bum in the air. I would giggle at this observation, again. The front pole, again a bit easier and less of a performance. The tent was fully up. I worked round the pegs to make minor adjustments to the ropes using the sliding runners to even up the pitch and roll of the tent. If done correctly and not overstretched there was the advantage that the door flaps would meet in the middle and could be tied together to keep invaders and marauders, usually disguised as my younger siblings, at bay.
The tent then had to be filled with my equipment. Travel rug as a groundsheet, box of plastic soldiers, toy gun, cushion stolen from the living room and food supplies. Of course, the tent was suitable for both outdoor and indoor use. Thinking back I would say that the tent had actually been pitched more often in the dining room than the garden.
I did sleep out sometimes in the tent but in the absence of any protection against rain, swirly winds or even insects and snails this could only be done on the warmest ,driest and pest free night in any one year. The base of the tent sides did have two small tie loops per side to prevent flapping or the appearance of a sibling’s head covered in chocolate or worse. Usually I did not have enough pegs to use the loops.
In a stiff, strong wind the tent took on a life of its own and would be rapidly evacuated and then later retrieved from its eventual resting place up the end of the garden. Given its obvious limitations you would think that the tent would soon lose its appeal to a small lad.
I forgot to mention its most endearing and lasting feature. The tent was a very bright colour. The end panels were lurid orange. The main sides portrayed fantastical scenes of cowboy life. A cattle drive, camp fire, mounted ranch hands, mountains and plains. On a bright day, and lying out surrounded by my equipment it was easy for the whole tent to come alive with the Wild West and it was a very real and brilliant experience.
I spent many hours under the cotton triangle of that tent and even now, the smell and texture of the somewhat faded cloth evokes great and poignant memories. Of course, now that I am fully grown my attempts to lie down in the tent are quite comical. It still emerges on a regular basis every summer and is pitched awaiting occupation. My own children, niece and nephews have moved onto other activities and pursuits. I, however, have not . Stooping down and crawling in can give some worrying muscle twinges. It is a performance to actually roll over and lie down to look through and enjoy the cowboy patterned cotton . With my bald patch resting on the far pole I absolutely fill the tent. If it rained I would be in trouble as my legs from the knees down straddle the front pole and stick out into the garden. If it rained I would be in trouble anyway.
(previously pitched in mid November 2011 but well worth a run out now that it is better Spring weather- It is one of my favourites)
Some forty plus years later the same bag is just about recognisably blue but heavily faded, discoloured and grass-stained from as many summers. It was the tent. A Boy’s own first and starter tent but only in that four letter word did it have any actual resemblance to a real tent. It failed on so many criteria.
It was made of light and almost transparent cotton and not heavy duty canvas. As a consequence it had no waterproof qualities whatsoever. The two poles were thin and flimsy, about the girth of a babies finger, in two sections and with the connector being possibly part of an elvish friendship ring. The poles emerged through the front and rear apex of the tent from small holes with only fancy stitching to hold them in place against a strong wind, for example, if anyone opened a door. There was no connection between the poles, no stout ridge, so the whole structural integrity, as much as it was, relied on the tension of the two guy-ropes. These simply looped, at the centre, over the protruding pole end and could extricate themselves through any momentary lessening of the tension, usually if someone coughed or sneezed.
Setting up the tent singlehandedly was a challenge. The cloth rectangle was laid out on one of its sides. The far end pole was assembled like sticking together two matchsticks with a tin foil wrap. Then, the first excitement of crawling into the semi transparent enclosure like putting salad into a pitta bread. I usually, and illogically held my breath for that part. If it was done easily that was fine. Any small problems delaying the operation and I would emerge very red faced and gasping for air. The latter was usually the case. Then the front pole. This was very straightforward as I just had to pull back the sub-triangle door panel and insert the pole, just like an upside down cricket stump. The guy rope was attached to the rear pole. Trying to maintain equal tension on two lengths of little more than kite string was difficult. I was trying to walk in one direction to find a spot to push in the metal skewer but with the other arm stretched out along the tangent where the other skewer would go. It was evidently, quite a plausible imitation of Dr Magnus Pike in full flow.
The metal skewers were not the original fittings for the tent. Those supplied when the bag was its bluest colour were purpose made and stout tent pegs. True and straight with a nicely turned and angled top. Most importantly the pegs had a pointed end for easy driving into the ground, even by a small child without his Dad’s mallet, best hammer or any other tool with a handle and a head. The originals were long gone. Lost in the garden. Misplaced in the bottom of the toy cupboard or thrown into the far reaches of the compost heap if they dared to catch, snag and damage the rotating blade of the fierce petrol driven lawn mower as it dragged my Father back and forth across the lawn on a weekend. The usual spikes to secure the guy ropes were meat skewers. Under slight pressure into even light soil they buckled and folded. They were useless.
As a back up plan I could tie the ropes to stationary objects such as a garden bench or abandoned toys, the heavy red metal pedal car being pretty solid. With one of the pegs just about stable I could scuttle across to the other. I was a bit of a stickler for a correct angle for the guy rope. It had to be forty five degrees from the pole, creating a ninety degree arc altogether. If I misjudged the angle or tension the whole far end of the tent would, at best, distort and sag or at worst just collapse. If it held up I would gingerly step back so as not to create any air turbulence. The tent was half up. It looked at that stage like a camel kneeling down on its forelegs with bum in the air. I would giggle at this observation, again. The front pole, again a bit easier and less of a performance. The tent was fully up. I worked round the pegs to make minor adjustments to the ropes using the sliding runners to even up the pitch and roll of the tent. If done correctly and not overstretched there was the advantage that the door flaps would meet in the middle and could be tied together to keep invaders and marauders, usually disguised as my younger siblings, at bay.
The tent then had to be filled with my equipment. Travel rug as a groundsheet, box of plastic soldiers, toy gun, cushion stolen from the living room and food supplies. Of course, the tent was suitable for both outdoor and indoor use. Thinking back I would say that the tent had actually been pitched more often in the dining room than the garden.
I did sleep out sometimes in the tent but in the absence of any protection against rain, swirly winds or even insects and snails this could only be done on the warmest ,driest and pest free night in any one year. The base of the tent sides did have two small tie loops per side to prevent flapping or the appearance of a sibling’s head covered in chocolate or worse. Usually I did not have enough pegs to use the loops.
In a stiff, strong wind the tent took on a life of its own and would be rapidly evacuated and then later retrieved from its eventual resting place up the end of the garden. Given its obvious limitations you would think that the tent would soon lose its appeal to a small lad.
I forgot to mention its most endearing and lasting feature. The tent was a very bright colour. The end panels were lurid orange. The main sides portrayed fantastical scenes of cowboy life. A cattle drive, camp fire, mounted ranch hands, mountains and plains. On a bright day, and lying out surrounded by my equipment it was easy for the whole tent to come alive with the Wild West and it was a very real and brilliant experience.
I spent many hours under the cotton triangle of that tent and even now, the smell and texture of the somewhat faded cloth evokes great and poignant memories. Of course, now that I am fully grown my attempts to lie down in the tent are quite comical. It still emerges on a regular basis every summer and is pitched awaiting occupation. My own children, niece and nephews have moved onto other activities and pursuits. I, however, have not . Stooping down and crawling in can give some worrying muscle twinges. It is a performance to actually roll over and lie down to look through and enjoy the cowboy patterned cotton . With my bald patch resting on the far pole I absolutely fill the tent. If it rained I would be in trouble as my legs from the knees down straddle the front pole and stick out into the garden. If it rained I would be in trouble anyway.
(previously pitched in mid November 2011 but well worth a run out now that it is better Spring weather- It is one of my favourites)
No comments:
Post a Comment